Chapter Text
Just before he went home on Tuesday evening Thursday called the number Morse had given him for the family home. The funeral for the lad’s father had been earlier that day, Thursday knew, and he wanted to check on him and tell him to take the next few days as leave.
From what the lad had briefly said on the drive up there, he assumed the woman who answered as Mrs Morse was his stepmother. They got no further than introductions, however, before she rather irritably snapped that Morse wasn’t there - had left on the train that afternoon. Taken aback by her apparent animosity, Thursday muttered his condolences and hung up.
He stared at the phone for a minute. He’d not considered that Morse might be back in Oxford already. Flicking to a different page in his notebook, he found the number for Morse’s flat.
The phone rang four, five times, and just as Thursday was about to give up there was a click and a breathless “Hello?”
“Morse?”
“Sir?” Morse sounded more than surprised to have his DI ring him at home. Thursday reflected that he might not have personally done as much, for his previous bagman. “What – is everything alright?”
“Yes, sorry, I thought I’d catch you at your sister’s, but they said you’d already left.”
There was the sound of a muffled thud, probably a case being dropped to the ground. Best guess was Morse had literally just walked through the door. “Yes. Yes, there wasn’t – wasn’t much more I could do there. Thought I’d best be back, get back to work.”
Thursday closed his eyes and winced. Resting his forehead on his hand he said, “About that. I thought you should take a couple of days. Because of your father, and the gunshot – how is it?”
“It’s fine. I can come in tomorrow, I’m fine.” His tone was defensive. Determined, too.
“The thing is, lad,” Thursday began carefully, “you’ll need to be on light duties because of your injury. And… CS Bright has suggested it might be good for you to spend a month or two out at County while you recover.”
Silence, then a slight rustling. “Suggested?” Morse asked, sounding nettled. “Well, if it’s just a suggestion then I’d rather stay here. And I don’t need to be on light duties, I can-“
“Ordered, then,” interrupted Thursday wearily. “Until you’re cleared for full duties by the police physician. You did get checked out properly, didn’t you, Morse?”
“Yes.” The slightest hesitation beforehand, but said firmly; could mean either way.
“Alright, look, take the day tomorrow, come in on Thursday, and we’ll organise it.”
“But-“
“Got no ground to stand on for this one, I’m afraid, lad,” Thursday said grimly. “You’re hurt, and County will make best use of you.” His chest ached a little at saying it, at being left with no choice by Bright. And by God he’d fought with the man over it.
“Best use of me?” This incredulously. “Having me filing parking tickets? Here I could at least help with cases. You know I’m right, why won’t Bright-“
“Enough,” barked Thursday, because however much he might privately agree he wouldn’t encourage insubordination.
“But that’s not-“ Fair, Thursday heard in an unsaid echo, though Morse would never have said such a thing. He listened to Morse swallow and calm his breathing. “Sorry, sir, that wasn’t… I didn’t mean…”
“Alright,” said Thursday, “We’ll forget it; I know you’re hurting.” More silence from the other end of the phone. “I’ll see you the day after next, then.”
----------------
He’d expected to see Morse the following day anyway, orders or no, but there was no sign of him at the station. Sulking, perhaps. The lad could get a mite petulant at times, and with the wound and the loss of his father he had more than enough to worry about. It was better that he was taking the time to actually think things through, cool off, rather than come storming into the station. It made Thursday uneasy though.
He was more than uneasy the day after, when Morse hadn’t turned up by lunchtime. Thursday had thought he’d be waiting when Thursday got in, or sitting typing at his desk pretending everything was fine. But twelve noon, and nothing?
Something was wrong.
He picked up the keys to the Jag, telling Jakes he was going out for lunch, and drove the route to Morse’s block of flats. He’d only been here a couple of times, but he remembered the way well enough. At the front entrance he paused, not remembering the number, but luckily handwritten nameplates had been slotted in next to the doorbells. Morse’s was in a slanted, untidy scrawl.
Thursday rang, and got no reply. Rang again.
It was possible the lad was out, of course. For all Thursday knew, he was on the way to the station now.
