by Colin Dexter
thought that was! And so unworthy . . .
"Mr Morse?"
A nurse led him behind the blood-letting curtain; and as she wiped the inside
of his right arm with a sterilizing swab of cotton wool before inserting a
needle. Morse found himself
thinking of Dr Sarah Harrison . . .
wondering exactly what she was thinking (doing? ) at that very moment.
"Hullo? Simon Harrison here."
"Simon? Sarah! Are you hearing OK?"
"Where else? Course I'm here in the UK."
"Are you hearing me all right?"
"Oh, sorry! Yes. Fantastic this new phone-system. You know that."
"Are you on your own, Simon?" She was speaking softly.
"Yes. But you can never count on it, sis. You know that."
"Now listen! I've only got a minute or so. I've just been talking to Chief
Inspector Morse ' " Who? "
"Morse! He's with the Thames Valley Police and he's just become one of my
patients."
"He wasn't on Mum's case."
"Well, he's on this one."
"So?"
"So we've got to be careful, Simon."
"You told him Dad was here?"
"Had to! He'd have soon found out."
"What's wrong, sis?"
"Nothings wrong. But I'm a bit frightened of him, and when he sees you ' "
Seizure? What? Say it again. "
"If he sees you, Simon, you did not come round last Wednes- day. You did not
come ' " I heard you! I stayed at home and watched the telly. What was on,
by the way? "
"Look it up in the Radio Times! And stop being !"
A knock on the consulting-room door caused Sarah to replace the receiver
hurriedly, almost hoping that another out- patient had passed out in
Reception. But the knock was only a
polite reminder that Dr Harrison's a. m. schedule was now running over half
an hour late.
Yet even as the next out-patient was ushered in, Dr Sarah Harrison found
herself wondering exactly what Chief Inspector Morse was thinking (doing? )
at that very moment.
Turning right from the front entrance of the Radcliffe Infirmary Morse began
walking slowly down towards St Giles', noting that the time was 10. 40 -
twenty minutes before the pubs were due to open. Yet since drink was now
definitely out for the duration, such an observation was of little moment.
The Oratory was on his right, a building he'd seldom paid attention to
before, although he must have walked past it so many, many times.
But apart from that wonderful line of cathedrals down the eastern side of
England Durham, York, Lincoln, Peterborough, Ely - the architecture of
ecclesiastical edifices had never meant as much as they should have done to
Morse; and the reason why he now checked his step remains inexplicable.
He entered and looked around him: all surprisingly large and imposing, with a
faint, seductive smell of incense, and statues of assorted saints around him,
with tiers of candles lit beside their sandal led holy feet.
A youngish woman had come in behind him, a Marks and Spencer carrier bag in
her left hand. She dipped her right hand into the little font of blessed
water there, then crossed herself and knelt in one of the rear pews. Morse
envied her, for she looked so much at home there: looked as if she knew
herself and her Lord so well, and was wholly familiar with all the trappings
of prayer and the promises of forgiveness. She didn't stay long, and Morse
guessed that the cause of her brief sojourn was probably the paucity of any
sins worthy of confession As she left. Morse could see some of the contents
of the carrier bag: a Hovis loaf and a bottle of red plonk.
Bread and wine.
The door clicked to behind her, and Morse stepped over to meet St Anthony,
wondering whence had sprung that oddly intrusive 'h'.
According to the textual blurb at the base of the statue, this great and good
man was clearly capable of performing quite incredible miracles for those who
almost had sufficient faith. Morse picked up a candle from the box there and
stuck it in an empty socket on the top row. At which point (it appeared)
most worshippers would have prayed fervently for a miracle. But Morse wasn't
at all sure what miracle he wanted. Nevertheless the elegant, elongated
candle was of importance to him; and on some semi-irrational impulse he took
a second candle and placed it beside the first. Together, side by side, they
seemed to give a much stronger light than both of them separate.
A notice suggested an appropriate donation per candle, and Morse pushed a 1
coin into the slot in the wall behind St Anthony. Half of bitter. Then,
remembering that he'd doubled his investment, the reluctant hagiolater pushed
in a second 1 coin. A whole pint.
As he walked down to St Giles', the man who had virtually no faith in the
Almighty and even less in miracles noted that the past few minutes had
slipped by quickly. It was now just after 11 a. m. ; and when he came in
sight of the Bird and Baby on his right, he saw that the front door was open.
