Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day
Page 21
(Lewis Can-oil, Alice in Wonderland) had he been left to himself, had he been
without any knowledge of the context in which the apparent 'accident' had
occurred, Lewis would not have suspected that it all amounted to murder. But
it had been murder, he felt sure of that; and four hours earlier he had taken
personal responsibility for initiating the whole apparatus of yet another
murder enquiry. Same SO COs as in the Sutton Courtenay murder, same
pathologist, same everything; but with almost every sign of immediate
activity over when, just before 3 p. m. " Morse finally put in an
appearance, very soon to be seating himself in Mrs Bayley's north-facing
sitting room on the ground floor.
"Northamptonshire faring any better?" he asked the senior SOCO.
"Next year, perhaps," said Eddie Andrews pessimistically.
"You'd be out of a job without me," continued Morse.
"Just like Dr Hobson here."
But the unsmiling pathologist could find little place in her heart for any
banter and ignored the comment. As did Edwards.
The gloomy room was suddenly empty, apart from Sergeant Lewis.
"You said there wasn't any danger of him being murdered, sir."
Morse could find no satisfactory answer, and stared silently
out of the
window until Mrs Bayley came in with (for Morse) wholly unwelcome cups of
coffee and the same two digestive biscuits that Barron would have eaten with
his over-sugared tea.
"You mentioned to Sergeant Lewis what you saw from the window? The one above
this, wasn't it?"
She nodded.
"It made such a vivid imprint on the, er . . ."
"Retina?" suggested Lewis.
"Thank you, Sergeant. I did myself once work in the Oxford Eye Hospital."
She turned to Morse.
"You'11 think me a silly old woman, but it reminded me of something I saw
quite a few years ago now in one of the Sundays. There were these outline
drawings sent in by readers and you had to guess what they were; and one of
them always stuck in my, er . . ." (This time Lewis desisted. ) She took a
pencil and without permission made a quick little drawing in Lewis's
notebook: "Can't you guess. Inspector?" Her eyes twinkled. Morse frowned,
about to suggest something wildly inappropriate when the undeterred Lewis
intervened: "Giraffe walking past a window?"
"You clever man."
"No!" Lewis smiled deprecadngly.
"I'd seen it before."
He took a pencil and made an equally quick little drawing underneath:
"Aristocratic sardine in a tin!" she cried triumphantly. "You clever woman!"
She shook her head.
"I'd seen it before."
Morse sounded wearily impatient.
"I'm very sorry to interrupt the fun, Mrs Bayley, but. . ."
"Of course. Forgive me!"
"Which way was your, er, giraffe walking? Left to right? Right to left?"
"Left to right exactly like I've drawn it. Inspector."
"So if the ladder fell across the window7 from left to right, the bottom of
the ladder must have slipped from right to left that is, from your point of
view here in the house, Mrs Bayley?"
"I'm not quite sure I follow you."
"I mean, if someone had come along and given the ladder a hefty kick at the
bottom, he'd probably have been coming from' (Morse pointed to the right)
'the centre ofBurfbrd, say, to' (Morse pointed vaguely to the left) 'wherever
this road leads to?"
"Bourton on the Water."
"Thank you, Lewis!"
"But we know that, sir about the ladder, I mean. They found him six or seven
yards to the right of the front door. That's from Mrs Bayley's point of view
of course," he added mischievously.
"Yes!" whispered the lady of the household, as so vividly she recalled that
terrible sight, with the red Stanley knife lying there beside the shattered
skull.
Morse was looking far from pleased. Even less so when a further cup of
coffee was suggested. The room had become chillier, and he shivered slightly
as he got to his feet. It was time for the cliches: "If you do remember
anything else anything odd any- thing unusual - anything at all . . ."
And suddenly she had remembered something. It was Morse's involuntarily
shivering shoulders that had jogged yes, jogged her memory.
The jogger.
"There was something a bit unusual. We don't get many people jogging here
we're all a bit too old. But there was one this morning, about a
quarter-to-eight. He'd pulled the hood of his tracksuit over his head as if
he was feeling the cold a bit."
"Or wasn't anxious to be recognized," added Morse quietly. "Perhaps you
could recognize him though. Inspector. You see, he was wearing a very
distinctive pair of training shoes. Red, they were."
The two policemen left with appropriate expressions of gratitude; and with
the two digestive biscuits still untouched on the circular tray, beside two
cups, one of them full, of stone-cold coffee.
