Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

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by Colin Dexter


  all either, except for the two unwashed wine glasses that stood on the

  draining board, a heel-tap of red in each of them. And Morse guessed 59

  that Debbie Richardson would never have taken the slightest risk of Claret

  and intercourse that day with anyone unless it were with Harry Repp. And it

  couldn't have been with Harry Repp . . . Yet she may well have been

  tempted, this flaunting, raunchy woman who now dried her face and turned back

  to Morse; could certainly have been tempted if one of her admirers had called

  that evening for whatever reason and if she had already known that Harry Repp

  was dead.

  Morse watched her almost disinterestedly as she returned to the table.

  "Shall I pour you that drink now?" he asked.

  "Only if you'll join me."

  Quite extraordinarily. Morse gave the impression that he was quite

  extraordinarily sober; and he poured their drinks gin (hers), whisky (his) -

  with only a carefully camouflaged shake of the right hand.

  Quietly, as gently as he could, he told her almost as much as he knew of what

  had happened that day; and of the help that immediately awaited her should

  she so need it: advice, comfort, counselling . . .

  But she shook her head. She'd be better off with sleepin' pills than with

  all that stuff. She needed nothin' of that. She'd be copin' OK, given a

  chance. Independent, see? Never wanted to share any worryin' with anyone.

  Loner most of her life, she'd been; ever since she'd been a teenager . . .

  A tear ran hurriedly down her right cheek, and Morse handed her a

  handkerchief he'd washed and ironed himself.

  "We ought to ring your GP: it's the usual thing."

  She blew her nose noisily and wiped the moisture from her eyes. You go now.

  I'll be fine. "

  "We'll need a statement from you soon."

  "Course."

  "You'll stay here .. .?"

  Before she could reply the phone rang, and she moved into the hallway to

  answer it.

  "Hello?" "You've got the wrong number."

  "You've got the -wrong number."

  Had she replaced the receiver with needless haste? Morse didn't know.

  "Not one of those obscene calls?"

  "No."

  "Best to be on the safe side, though." Giving her no chance to obstruct his

  sudden move. Morse picked up the receiver, dialled 1471, and duly noted the

  number given.

  She had said nothing during this brief interlude, but now proceeded to give

  her views on one of the most recent developments in telephonic technology:

  "It'll soon be a tricky of thing conductin' some illicit liaison over the

  phone."

  Morse smiled, feeling delight and surprise in such elegant vocabulary.

  "As I was saying, you'll stay here?"

  She looked at him unblinking, eye to eye.

  "You could always call occasionally to make sure. Inspector."

  For some little while they stood together on the inner side of the front door.

  "You know ... It doesn't hit you for a start, does it? You just don't take

  it in. But it's true, isn't it? He's dead. Harry's dead."

  Morse nodded.

  "You'll be all right, though. Like you said, you can cope. You're a tough

  girl."

  "Oh God! He kept talkin' and talkin' about getting' in bed with me again.

  Been a long time for him and for me."

  "I understand."

  "You really think you do?"

  Her cheeks were dry now, un furrowed by a single tear. Yet Morse knew that

  she probably understood as much as he did about those Virgilian 'tears of

  things'. And for that moment he felt a deep compassion, as with the gentlest

  touch he laid his right hand briefly on her shoulder, before walking slowly

  161

  along that amateurishly concreted path that led towards the road.

  Once in the car. Morse turned to Sergeant Dixon: "Well?"

  "Light went off upstairs soon as you rung the bell, sir."

  "Sure of that?"

  "Gospel."

  "Anyone leave, do you think?"

  "Must a' been out the back if they did."

  "What about the cars parked here?"

  "I took a list, like you said. Mostly local residents. I've checked with

  HQ."

  "Mostly?"

  "There was an old Dreg Volvo parked at the far end there. Not there any

  longer though."

  "Andr Dixon grinned as happily as if he were contemplating a plate of

  doughnuts.

  "Car owned by someone from Lower Swinstead. You'll never guess who.

  Landlord o' the Maiden's Arms!"

  Morse, appearing to assimilate this new intelligence without undue surprise,

  handed over the telephone number of the (hitherto) un traced caller who had

  just rung Debbie Richard- son; and could hear each end of the conversation

  perfectly clearly as Dixon spoke with HQ once more.

  The call had been made from Lower Swinstead.

  From the Maiden's Arms.