Thursday tried the bell one last time, then stood back with his hands in his coat pockets, tilting his head back to look up at the grey side of the building. Before he had to make a decision as to what to do next, the door was pushed open from the other side – a young woman carrying such a large box that she could barely see in front of her. Thursday grabbed the door and held it open for her; she thanked him absently and didn’t notice him slip inside the building once she was past.
This was the door he remembered, white paint peeling off and number hanging slightly crooked. He banged on it, shouted “Morse?”
Something just wasn’t sitting right in his gut about this.
He pounded on the door again, huffed, and glanced around as he stepped back, wondering who might have the master keys for the building – did one of these doors belong to the landlord? It was sheer chance that he glanced down and saw a sliver key protruding half under the door.
Now how had that got there?
Heart suddenly racing, he bent and fished it out. Who had dropped it? Morse? He wouldn’t be so careless.
Painstakingly slowly, he turned the key in the lock, heard it click. He opened the door a crack, just a couple of centimetres, wondering if he was being paranoid. Nothing. The inside of the studio flat was dark; as he opened the door further he could see only a few cracks of light coming through the curtains.
Why would Morse have the curtains closed in the middle of the day? Was he sleeping? Sick?
As he stepped inside, a wave of unpleasant odour assaulted Thursday’s nose. God, it smelled like there was an animal in here, possibly a dead one. He closed the door behind him, and flicked the light switch to the side of it.
Chaos, utter chaos, met his eyes. Chairs upended, a ransacked suitcase, papers scattered and bedding tangled all over the floor. The fridge door stood wide open with puddles of yellowing milk oozing their way across the small section of linoleum; shards of glass everywhere from broken bottles and jars.
And no Morse.
Thursday scanned the room again, moved swiftly to the bathroom but no, not there either. The smell was worse though.
“Bloody hell,” he sighed as he came back out to the main room. Something bad had happened here – a struggle, a fight. Burglars? Or something more sinister? Thursday could see smears of red on the bed covers, there were more on the floor.
He moved to the window, threw the curtains open and unlatched it. Opened it wide, thrusting his face into the fresh air to chase away the stink of spoiled milk and damp and piss.
Where the hell was Morse?
There was the slightest stir somewhere in the room behind him, barely a whisper of noise, and he whipped around instantly, eyes desperately seeking.
Nothing.
The dried blood stains on the bedding stood out more starkly in the natural light, and Thursday knew he was going to have to call this in. Morse had been attacked; possibly taken.
The rustle came again, and Thursday was sure this time. He had heard something.
Ever so slowly he crept forward, knees bent and feet soft, and listened with all his might.
The sheet hanging half-off the bed twitched, ever so slightly. Another step, another. It moved again. Could just be mice, Thursday told himself, could be nothing. Could be an injured Morse. Could be a dead one. Could be one of his attackers, hiding when he heard Thursday coming…
With a roar Thursday surged forwards and ripped the sheet off the bed, sinking into a crouch to see underneath. His face froze mid-yell, and he bent with his mouth gaping comically for a moment before he let out a muffled laugh. He hadn’t been that far wrong about the mice.
Since he was more than halfway down already, Thursday sank to sit on the floor, stretching his legs out in front of him heedless of the evidence he might be disturbing.
“What are you doing here, then?” he asked softly, catching his breath. “I must have frightened the life out of you.”
In the space under the bed he could just make out a pair of dark eyes which shone green when they caught the light, and a delicate feline face. The rest of the animal was half buried in a nest made out of a blanket – a nest in which the bottom of the sheet had presumably previously been incorporated.
“Come on, come out?” He held out a hand, held it steady. The animal eyed it warily, and didn’t move. “No, I suppose not, eh?” Thursday sighed, and looked around the flat again. “Couldn’t tell me what happened here, could you? Where Morse is, for starters? Who else was here? Who do you belong to, anyway?” He ducked his head slightly to try and get a closer look, and the cat shrank back.
“Well, Morse doesn’t have a cat,” Thursday said consideringly after a moment. He pulled his hand back, and looked around again. There was certainly nothing here which indicated suitability for keeping an animal – no litter tray or access to the outside for one, which explained the smell. “So either he brought you back – are you his sister’s? – and didn’t have time to take care of you before something happened to him… or you belong to one of the people that hurt him.”
