Accepted wisdom h
as it that in such enlightened ti
mes as these most self-respec
ti
ng burglars pursue their trade by day; but JJ had always been a night-man, relying firmly on local knowledge and reconnaissance. And often in the daylight hours, as now, he wondered why he didn't spend his leisure
time
in some more purposeful pursuits. But in truth he just couldn't think of any. At the same
time
,
he did realize, yes, that someti
mes he was getting a bit bored. Over the past two years or so, the snooker table had lost its former magnetism; infidelities and fornication were posing too many practical problems, as he grew older; and even darts and dominoes were beginning to pall. Only gambling, usually in Ladbrokes' premises in Summertown, had managed to retain his undivided attention over
the
years: for the one th
ing that never bored him was acquiring money.
Yet JJ had never been a miser. It was just that the acquisition of money was a necessary prerequisite to the
spending
of money; and the spending of money had always been, and still was,
the
greatest purpose of his life.
Educated (if that be the word) in a run-down comprehensive school, he had avoided the three Bs peculiar to many public-school establishments: beating, bullying, and buggery. Instead, he had left school at the age of sixteen with a delight in a different triad: betting, boozing, and bonking - stri
ctly
in that order. And to fund such expensive hobbies he had come to rely on one source of income, one line of business only: burglary.
He now lived with his long-suffering, faithful, strangely influential, common-law wife in a council house on the Cutteslowe Estate that was crowded with crates of lager
and vodka and gin, with all the latest computer games, and with row upon row of tasteless seaside souvenirs. And home, after two years in jail, was where he wanted to stay.
No! JJ didn't want to go back inside. And that's why Morse's call had worried him so. So much, indeed, that he had turned the video to 'Pause' even as the eager young stud was slipping between the sheets.
What did Morse want?
'Hello, Malcolm!'
Johnson had been 'Malcolm' until the age of ten, when
the
wayward, ill-disciplined young lad had drunk from a
bottle
of Jeyes Fluid under the misapprehension that the lavatory cleaner was lemonade. Two stomach-pumpings and a week in hospital later, he had emerged to face the world once more; but now with the sobriquet 'Jeyes' - an embarrassment which he sought to deflect, f
ive years on, by the rather subtl
e expedient of having the legend 'JJ - all the Js' tattooed longitudinally on each of his lower arms.
Morse drained his glass and pushed it over the table.
'Coke, is it, Mr Morse?'
'Bit early for the hard stuff, Malcolm.'
'Haifa pint, was it?'
'Just tell the landlord "same again".'
A Brakspear it was - and a still mineral water for JJ.
'One or two of those gormless idiots you call your pals seem anxious to upset the police,' began Morse.
'Look. I didn't 'ave nothin' to do with that - 'onest!
You know me.' Looking deeply unhappy, JJ dragged deeply on a king-sized cigarette.
I'm not really interested in that. I'm interested in your doing me a favour.'
JJ visibly relaxed, becoming almost his regular, perky self once more. He leaned over the table, and spoke qui
etly
:
'I'll tell you what. I got a red-'ot video on up at
the
country mansion, if you, er
...'
'Not this morning,' said Morse relucta
ntly
, conscious of a considerable sacrifice. And it was now
his
turn to lean over
the
table and speak the quiet words:
'I want you to break into a property for me.'
'Ah!'
The balance of power had shifted, and JJ grinned broadly to reveal two rows
of irregular and blackened teeth
. He pushed his empty glass across the table.
'Double vodka and lime for me, Mr Morse. I suddenly feel a bit thirsty, like.'
For
the
next few minutes Morse explained
the
mission; and JJ listened carefully, nodding occasionally, and once making a pencilled note of an ad
dress on the back of a pink betti
ng-slip.
'OK,' he said finally, 'so long as you promise, you know, to see me OK if
...'
'I
can't promise anyth
ing.'
'But you will?'
Yes.'
'OK,
then
. Gimme a chance to do a bit o' recce, OK?
Then gimme another buzz on the ol' blower, like, OK? When had you got in mind?'
'I'm not quite sure.'
'OK-that's it then.'
Morse drained his glass and stood up, wondering whether communication in the English language could ever again cope without the word 'OK'.
'Before you go
..
.' JJ looked down at his empty glass.
'Mineral water, was it?' asked Morse.
'Just tell the landlord "same again".'
Almost contented with life once more, JJ sat back and relaxed after Morse had gone. Huh! Just the one bleedin' door, by the sound of it Easy. Piece o' cake!
Morse, too, was pleased with the way the morning had gone. Johnson, as the police were well aware, was one of the finest locksmen in the Midlands. As a teenager he'd held the reputation of being the quickest car-thief in the county. But his incredible skills had only really begun to burgeon in the eighties, when all manner of house-locks, burglar-alarms, and safety-devices had surrendered meekly to his unparalleled knowledge of locks and keys and electrical circuits.
In fact 'JJ' Johnson knew almost as much about burglar)' as J. J. Bradley knew about the aorist subjunctive.
Perhaps more.
The faults of the burglar are the qualities of the financier (Bernard Shaw,
Major Barbara)
In fact, Morse's
campaign was destined to be launched that very day.