  162

  FR1;chapter thirty-five The trouble about always trying to preserve the

  health of the body is that it is so difficult to do without destroying the

  health of the mind (G. K. Chesterton) at 9. 20 a. m. on Monday, 27 July,

  as he sat in the out- patients' lounge at the Oxford Diabetes Centre at the

  Radcliffe Infirmary, Morse reflected on the uncoordinated hectic enquiries

  which had occupied many of his colleagues for the whole of the previous day.

  He had himself made no contribution whatsoever to the accumulating data thus

  garnered, suffering as he was from one long horrendous hangover. Because of

  this, he had most solemnly abjured all alcohol for the rest of his life; and

  indeed had made a splendid start to such long- term abstinence until early

  evening, when his brain told him that he was never going to cope with the

  present case without recourse, in moderate quantities, to his faithful

  Glenfiddich.

  Several key facts now seemed reasonably settled. Paddy Flynn had been knifed

  to death at around noon the previous Friday; Harry Repp had died in very

  similar fashion about two or three hours later. Flynn had probably died

  instantaneously. Repp had met a slower end, almost certainly dying from the

  outpouring of blood that so copiously had covered the earlier blood in the

  back of the car, and quite certainly had been dead when someone, somewhere,

  had lugged the messy corpse into the boot of the same car. No sign of any

  weapon; only 163

  blood blood blood. And, of course, prints galore far too

  many of them sub imposed imposed, and superimposed everywhere. The vehicle's

  owner had allowed his second wife and his three step-children regular access

  to his latest super- charged model, and fingerprint elimination was going to

  be a lengthy business. Even lengthier perhaps would be the analysis by

  boffins back at Forensics of the hairs and threads collected on the sticky

  strips the SO COs had taped over every square centimetre of the vehicle's

  upholstery.

  Yet in spite of so many potential leads. Morse felt dubious (as did Dr

  Hobson) about their actual value. Too many cooks could spoil the broth, and

  too many crooks could easily spoil an investigation. For the moment, it was

  a question of waiting.

  As Morse was waiting in the waiting r
oom now . . .

  On the day before, the Sunday, Morse had woken up, literally and

  metaphorically, to the fact that he should have been keeping an accurate

  record of his blood-sugar levels for the previous month.

  Thus it was that he had taken four such readings that day: 12. 2; 9. 9; 22.

  6; 16. 4. Although realizing that he could never hope for an average

  anywhere near the 4 5 range normal for non-diabetic people, he was

  nevertheless somewhat disturbed by his findings, and immediately halved that

  very high third reading to 11. 3. Then he'd extrapolated backwards as

  intelligently as he could for the previous six days, with the result that a

  reasonably satisfactory set of readings, neatly tabulated in his small

  handwriting, was now folded inside his blue appointment-card.

  He was ready.

  He had finally managed to produce a 'specimen', although inaccuracy of aim

  had resulted in a puddle on the unisex-loo's floor; and the dreaded

  weighing-in was over.

  And so was the waiting.

  "Mr Morse?"

  The white-coated, slimly attractive brunette led the way to a consulting

  room, her name, black lettering on a white card, on the door: dr sarah

  harrison.

  "You knew my mother a bit, I believe," she said as she opened a buff-coloured

  folder.

  Morse nodded, but made no comment.

  A quarter of an hour later the medical side of matters was over.

  Morse had not attempted to be overly clever. Just short and reasonably

  honest in his replies.

  "These readings are they genuine?"

  "Partly, yes."

  "You could lose a stone or two, you know."

  "I agree."

  "But you won't."

  "Probably not."

  "How's the drink going?"

  "Rather too quickly."

  "It's your liver, you know."

  "Yes. "

  "Any problems with sex?"

  "I've always had problems with sex."

  "You know what I mean sex-drive .. . ?"

  "I'm a bachelor."

  "What's that got to do with it?"

  "Just that I lead a reasonably celibate life."

  "It is my job to ask these questions, you understand that."

  The dark-brown eyes were growing progressively less angry as she examined his

  feet, and then his eyes. She had in fact virtually finished with him when a

  nurse knocked and entered the room, explaining swiftly that an out-patient

  had just fainted in Reception; and since for the minute Dr Harrison was the

  only consultant there .

  .

  After she had left, Morse stepped quickly over to the desk and opened his own

  folder. On top lay a brief handwritten note:

  Don't be intimidated, Sarah!

  He's hugely economical with the truth, but he's really a softie at heart (I

  think). Robert (sic! ) And underneath it, a copy of a letter (Strictly

  Confidential) sent to the Summertown Health Centre and dated 18 May 1998.