Thursday hauled himself back to his feet, groaned. “You stay here,” he muttered. “I’m going to call this in.”
The phone was hanging off the hook, receiver dangling off the table on its long, curly cord. It didn’t look like the phone had been knocked though – still perfectly square to the edge – more like it had never been put back. Making a call, and disturbed?
Thursday clicked the receiver back into place and looked around thoughtfully. The damage didn’t look fresh, at least not all of it. The fridge had been open and the bottles smashed for at least a day. His gaze darted back to the bed – there was another possible explanation for that, now that he thought about it, if the cat had been trapped in here and starving. Actually…
He surveyed the room again, taking in the destruction with a different eye.
“Did you do all this?” he said wonderingly. He bent over, and saw the huddled lump still under the bed; it hadn’t moved. “What the hell was Morse doing, leaving you here?” he grumbled, and then felt a tug of fear in his gut in response. Morse wasn’t thoughtlessly cruel enough to leave an animal to starve - if he’d left it here it was because he couldn’t return. He might be hurt somewhere; in hospital maybe, without identification. Christ.
He rang the station, said that there was evidence that Morse had been injured either at home or while out, and could they check the hospital for anyone matching his description. Then he rang Morse’s family – luckily he was still carrying the number.
This time he got the sister, Joyce, home for lunch. “This is Inspector Thursday, I work with Morse. Endeavour, that is. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. I remember – you brought him.” Her voice sounded fragile, and he wasn’t sure if he should tell her that he suspected Morse was missing. He didn’t even have any concrete proof yet. “He thinks very highly of you; he spoke of you often.”
“He’s got the makings of a great detective,” Thursday said honestly. “I’m proud to work with him.”
“Thank you. How can I help you, Inspector? I’m afraid my brother left the day before yesterday.”
“Yes, I know. This is – well, this is going to seem a bit of an odd question, but did your brother recently acquire a cat? Or was he looking after one for you, or someone you know?”
There was a lengthy pause on the other end. “A cat?” she asked finally.
“That’s right, miss. I take it it’s not yours?”
“No,” she said slowly, “Although I may know whose it is. What colour is it?”
“I’m not sure; it’s under the bed – won’t come out.”
“Where’s my brother, Inspector, surely he could answer you better than I?”
Thursday frowned, and debated. “He’s just stepped out for a bit,” he said finally, “and I think he forgot about it. I’m just checking if it’s his, or if it’s wandered in from the neighbours.”
“I can’t think of any reason he’d have a cat there,” and curiously her voice was equally as cautious as his own had been. “But if it’s the one I’m thinking of, it’s a family friend’s. Ginger, with light blue eyes. I’m sure he’ll find his own way home, if you leave him be,” she added.
“Morse?” Thursday asked unthinkingly, and there was another long pause.
“I meant the cat,” she replied. “Is my brother lost, Inspector?”
“No, I’m sure he’s fine. I’m sorry to have troubled you,” he spoke over her as she started to enquire further. He hung up hurriedly, and shook his head. Great job there at not worrying her.
He checked the clock – he’d give the station another fifteen minutes before ringing back.
“Here, puss puss,” he muttered as he walked back to the kitchenette. “Here, girl. Boy. She said he, didn’t she? Boy, then.” He fished the smallest bowl he could find out of the cupboard, awkwardly positioning his feet to avoid broken glass and spilled produce, and filled it with water from the tap.
He placed it at the edge of the bed, and sat back down again a couple of feet away. “Well, I feel ridiculous,” he murmured in a conversational tone, “but I suppose if it gets you out of there… Here, puss.”
Leaning sideways on one hand to peer under the bed, he saw the same bright eyes watching him guardedly. “Not sure what you’re so busy hiding from, it’s not like you were having a grand time in here on your own.” The eyes blinked at him. “Come on, you must be thirsty. How long’s it been since that milk, eh?” Another blink. Thursday sighed, and straightened up again, staring at the top of the bed instead.
It wasn’t enough blood to have been from anything fatal. Could it have been from the gunshot wound – had Morse torn it open in the night after he got back? Gone to hospital with it? Plausible.