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chapter forty-three For coping with even one quarter of that running
course known as "Marathon' for coping without frequent halts for refreshment
or periodic bouts of vomiting a man has to dedicate one half of his youthful
years to quite intolerable training and endurance. Such dedication is not
for me (Diogenes Small, 1797 1805, The Joys of Occasional Idleness) after
lewis had turned right at the junction of Sheep Street and High Street and
slipped the marked police car into the queue up to the A40 roundabout. Morse
pointed peremptorily to the right, to the Cotswold Gateway Hotel.
Seated at a wall-settle in the bar. Morse tasted his pint of
cask-conditioned ale and proclaimed it 'not so bad'. And Lewis, seated
opposite, sipped his iced orange juice and said nothing.
Morse looked sourly out of sorts.
"Just nip and get me a packet of cigarettes, Lewis. Dunhill, if they've got
them. I don't seem to . . ." In time-honoured fashion, he patted his
trouser-pockets with little prospect, as it seemed, of finding any funds
therein.
"I thought you'd stopped," ventured Lewis, as minutes later Morse peeled off
the cellophane.
"First today!" said Morse as with obvious gratification he inhaled deeply.
In turn, Lewis took a deep breath himself: "You mustn't get cross with me if
'
" Certainly not. " Morse pushed his empty glass across the table.
Waiting at the bar, Lewis was rehearsing his carefully formulated sentence;
was ready with it once he took his seat again.
"You mustn't be cross with me, sir, but ' " Someone's been round to Mrs
Barron? You've seen to that? "
"Dixon, yes. With WPC Towie - she's an experienced officer."
"PC Towie, you mean. They're all PCs now, whatever the sex. Stands for
Politically Correct."
For the umpteenth time in his working life with Morse, Lewis knew that any
potentially favourable wind had suddenly stopped blowing for him; and that it
would be Morse who would now be sailing serenely on, whatever the state of
the weather. As he did now: "Something worrying you, Lewis?"
"Yes. Something is. We started off with two murders and y
ou said you knew
who the murderer was. And now this murderer of yours gets murdered himself
and . .."
"And there's not all that much point in sitting around in a pub all day just
thinking about things. Is that what you're saying?"
"Yes! Why don't we sit back and look at what we've got look at the evidence?"
"You're talking to me in italics, Lewis."
"All right! But don't you think it is time to start again at the beginning?"
"No," said Morse (no italics).
"Let's start with those red trainers."
"All right. Good news that. There can't be more than a dozen people in
Oxfordshire who've got a pair like that. Give us a few days. We'll find
him. Guaranteed!"
"Let's hope you're right. Bit odd, though. Quarter-to-eight? And still
running when Barron fell at ten-past-ten?"
"We're not all as unfit as you."
"What? I could have run a marathon in that time. Once."
Lewis smiled quietly to himself as Morse continued: "You know, what worried
me about the murders of Flynn and Repp was how anyone could have got away
from that car without people noticing all the blood on his clothes. Then it
struck me. Barren could have got away with it easily. His overalls were
already covered in red covered in the maroon paint from Debbie Richardson's
out-house before the murders.
Nobody's going to worry about what he looks like, not in Lower Swinstead
anyway. It's not exactly like spilling a bottle of Claret over your white
tuxedo on the QE2. Is it now? "
"I wouldn't know, sir."
"Being too clever, am I?"
"Perhaps."
"You see, I thought he was clever, Barron. And in spite of what some of
these criminologists say, some criminals are clever."
Lewis agreed.
"Pretty clever of our murderer to knock him off his ladder: no weapon, no
fingerprints . . ."
"Mm." Morse drained his beer and stood up.
"You will be glad to know that the brain is now considerably clearer,
although I am still, if it's of interest to you, exceedingly puzzled as to
why our murderer should decide to draw almost inevitable attention to himself
by wearing such a conspicuous pair of plimsolls and running around Burford
for two and a half hours."
"Truth is, sir, some of 'em aren't all that clever. We both know that."
By the time they were back at Kidlington HQ, the strangely disturbing news
was already beginning to filter through.
Not that Morse himself was to be in his office that late Monday afternoon,
for he had instructed Lewis to drop him off at his flat in North Oxford. He
longed for some music: some Mozart (though not Fine Kleine Nachtmusik), some
Wagner
(though not the Ride of the Valkyries), some Vivaldi even (though
not The Four Seasons), or some Vaughan Williams (though not The Lark
Ascending.