  Re Annual Review: E. Morse. Dear Dr Roblin, Haemoglobin A Ic (as you'll

  see) is higher than we would like at 11. 5%. I've instructed him to

  increase each of his four daily insulin doses by 2 units up to 10, 6, 12, 36.

  In addition, his cholesterol level is getting rather worrying. It's

  pointless to ask him to cut his intake of alcohol, so please add to his

  prescribed medicines Atorvastatin 10 mg tablets nocte.

  Eyes are remarkably good. Blood pressure is still too high. No problems

  with feet.

  His general condition gives me no real cause for immediate anxiety, but I

  shall be glad if you can insist on a regular monthly review, at least for the

  rest of the year. I enclose the relevant clinical data.

  Regards to your family.

  With best wishes, Professor R C Turner Honorary Consultant Physician P. S.

  He tells me he's stopped smoking! And he's certainly stopped listening to me.

  Morse was sitting, slowly pulling on his socks, when Sarah Harrison returned.

  "I'll tell you one thing: you've got quite nice feet."

  "I'm glad bits of me are OK-' Whilst tying his shoelaces. Morse had missed

  the look of quick intelligence in the large brown eyes.

  "Bit sneaky, wasn't it?" she held up the file.

  Morse nodded.

  "Don't worry, though. Professor Turner sent me a copy of that last letter."

  "Well, in that case, there's not really much more . . ." She got to her

  feet.

  "Please!" Morse signalled to the chair, and obediently she sat down again.

  "Why haven't you mentioned the murders. Doctor They're all over the national

  papers."

  "I bought six of them yesterday, if you must know."

  "Your father? Your brother Simon, isn't it? Do they know?"

  "I've not seen Simon recently."

  "You could have phoned him."

  "Simon is not the sort of person you phone. He's deaf, very deaf- as you

  probably know anyway."

  "And your father?" repeated Morse.

  "I ... whether or not. . . Oddly enough I saw him last week. He came to

  stay with me for a couple of nights."

  "Which nights?"

  "Wednesday and Thursday. He went back to London on Friday."

  "What time?"

  "Is this the Inquisition?"

  "It is my job to ask these questions, you understand that."

  "Touche! He caught the train I'm not sure which one. He didn't bring the

  car nowhere to park in Oxford, is there?"

  "Why didn't you see him off?"

  "I couldn't."

  "Were you working?"

  "No. I'd arranged to have Thursday and Friday off myself. Like Dad, I'd a

  few days' holiday to make up."

  "So why not see him off?"

  The eyes were fiery now.

  "I'll tell you why. Because he took me out the previous night to Le Petit

  Blanc in Walton Street and we had a super meal and we had far too much booze

  before, during, and after, all right? And I got as pissed as a tailed

  amphibian and tried to sleep things off with enough pills to frighten even

  you! And when I finally staggered down- stairs eleven? half-eleven? - I

  saw this note on the kitchen table: " Off back to London. Didn't want to

  wake you. Love Dad" - something like that."

  "Any time on the note?"

  "Don't think so."

  "Have you kept it?"

  "Course I've not kept it! Hardly a specimen of purple prose, was it?"

  "Don't be cross with me," said Morse gently as he got to his feet, and left

  the consulting room with two blue cards for more immediate and urgent blood

  tests, and with instructions to fix up a further appointment for eight weeks'

  time.

  After the door had closed behind him, Sarah dialled 9 for an outside line on

  the phone there; then called a number.

  "Hullo? Hullo? Could you put me through to Simon Ham- son, please?"

  168

  FR1;chapter thirty-six Dr Franklin shewed me that the flames of two

  candles joined give a much stronger light than both of them separate; as is

  made very evident by a person holding the two candles near his face, first

  separate, and then joined in one (Joseph Priestley, Optiks) As he sat

  awaiting his turn outside the cubicle reserved for blood-testing, Morse found

  himself wondering whether, wondering how, if at all, Sarah Harrison could


  have had any role to play in the appalling events of the weekend just passed.

  There were possibilities, of course (there were always possibilities in

  Morse's mind) and for a few minutes his brain accelerated sweetly and swiftly

  into diat extra fifth gear. But stop a while! Strange had surely been right

  to remind him that the easiest answer was more often than not the correct

  one. What was the easiest answer, though? Lewis would know, of course; and

  it was at times like these that Morse needed Lewis's cautious 30 mph approach

  to life, if not to any stretch of road in front of him. Two heads were

  better than one, even though one of them was Lewis's. Yet what a cruel

 

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