There was a tiny movement at the corner of his vision, and he deliberately didn’t move. His family had had cats, growing up, he knew that the best way to get them to come closer was to ignore them.
Another movement, and he allowed his eyes to tilt downwards. A small white paw was just showing under the bed, trying to hook around the edge of the bowl and drag it under. The bowl tipped slightly, rocked back, tipped again.
“You’re just going to knock it over,” Thursday murmured quietly. “Then where will you be? Soaked and still thirsty.” The paw froze in mid-air at the sound of his voice, and then withdrew. Thursday half-fancied the animal had understood him.
A dainty face peeked out a moment later, looking up at him rather than down at the bowl. “Hello, there.” Thursday kept his voice muted, calm, and the eyes blinked at him again. They were blue, a cool shade of forget-me-not set in a mottled ginger face. Looked like the sister had been right. “Go on then, I don’t bite.”
The cat looked between him and the bowl a couple of times, and then stretched its nose slightly further forward. A paw dipped lightning fast into the bowl, withdrew, and the cat retreated. Thursday blew out a great breath. “Honestly.”
A few seconds later the cat was back though, sleek head and shoulders emerging from under the bed to stick its head into the bowl and lap greedily at the water. Thursday found himself smiling quite irrationally. “That’s it, have as much as you like. Plenty more where that came from.” Ears swivelled forward attentively as he spoke and then gradually relaxed again; pricking anew at every small sound.
They sat there for a few minutes, the man and the cat, until all the water was gone.
“Would you like some more?” Thursday reached out his hand, slowly, slowly… and the cat ducked backwards under the bed. He refilled the dish, setting it down slightly further out from the bed this time, and then went to call the station back.
No one had been admitted to hospital meeting Morse’s description, no one under his name, no unidentified bodies in the morgues under the age of fifty. “Keep looking,” he told the constable on the other end irritably, and slammed the phone down. There was a whisk of movement across the room at the sound, and he sighed as he realised he’d just managed to scare the bloody cat again.
Well, if it belonged to a friend of the family it wasn’t likely to be a clue to Morse’s disappearance. Perhaps he was ill, and staying with a friend? Thursday knew Morse still had acquaintances here from his time at university, but no idea how close he was to them. In fact, when it came to personal matters, he didn’t really know much about Morse at all.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got an address book hidden amongst this rubbish, Morse?” Thursday gazed round the room.
Right, well if it wasn’t a crime scene, then Thursday wasn’t going to leave it like this – he’d do himself an injury on that glass for one. He found a dustpan and brush in the cupboard, and began sweeping up the mess.
“If you’ve just gone off on a jaunt somewhere, Morse, I’ll kill you,” muttered Thursday as he used a mop to wipe up the worst of the mess in the small kitchen area of the room. Luckily the cat seemed to have chosen to do its business in the bathroom, and the tiling would be a hell of a lot easier to clean than carpet. For the moment he’d just shut the door. “Then I’ll make you come and do my whole house; I’ll even smear some jam on the carpets, just for you.”
The cat had slunk its way out from under the bed at some point once he started working, and come to sit in the middle of the carpet to watch. “Don’t know what you’re looking so smug about,” grumbled Thursday, “I thought cats were supposed to be clean animals.” It was probably just his imagination, but he thought it looked affronted; a moment later it began to wash itself in the manner of all offended felines.
Once the glass was piled in the sink and all of the rubbish in a bag outside the door, Thursday started to rummage through the paperwork. Nothing on the desk, nothing on the floor, nothing on his shelves. “What, you just memorized all the numbers?” Or didn’t have anybody to call.
Thursday gave it up for a bad job, and sat down in one of the chairs at the small table. “I don’t know what to do,” he told the cat, which hadn’t moved from its spot in the middle of the carpet. “File a missing persons? Based on the fact that he didn’t show up for work after I told him not to?” He rubbed his eyes wearily with a hand. “Not like him though. Not like him at all.”
He rang the station again, talked to the same constable as before, talked to Jakes. There was nothing urgent on his desk, so he told Jakes that Morse was missing and Thursday was pursuing lines of inquiry. Told the sergeant to look through Morse’s desk, see if he could find anything.
