by Colin Dexter
not pleading with you to undertake an investigation for Thames Valley CID.
What I am doing, as your superior officer, is telling you that you've been
assigned to a particular duty. That's all. And that's enough."
"No. It's not enough."
For several minutes the conversation continued in similar vein before Strange
delivered his diktat: "I see .. . Well, in that case .. . you give me no
option, do you? I shall have to report this interview to the Chief Con-
stable. And you know what that'll mean."
Morse rose slowly to his feet, signalling Lewis to do the same.
"I
don't think you're going to report this interview to the Chief Constable or
to the Assistant Chief Constable or to anyone else, for that matter, are you,
Superintendent Strange? "
chapter sixteen The vilest deeds like poison weeds Bloom well in prison-air,
It is only what is good in Man That wastes anil withers there: Pale Anguish
keeps the heavy gate, And the warder is Despair (Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of
Reading Gaol) until comparatively recently, Harry Repp had associated the
word 'porridge' chiefly with the tide of the TV comedy series and not with
oatmeal stirred in boiling water. For as long as he could remember, his
breakfasts had consisted of Corn Flakes covered successively '(as his
beer-gut had ballooned) with full, semi-skimmed, and finally the thinly
insipid fully skimmed varieties of milk. It was his common-law wife, Debbie,
who'd insisted: 'you keep pouring booze into your belly every night and it's
low-fat milk for breakfast! Under- stood? "
So there'd been little choice, had there? Until almost a year ago, when he
had come to realize that the TV title was wholly appropriate, with porridge
(occasionally ill-stirred in hike-warm water) providing the basic breakfast
diet for prison inmates.
Normally Repp would have accepted the proffered dollop of porridge; but he
asked only for two sausages and a spoonful of baked beans as he and his
co-prisoners from A Wing stood 69
queuing at the food counter at 8 a. m.
He had read that prisoners in the condemned cell were always given the break-
fast of their choice; but he felt he could himself have eaten little in such
circumstances with the twin spectres of death and terror so very close behind
him. And even now, back in his cell, he managed only one mouthful of beans
before pushing his plate away from him. He felt agitated and apprehensive,
although he found it difficult to account for such emotions. After all, he
wasn't awaiting the Governor and the flunkey from the Home Office and the
Prison Chaplain . . and the Hangman.
Far from it. It was that day, Friday 24 July, that was set for his release
from HM Prison, Bullingdon.
At 8. 35 a. m. " still in his prison clothing, he heard steps outside the
cell, heard his name called, and was on his feet immediately, picking up the
carrier bag in which he'd already placed his personal belongings: a
battered-looking radio, a few letters still in their grubby envelopes, and a
'sexy-western' paperback that had clearly commanded regular re-reading. "
Let's hope we don't meet again, mate! "
one of the prison officers had volunteered as the double doors were unlocked
and Repp was escorted for the last time from the spur of A Wing.
At 8. 50 a. m. " after changing into his personal ciwies, he was admitted
into a bench-lined holding-cell, where another prisoner, a thin sallow-faced
man in his forties, was already seated. Their exchange of conversation was
brief and un memorable " Not much more o' this shit, mate. "
"No," said Repp.
At 9. 05 a. m. his name was again called, and he was taken along to a
reception desk where one of the Principal Officers took him through the forms
pertaining to his release: identity check, behaviour and health records,
details of destination and accommodation. It seemed to Repp somewhat
reminiscent of a check-in at Heathrow or Gatwick.
Except that this, as he kept reminding himself, wasn't a check-in at all. It
was a check-out.
He signed his name to several documents without bothering too much what they
were. But before signing one form he was asked to read some relevant words
aloud: "I understand that I am not allowed to possess or have anything to do
with firearms or ammunition of any description . . ." It didn't matter
anyway. In all probability there'd be no need to use the gun; and apart from
himself only Debbie knew its whereabouts.
Almost finished now.
He took possession of an order issued under the Criminal Justice Act re
Supervision in the Community, specifying the Oxford Probation Service in Park
End Street as the office to which he was required to report regularly. Then
he completed the Discharge Certificate itself, with a series of initials
against Travel Warrant (Bullingdon to Oxford), Personal Property (as
itemized), Personal Cash ( 24. 50), Discharge Grant ( 45), Discharge
Clothing (offered but not issued).
And, finally, one further full signature, dated and countersigned by the
Princi- pal Officer, underneath the unambiguous assertion: i have no
outstanding complaints. And indeed Harry Repp had nothing much to complain
about. At least, not about Bullingdon - except perhaps that any residual
good in him had wasted and had withered there.