He went in.
172
chapter thirty-seven Careless talk costs lives (Second World War slogan)
I think men who have a pierced ear are better prepared for marriage.
They've experienced pain and bought jewelry (Rita Rudner) five days after
morse had declined the free draw for a miracle at the Oratory, at noon, at
Lower Swinstead, at the bar of the Maiden's Arms, Tom Biffen stood leaning
forward on his tattooed arms. Very quiet so far for a Saturday. Just the
two hardy perennials, horns already locked over their continuous cribbage;
and the pale-faced, ear-pierced, greasy-haired youth already squaring up to
the fruit machine.
It was twenty minutes later that the fourth customer arrived.
Usual? "
The newcomer nodded and placed the requisite monies on the counter.
The white van in the car park economically proclaimed the newcomer's
profession: "J. Ban-on, Builder'.
"Not out at Debbie's today, John?"
"What do you think? The day after the funeral?"
"No. Have you seen her since Harry . . .?"
"No. Well, I wouldn't have gone last weekend anyway, would I? Thought
they'd like being on their own, like you know, the day after they'd let him
out and all that."
"No."
The youth was standing beside them, a 10-note folded length ways between
the index and middle fingers of his right hand.
"You're taking all me change," complained Biffen as he exchanged the note for
ten 1 coins from the till.
"You'll have bugger all left for the honeymoon," ventured the builder; but
the youth, un hearing or uncaring, had already walked back to what was perhaps
the first great love of his life.
At the bar a few low-voiced confidences were being exchanged.
"When's the wedding. Biff?"
"Five weeks today."
"Nice bit o' skirt?"
"Yeah. Dental receptionist down in Oxford somewhere."
"Glad one of 'em's earning!" The builder half-turned towards the
unremunerative machine.
"Nobody earns much of a living on them things."
"Except the Company," corrected the landlord.
<
br /> "Except Tom Biffen," corrected one of the cribbagers.
The landlord grunted.
Odd really. Most men in their latish seventies would ever have been
susceptible to deafness, arthritis, baldness, sciatica, haemorrhoids,
incontinence, impotence, cataracts, dementia, and all the rest. And perhaps
(for all the landlord knew) the two old codgers suffered from every single
one of them except quite certainly the first.
Biffen lowered his voice: "Did you get to the crematorium?"
"No. Family, wasn't it? I wasn't exactly a friend of the family."
"I thought you builders and plumbers were friends of every- body, especially
a strapping young fellow like you?"
"Young?"
But the landlord had a point. John Barron, tall and well built, with dark
close-cropped hair and clean-cut features, certainly looked younger than his
forty-one years; and what
appeared a genuinely open smile appealed to all the local ladies except his
wife, who had been known occasionally to feel jealous.
"What exactly are you doing for Debbie?"
"In the back passage, off the kitchen you know, the old coal-shed and the old
loo. Knocking 'em into one so she can get her washing machine in re-tiling
the floor re-plastering the walls new electrical sockets usual sort of thing."
"Just at weekends?"
"Yeah, well. . ."
"Bit o' moonlighdng? Cash payment?"
For a second or two Barren's mouth tightened distastefully, but he made no
direct reply.
"I was hoping to finish it off before Harry was out."
"Poor sod! Bet he was looking forward .. . you know. Attractive woman,
our Debbie!"
"Yeah." The builder took a deep draught of his bitter.
"Did you goto the crem?"
"No. Like you said . . ."
"Have you seen her at all since . . . ?"
"No. Like you said . . ."
"The police've been round, they tell me."
"Yeah. Came in- when was it? -- Tuesday."
"What'd they want?"
Doubtless the builder would have been enlightened immedi- lately had not two
further customers entered at that point: an elderly, back-packing, stoutly
booted couple.
"Two glasses of orange juice, please!"
"Coming up, sir."
"Beautiful little village you've got here. So quiet. So peaceful.
"Far from the madding crowd" - you'll know the quotation? "
The landlord nodded unconvincingly as he passed over the drinks.
"And you serve meals as well!"
The couple walked over to the corner furthest from the fruit machine: she
consulting the hostelry's menu; he plotting a possible P. M. itinerary from
Family Walks in the Cotswolds.
