Free The Secret of Annexe 3 by Colin Dexter Page A

longish chains round his neck: junk stuff that you’d find in a cheap second-hand shop.’
    Morse was beginning to show the first signs of restlessness.
    ‘Fourteen – there was a pair of sunglasses on the floor just between the two beds, the ear-hooks quite shallowly slanted.’
    ‘As if they’d fall off his ears, you mean?’
    ‘They
did
fall off his ears.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘Fifteen – a false moustache, affixed with strong adhesive, still exactly in position across the upper lip.’
    ‘Why do you say “affixed”, instead of just plain “fixed”?’
    ‘Sixteen – a pair of high-heeled, knee-level boots: highly polished, light maroon plastic.’
    ‘You sure it’s not a
woman
we’ve got there on the bed, Max?’
    ‘Seventeen – time of death: difficult to judge.’
    ‘As well we might have known!’
    ‘About sixteen to twenty-four hours before the body was found – at a guess. But the room temperature is only just above freezing point – which could upset calculations either
way.’
    ‘So?’
    For the first time, the surgeon seemed slightly less than happy with himself: ‘As I say, Morse, it’s very difficult.’
    ‘But you
never
come up with a plain statement of when—’
    ‘They pay me to report facts.’
    ‘And they pay me to find out who killed the poor sod, Max.’ But Morse, it seemed, was making little impression upon the mournful man who lit another cigarette before continuing.
    ‘Eighteen – cause of death? A mighty whack, probably only one, across the front of the skull, with the bone smashed in from the top of the right eye across the nasal bridge to the
left cheekbone.’
    Morse was silent.
    ‘Nineteen – he wasn’t a navvie, judging from his fingernails.’
    ‘Now you’re getting down to things.’
    ‘No I’m not, Morse. I’ve nearly finished.’
    ‘You’re going to tell me who he is, you mean?’
    ‘Twenty – he had flat feet.’
    ‘You mean he
has
flat feet?’
    The surgeon permitted himself a bleak smile. ‘Yes, Morse. When he was alive he had flat feet, and in death those feet were not unflattened.’
    ‘What does that suggest, Max?’
    ‘Perhaps he’s a policeman, Morse.’ The surgeon stood up, the cigarette ash dropping on to his black waistcoat. ‘I’ll let you have the written report as soon as I
can. Not tonight though.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’ve got half an hour if you want to nip up to the Gardeners’? I’ve got a car.’
    For a moment or two, Lewis almost thought that Morse was going to resist the temptation.

C HAPTER E LEVEN
Wednesday, January 1st: p.m.
    When I drink, I think; and when I think, I drink.
    (RABELAIS)
    ‘G IN AND C AMPARI for me, Morse, and buy yourself one as well. My GP keeps on telling me it’s sensible to keep off
the spirits.’
    Soon the two old friends were seated facing each other in the lounge bar, the surgeon resting his heavy-looking dolichocephalic skull upon his left hand.
    ‘Time of death!’ said Morse. ‘Come on!’
    ‘Nice drink this, Morse.’
    ‘The science of thanatology hasn’t advanced a millimetre in your time, has it?’
    ‘Ah! Now you’re taking advantage of my classical education.’
    ‘But nowadays, Max, you can look down from one of those space-satellite things and see a house fly rubbing its hands over a slice of black pudding in a Harlem delicatessen – you know
that? And yet
you
can’t—’
    ‘The room was as cold as a church, Morse. How do you expect—’
    ‘You don’t know anything about churches!’
    ‘True enough.’
    They sat silently for a while, Morse looking at the open fire where a log suddenly shifted on its foundations and sent a shower of red-glowing sparks against the back of the old grate, beside
which was a stack of wood, chopped into quartered segments.
    ‘Did you notice they’d chopped down a couple of trees at the back of the annexe, Max?’
    ‘No.’
    Morse sipped his gin. ‘I could develop quite a taste for this.’
    ‘You think it might have