He was escorted across the prison yard to the main gates, where he reported
to the Senior Officer, citing his full name and prison number to be checked
against the Discharge List. And that was it. The heavy gates were opened,
and Harry Repp stepped out of prison. A free man.
He looked at his wristwatch, repeatedly glancing around him as if he might be
expecting someone to meet him. But there seemed to be no one. According to
the bus timetable they'd given him, there would be a wait of ten minutes or
so; and he walked slowly down the paved path which led from the Central
Reception Area to the road. There he turned and looked back at the high
concreted walls, lightish beige with perhaps a hint of some pinkish
coloration, lamp-posts 7i
stationed at regular intervals in front of them,
sturdily vertical until, at their tops, they leaned towards the prison, like
guards- men inclining their heads around a catafalque.
Harry Repp turned his back on the prison for the last time, and walked more
briskly towards the bus stop and towards freedom.
chapter seventeen What is it that roareth thus? Can it be a Motor Bus? All
this noise and hideous hum Indicat Motorem Bum (Anon) seated at the front
window of the Central Reception Area, Sergeant Lewis had been a vigilant
observer of the final events recorded in the previous chapter, immediately
ducking down when the newly released man had turned to look back at the
prison complex.
Needlessly so, for the two men were quite unknown to each other.
This was hardly the trickiest assignment he'd ever been given, Lewis knew
that; and in truth he could see little justification for the trouble being
taken. Except in Superintendent Strange's (not usually fanciful)
imagination,
there seemed only a tenuous connection between the Harrison
murder and Harry Repp the latter sentenced to fifteen months' imprisonment,
and now released early on parole on grounds of exemplary behaviour. And in
any case, Strange's instructions (not Morse's) had been vague in the extreme:
"Keep an eye on him, see where he goes, who he meets, and, er, generally, you
know . . . well, no need to tell an experienced officer like you."
And yet (Lewis considered the point afresh) had Strange's motivation been all
that fanciful? Repp was known to have been active in the vicinity at the
relevant period, and had in 73
fact been under limited police surveillance
for some time, although not of course on the night of the murder. And then
there was the letter to Strange a letter which, whilst pointing a finger only
vaguely at the general locality of Lower Swinstead, had quite specifically
pointed towards the man now being released from prison.
As Repp walked away Lewis got to his feet and shook hands with the prison
officer who had communicated to him as much as anyone at Bullingdon was ever
likely to know about the man just released: aged 37; height 5' 10"; weight 13
stone 4 pounds; hair dark-brown, balding; complexion medium; tattoo (naval
design) covering left forearm; sentenced for the receipt and sale of stolen
goods; at the time of arrest cohabiting with Debbie Richardson, of 15 Chaucer
Lane, Burford.
After driving the unmarked police car from the crowded staff car park, Lewis
stopped on the main road, moving round the car as he slowly checked his tyre
pressures, all the while keeping watch on the bus stop, only fifty yards
away, where two men, Repp and a slimmer ferrety-looking fellow, stood
waiting; from where Lewis could hear so very clearly the frequently
vociferated plaints from the ferret: "Where the fuckin' 'ell's the fuckin'
bus got to?"
In fact, the fuckin' bus was well on its way; and a few minutes later the two
men boarded a virtually empty bus, and un communicatively took their separate
seats.
Lewis moved smoothly into gear and followed discreetly, not at all unhappy
when another (rather posh) car interposed itself between him and the bus.
(Another posh car behind him, for that matter. ) Any minor worry that Repp
might unexpectedly get off at some stage between Bullingdon and Bicester was
taking care of itself very nicely, since the bus made no stop whatsoever
until reaching the Bure Place bus station in Bicester, where the ferret
straightaway alighted (and straightaway disappeared); and where Repp, the
immediate quarry, walked up the line of bus shelters to the 27 oxford
(Direct) bay, promptly boarding the bus already standing there.
Repp was not the only one who had done his homework on the Bicester-Oxford
timetable. For Lewis, knowing there would be a full ten-minute wait before
departure, and leaving his car in the capacious car park opposite, walked
quickly through the short passageway to Sheep Street, passing the public
toilets on his left, where at Forbuoys Newsagent's he bought the Mirror.
Even if there was a bit of a queue, so what? He would rather enjoy not
following but chasing the 27 to Oxford. But the bus was still there, filling
up quite quickly, as he got back into his car.