Lewis had called back at HQ at 2 p.m. with a slim folder of photocopied documents - in which Morse seemed
little
interested; and with the news that Geoffrey Owens had left his home the previous evening to attend a weekend conference on Personnel Management, in Bournemouth, not
in all likelihood to be back unti
l late p.m. the following day, Sunday. In this latter news Morse seemed more interested.
'Well done, Lewis! But you've done quite enough for one day. You look weary and I want you to go home. Nobody can keep up
the
hours you've been setting yourself.'
As it happened, Lewis was feeling wonderfully fresh; but he
had
promised that weekend to accompany his wife (if he could) on her quest for the right sort of dishwasher. They could well afford the luxury now, and Lewis
himself would welcome some alleviation of his domestic duties at the sink.
'I'll accept your offer - on one condition, sir. You go off home, too.'
'Agreed. I was just going anyway. I'll take the folder with me. Anything interesting?'
'A few
little
things, I suppose. For instance—'
'Not now!'
'Aren't you going to tell me how
your
meeting went?'
'Not now!
Let's call it a day.'
As the two detectives walked out of the HQ block, Morse asked his question casually:
'By the way, did you discover which swish hotel they're at in Bournemouth?'
Back in his flat, Morse made two phone-calls: the first to Bournemouth; the second to the Cutteslowe Estate. Yes, a Mr Geoffrey Owens was present at the conference there. No, Mr Malcolm Johnson had not yet had a chance to make his recce - of course he hadn't! But, yes, he would repair the omission forthwith in view of the providential opportunity now afforded (although Johnson's own words were considerably less pretentious).
'And no more booze today, Malcolm!'
'What me - drink? On business? Never! And you better not drink, neither.'
'Two sober men - that's what the job needs,' agreed Morse.
'What time you pickin' me up then?'
'No. You're picking
me
up. Half past seven at my place.'
'OK. And just remember you got more to lose than I 'ave, Mr Morse.'
Yes, far more to lose, Morse knew that; and he felt a shudder of apprehension about the risky escapade he was undertaking. His nerves needed some steadying.
He poured himself a goodly m
easure of Glenfiddich; and shortl
y thereafter fell deeply asleep in the chair for more than two hours.
Bliss.
Johnson parked his filthy F-reg Vauxhall in a fairly convenient lay-by on the Deddington Road, the main thoroughfare which runs at the rear of the odd-numbered houses in Bloxham Drive. As instructed, Morse stayed behind, in the murky shadow of the embankment, as Johnson eased himself through a gap in the perimeter fence, where vandals had smashed and wrenched away several of the vertical slats, and then, with surprising agility, descended the steep stretch of slippery grass that led down to the rear of the terrace. The coast seemed clear.
Morse looked on nervously as the locksman stood in his trainers at the back of Number
15,
patie
ntly
and methodically doing what he did so well. Once, he snapped to taut attention hard beside the wall as a light was switched on in one of the nearby houses, throwing a yellow rectangle over the glistening grass - and then switched off.
Six minutes.
By Morse's watch, six minutes before Johnson turned the knob, carefully eased the door open, and disappeared within - before reappearing and beckoning a tense and jumpy Morse to join him.
'Do you want the lights on?' asked Johnson as he played the thin beam of his large torch around the kitchen.
"What do
you
think?'
Yes. Let's 'ave 'em on. Lemme just go and pull the curtains through 'ere.' He moved into the front living-room, where Morse heard a twin swish, before the room burst suddenly into light.
An ordinary, somewhat spartan room: settee; two rather tatty armchairs; dining-table and chairs; TV set; electric fire installed in the old fireplace; and above the
fireplace, on a mantelshelf pati
nated deep with dust, the only object perhaps which any self-respecting burglar would have wished to take - a small, beautifully fashioned ormolu clock.
Upstairs, the double-bed in the front room was unmade, an orange bath-towel thrown carelessly across the duvet; no sign of pyjamas. On the bedside table two items only: Wilbur Smith's
The Seventh Scroll
in paperback, and a packet of BiSoDoL Extra indigestion tablets. An old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe monopolized much of the remaining space,
with coats/suits/ trousers on th
eir hang
ers, and six pairs of shoes neatl
y laid in parallels at
the
bottom; and on the shelves, to the left, piles of jumpers, shirts, pants, socks, and handkerchiefs.
The second bedroom was locked.
'Malcolm!' whispered Morse down the stairwell.
Two and a half minutes later, Morse was taking stock of a smaller but clearly more promising room: a large book-case containing a bestseller selection from over the years; one armchair; one office chair; the latter set beneath a veneered desk with an imitation l
eather top, four drawers on eith
er side, and between diem a longer drawer with two handles - locked.
'Malcolm!' whispered Morse down the stairwell.
Ninety seconds only
this
time, and clearly the locksman was running into form.
The eight side-drawers contained few items of interest: stationery, insurance documents, car documents, bank statements, pens and pencils - but in the bottom left-hand drawer a couple of pornographic paperbacks. Morse opened
Topless in Torremolinos
at random and read a short paragraph.
In its openly titillating way, it seemed to him surprisingly well written. And there was that one striking simile where the heroine's bosom was compared to a pair of fairy-cakes - although Morse wasn't at all sure what a fairy-cake looked like. He made a mental note of the author, Ann Berkeley Cox, and read the brief dedication on the tide page, 'For Geoff From ABC, before slipping the book into the pocket of his mackintosh.