"Quiet and peaceful!" mumbled the landlord, as one of the elders stepped
forward with two empty straight glasses. Words were clearly superfluous.
"You were saying?" resumed the builder.
"Saying what?"
"About the police?"
"Ah, yes. That sergeant came in and asked some of us about Harry and Debbie."
"But you hadn't seen either of them?"
"Right! But, I would've done, see would've seen her, anyway, if it hadn't
been for them for the police. That Sat'day night I thought I'd just nip over
and take 'em a bottle o' Shampers, like give 'em both a bit of a celebration.
Well, I'd just parked the car and I was just walking along when I saw this
police car driving slowly round and the fellow inside making notes of Reg
numbers by the look of it."
"What'd you say?"
"Didn't say nothing, did I? Just waited till the coast was clear, then
buggered off back here smartish. They'd seen the num- her , though. So not
much point in . . ."
"Good story!"
"Bloody (rug story, mate!"
The builder finished his pint.
"Beer's in good nick. Biff."
"Always in good nick!"
("Is it fuck!" came sotto voce from the region of the cribbage board )
"Summar else too," continued the landlord as he pulled the builder a second
pint.
"The police tell me there was a phone call for Debbie that Sat'day night from
the pay-phone here."
"Could have been anybody."
"Yeah."
"Any ideas?"
"Sat'day nights? Come off it! Full up to the rafters, ain't we?"
The elderly lady now came to the bar and ordered gammon- and-pineapple with
chips for two; and during this transaction the builder turned round and, with
a fascination that is universal, watched the unequal struggle at the fruit
machine.
From outside came the jingle of an ice-cream van as happy a noise as any to
the youngsters of Lower Swinstead that sunny lunchtime; almost as happy a
noise as that clunk-clunk-clunk of coins falling into the winnings-tray of a
fruit machine.
Conversation at the bar was temporarily suspended, since several noisy
customers were now arriving, including three members of the highly
unsuccessful Lower Swinstead Cricket Club. There was therefore a
comparatively large audience for the seemingly endless music of the machine:
clunk-clunk clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunkc
unk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk; and an even larger audience as
the impassively faced youth pressed the "Repeat' button successfully with a
further twenty 1 coins duly clanking into the winnings-tray.
"Nearly enough for that honeymoon," said the builder.
"Nonsense! He'll be putting it all back," said one of the cricketers.
But he wasn't.
With a temporary lull in business, the landlord resumed the conversation.
"Business still pretty good, John?"
"Plenty o' work, yeah. Having to turn some things down."
"What you got on at the minute?"
"Job in Burford in Sheep Street: bit o' roofing, bit o' pointing, bit o'
painting."
"High up, is it?"
"High enough. I'll need a coupla extensions on the ladder."
Biffen screwed up his face and closed his eyes.
"You'd never get me up there."
"You're OK, so long as things are firm."
"Not if you get vertigo as bad as me."
The coins bulged proudly in his trouser-pocket as the bride- groom
designate walked out of the bar. Once in the passage that led to the
toilets, he lifted the receiver from the pay- phone there, inserted 20p, and
dialled a number.
But what he said, or to whom he spoke, not even the keen- eared elders could
have known.
178
chapter thirty-eight All persons are puzzles until at last we find in
some word or act the key to the man, to the woman; straightway all their past
words and actions lie in light before us (Emerson, Journals) for much of the
week Lewis had been working three- quarters of the way round the clock; but
on Sunday, the day following the events described in the previous chapter, he
felt refreshed after a good sleep and arrived at Kidlington Police HQ at 8.
45 a. m. No sign of Morse. But that mattered little. It had been facts
that were required. Not fancies. Not yet, anyway. And as he sat taking
stock of the past week's activities, Lewis felt solidly satisfied both with
himself
and with the performance of the personnel readily allocated to the
case. There had been so much to cover . . .
Lewis had personally supervised the Monday and Tuesday enquiries into the
activities of Paddy Flynn in the years, months, days and morning before his
murder; and if the net result was perhaps somewhat disappointing, at least it
had been thorough. Flynn had been living in an upstairs flat (converted a
few years previously) in Morrell Avenue. He had been there for just over
five months, paying 375 per calendar month for the privilege, and having