Most especially not The Lark Ascending, since Morse (as we have seen) had
already spent enough of his time with the dawn that day.
206
chapter forty-four CLINTON WINS ON BUDGET, BUT MORE LIES AHEAD (From
USA's Best Newspaper Headlines, 1997) sergeant dixon swallowed the last of
the jam-filled, sugar-coated doughnut: "I'm beginning to think he's losing
his marbles. First he says we go and bring Barron in and the next thing is
we're telling his missus he's croaked it."
Sergeant Lewis looked up.
"How did she take it?"
"Not very well. Kate was very good with her but. . ."
"Her GP knows?"
"Yep. And she's got her mum and sister there, so ... The kids though, in nit
Poor little buggers: six and four."
"Easier for them, I suppose."
"Perhaps so. I just had the feeling though, you know, the marriage wasn't
all that. . ." Dixon held out a shaky right hand, like that of a man with
delirium tremens.
"What gave you that impression?"
Dixon tapped his right temple with a firmer finger.
"Experience mate."
He got up, walked over to the canteen counter, and looked hopefully along the
glass shelves.
Lewis was summoned to Caesar's tent just after 5. 30 P. M. "Sorry state of
affairs, Lewis, when a man can't even get a round of golf in on a Monday
afternoon!"
"I just thought you ought to ' " Winning I was. Two up at the turn. The
swing really in the groove.
And then . . . "
"I'm sorry, sir. But as I say I thought ' " Where's Morse? "
"He, er, just went back home for a while."
"Best place for him. Nothing but disaster since he took over things."
"It was you wanted him," said Lewis gently.
"Too clever that's Morse's trouble! Time he jacked it in like me.
Make way for these bright young buggers checking in through the fast-track.
It's all degrees these days, Lewis, and DNA, and . . "
"Clipboards?"
Strange smiled sympathetically.
"Old Morse doesn't like clipboards much, does he?"
"No."
"You'll miss him when he goes, won't you?"
"Is he going?"
"You'll be a richer man, for certain."
Lewis made no reply.
"Did he have a couple of beers out at Burfbrd?"
"Just the one."
"Remarkable! And who paid for that, pray?"
"Oddly enough, he did."
Strange looked across the desk shrewdly.
"Know something, Lewis?
You're nearly as big a liar as that American President. "
For the next ten minutes, and with no further lies, Lewis told the Chief
Superintendent as much as he or anyone else (including Morse? ) could know
about the deliberate murder ofJ. Ban-on, Builder (and increasingly, as it
appeared, Decorator of Lower Swinstead.
"Mm!"
Strange contemplated the phone awhile; then rang Morse.
But the ex-directory number was engaged. A minute later, he rang again; and,
a minute later, again. Still engaged.
"Taken his phone off the bloody hook. Typical! He's sup- posed to be
solving an assortment of murders."
"He's a bit tired, sir. I don't think he's been sleeping very well."
"Hardly surprising, is it? Having to get up for a pee every half hour?"
"I don't think it's just that."
"What d'you mean?" Strange's voice was sharper.
"Well, nothing really."
"Ow^with it, Lewis."
"Just that sometimes perhaps it almost seems as if he doesn't really care all
that much . . ."
"Interesting!"
For a while Strange pondered matters. Then decided: "Go and knock him up!"
"Couldn't we give him a rest, just for today?" suggested a diffident Lewis.
"Not much he can do for the minute, is there? Not much you can do, either."
"Mm. You could be right."
"Why not get back to the golf course?"
"Because, Lewis because I've let him off the hook. Three up at the turn ..
."
"I thought you said it was two up, sir."
"Did I?"
Strange reached for the phone and rang Morse's number yet again.
Still engaged.
He stood up and repeated Lewis's words: "Not much you can do, either.
Why don't you just bugger off home. Eggs and chips, what? "
For a good deal of these exchanges between Strange and Lewis, Deborah
Richardson had been standing, head tilted, in the narrow passageway at the
back of the property, wondering whether she'd been sensible in choosing that
particular shade of maroon for the newly established out-house. Two of the
re- plastered walls had received their first coat several weekends ago now
and they reminded her, according to the light, either of black currant jam or