After the implementation of the Beeching Report of the mid-sixties,
passengers between Oxford and Bicester had perforce to use their own cars.
But the former railway line had now been re-opened; and the deregulated bus
companies were trying their best, and sometimes succeeding, in tempting
passengers back to public transport. There were no traffic jams on the rail;
and a newly designated bus lane from Kid- ling ton gave a comparatively
fast-track entry into Oxford.
So perhaps (Lewis pondered the matter) it was hardly surprising that Repp had
not been picked up at Bullingdon by a friend, or by a relative, or by his
common-law wife. Yet it would surely have been so much easier, quicker, more
convenient that way?
At 10. 10 a. m. the 27 pulled out of the bus station and headed towards
Oxford, in due course crossing over the M40 junction and making appropriately
good speed along the A34, before turning off through Kidlington and then over
the A40 down towards Oxford City Centre.
And again Lewis was fortunate, for no one had got off the bus along the route
until the upper reaches of the Banbury Road.
Easy!
Driving at a safe and courteous distance behind the bus, 75
Lewis had ample
opportunity for reflecting once more on the slightly disturbing developments
of the previous few days . . .
Morse had been as good as his word that Monday morning, when the latter part
of their audience with Strange had turned almost inexplicably bitter. No,
Morse could not agree to any involvement in the re-opening of the Harrison
enquir- it's . Yes, Morse realized ("Fully, sir!" ) the possible
implications of his non-compliance with the decision of a superior officer.
Yet oddly enough, it had been Strange who had seemed the more unsure of
himself during those final exchanges; and Lewis had found himself puzzled,
and suspecting that there were certain aspects of the case of which he
himself was wholly unaware.
Could it be . . . ?
Could it be perhaps . . ?
Could it be perhaps that Morse had some reason for keeping his head above the
turbid waters still swirling around the unsolved murder of Yvonne Harrison?
Some personal reason, say? Some connection with the major participants in
the case? Some connection (Lewis was thinking the unthinkable) with the
major participant: with the murdered woman herself? For there must be some
reason . . .
Some reason, too, for Morse's (virtually unprecedented) absence from HQ on
those two following days, the Tuesday and the Wednesday? To be fair, he had
rung Lewis (at home) early on the Tuesday morning, saying that he was feeling
unwell, and in truth sounding unwell. He'd be grateful, he'd said, if Lewis
could apologize to all concerned; perhaps for the following day as well.
Lewis had rung Morse that Tuesday evening, but there was no answer; had rung
again on the Wednesday evening again with no answer.
Was Morse ill?
Not all that ill, anyway, because he'd appeared on the Thursday morning at
his usual, comparatively early hour. And said nothing about his absence. Or
about his row with Strange.
Or about his health, for that matter. But Morse seldom mentioned his health
. .
Just below the Cutteslowe roundabout, the bus stopped and four passengers
alighted but not Repp.
At the Martyrs' Memorial, the majority of the passengers alighted but not
Repp.
At the Gloucester Green terminus, the last few passengers alighted but not
Repp.
The 27 bus was now empty.
77
chapter eighteen Any fool can tell the truth; but it requires a man of
some sense to know how to lie well (Samuel Butler) lewis knew what he must do
as soon as he saw Morse's maroon Jaguar parked in its wonted place.
"Sti
ll feeling better, sir?"
"Better than what?"
"Can you spare a minute?"
"Si' down!"
Seated opposite, in his own wonted place, Lewis said his piece.
"You're in a bit of a mess," said Morse, at the end of the sorry story.
"That's not much help, is it?"
"Remember the Sherlock Holmes story. Case a/Identity:' A fellow gets in one
side of a hansom cab, and gets out through the opposite side."
"Doors on buses are always on the same side."
Really? "
"You never go on a bus."
"But you weren't watching either side. You were queuing for coffee."
"Buying a paper."
"Listen!" Morse looked and sounded strained and weary.
"I thought you were asking for my advice. Do you want to hear it?"
There was a brief silence before Morse continued: "It's not really a question
of your own competence or incompetence probably the latter, I'm afraid. The
main concern is what's happened to your man.
Repp. Agreed? "
Lewis nodded joylessly.
"Well, the situation's fairly simple. You just lost contact with him in the
middle of things, that's all. No great shakes, is it? He's fine, believe
me! Absolutely fine. At this very second he's probably got his bottom on
the top sheet with that common- law missus of his.