“Could be lots of things, of course,” he said after he hung up. “That boy seems to get into trouble every few seconds. I don’t know, maybe I’m overreacting. What do you think?” This to the cat, who unsurprisingly made no reply.
“Well, there’s nothing more I can do here.” He wrote a note, and left it on the table in case Morse did turn up. “And what’s to be done with you then?” The cat stared up at him disinterestedly. “Well, I can’t leave you here! Morse’s sister said you’d find your own way home - take it that means you live nearby? Maybe you could show me where this family friend is - he must have seen Morse after he got back, if he gave you to him?”
Thursday moved to the door of the flat and opened it. “Go on then. Go.” No sign of movement. Thursday stepped away from the door, and made a shooing motion. “I need to lock up, and you can’t be inside while that happens, understand?”
He crossed to close the window, keeping one eye on the animal, but it stayed exactly where it was.
“Go on,” he said again, and this time came up behind it, so that he wasn’t between it and the door. It watched him warily. “Go!” He clapped his hands; it flinched, but didn’t budge. “Go, you stupid cat,” and he lunged forward threateningly.
That did the trick; the animal lurched away from him. Too late, Thursday saw the way the cat struggled to move, the limp it pathetically tried to conceal as it edged away from him. Still not towards the door.
Thursday drew back immediately, softening his body language. “Ah, lad, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were hurt.” He hadn’t seen the cat come out from under the bed – he’d been clearing the mess off the floor. And the animal hadn’t moved the whole time since then.
Now it awkwardly slunk across the room, favouring one of its hind legs enough that Thursday winced in sympathy. “Alright, alright, stop.” But the cat kept going – back towards the bed, and God, if Thursday lost him under there again... He moved forwards, and the cat shied sideways in response, diverted from its path. Thursday held his hands in front of him, palms out, and very carefully advanced. “Come on, you’ll have to come with me if you’re hurt.”
The animal backed itself into a corner and hunched in on itself, thick fur fluffing up as Thursday got closer. He stopped when the cat started to hiss, maybe a meter away, putting his hands down and sighing. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Call a vet? Animal control? Try and lunge at it with a towel?
Instead he crouched down, draping his coat over his knees. “I really need to go and find Morse,” he told the cat honestly. “I don’t have time for this. He could be hurt.”
He supposed he could leave the door to Morse’s flat open – but no, all the lad’s things. His precious records.
“You could come home with me, for the moment?” he suggested. “We could get you checked over? All the tuna you can eat. We’ll take care of you until Morse gets back, what do you say?”
The cat gradually unpuffed itself, and slowly lowered its belly to the carpet. “Right, right. I’ll need something to take you in.” He didn’t want to try carrying it, not when he didn’t know how badly it was wounded, and not when it might scratch him half to pieces.
He found an old cardboard box in the cupboard, and lined it with the blanket he dragged out from under the bed – it didn’t smell too bad and the familiarity might help. He edged close to where the cat was huddled in its corner, and, though it watched him intently, it didn’t hiss again as he carefully put the box down beside it.
He stood back, and waited.
After a minute, the cat eased up onto its haunches and sniffed interestedly at the corner of the box. Rubbed the corner of its mouth against it, once, twice. Sniffed it again. Carefully got up onto all fours, and tried to peer inside. Put a paw up on the edge, tapped it lightly, once, twice. Removed the paw, then brought it back up to bat at it again.
“Oh, I see,” Thursday murmured. “Too high, is it?” He picked up a couple of books lying askew by the bedside table, and brought them over. This time the cat didn’t retreat at all at his approach. “Here.” He made a half-step up to the box. Before he had a chance to move back again the cat did an awkward half-hop onto the books, and then another into the box - missing the landing and landing with a flop and a pained mewl.
“Well done,” Thursday told it, and carefully folded the flaps down so that it wouldn’t try and leap out as they moved. The cat obviously didn’t like that though, pushing upwards desperately at the gap with its head, and letting out a disapproving yowl.
“Alright then,” Thursday grunted, and opened the top again. “On your own head be it.” He draped his coat over his arm, put his hat on his head, and gathered up the box in his arms.