by Colin Dexter
number, and spoke sotto voce into the mouthpiece for a while, before blasting
out fortissimo: "Well, just tell him to get here on the bloody bus and get
here bloody quickV Yet this order was not obeyed with either accuracy or
immediacy, since there was a further twenty-minute wait before a rusting
A-Reg Ford pulled up on the main road outside the Rosie O'Grady, whence
emerged from the passenger seat a sparely built, nondescript man, in his late
forties, a self-rolled cigarette dangling from a thin mouth that even from a
few yards exuded the reek of strong, excessive alcohol.
"Mr Morse?"
The latter pointed to the car.
"Fee, is there?"
^9
"Just open it, Malcolm!" (Edwards was surprised with the Christian-name
address. ) The key-wizard made no further remonstradon as he winched a bunch
of skeleton-keys and bits of wire from his right-hand trouser-pocket.
Then, turning his back on his expectant audience, he surveyed the problem
synoptic ally Like Capablanca contemplating his next move in the World Chess
Championship.
"It's central-locking," volunteered Rowers.
But Johnson said nothing, responding only for a semi- second with a look of
contemptuous ingratitude.
As far as Edwards could make out, Morse had enjoyed that moment, since more
than a semi-smile formed around his mouth when fifteen seconds later there
was a quiet 'clunk' as the catches on the four doors sprang upwards in
simultaneous freedom.
R456 LJB was open for inspection.
After pulling on a pair of green-latex gloves, Rowers now opened the two
offside doors; and Morse glanced over the front seats, before contemplating
for a good deal longer the darkly glutinous covering of blood that stained
the seats and flooring in the back. With a softly spoken
"OK', he was walking away towards the Rosie O'Grady when Johnson tapped him
on the shoulder.
"You mentioned expenses, Mr Morse?"
"I did. You're right."
"Well, there's that taxi I came in eight quid two quid dp - ten quid here and
back. Twenny, I make that."
"Since when's Snotty Joe been running a taxi business?"
"Well, you know, more a sort of... private hire, like."
Morse felt in his pockets and pulled out a handful of coins. '85p, isn't it,
the bus fare to St Giles'? And, you're right, you've got to get back. "
He handed Johnson two 1 coins.
"Keep the change. You can buy a copy of The Times to read on the ride back."
"Wrong, aincha, Mr Morse! Times is 50p Sat'days." Unsmiling, Morse handed
over a further 20p, and the pair parted without any further word. And
Edwards, who had witnessed the brief scene, found himself wondering what
exactly were the favours each had bestowed upon the other in the prosecution
and pursuance of crime in North Oxford over recent years.
Morse was a few steps ahead of Lewis as he made his way to the pub entrance.
"We'd better leave 'em for half an hour or so. They won't want us breathing
down their necks . . . By the way, you'd better lend me a river, Lewis.
I've just parted with the only--' Morse stopped. Turned round. Stepped back
to the scene of the crime.
Ordered Flowers to open the boot.
Not himself knowing the identity of the body he now saw curled up in foetal
configuration there, young Edwards was to remember that particular moment
with an oddly inappropriate sense of gratitude, for he saw the colour of
Morse's cheeks fade by swiftly developing degrees from dingy yellow to sickly
white, and watched as of a sudden the great man turned away and vomited
violently over the recently renovated tarmac. It was like a fledgling actor
appearing on stage with Sir John Gielgud and seeing that great man fluffing
the friendliest of lines in rehearsal, and thereby giving some unexpected
encouragement to the rest of the cast, all of them now less terrified of
fluffing their own.
151
chapter thirty-three for the good are always the merry, Save by an evil
dance, And the merry love the fiddle, And the merry love to dance: And when
the folk there spy me, They will all come up to me, With "Here is the fiddler
o/Dooney!" And dance like a wave of the sea.
(W. B. Yeats, The Fiddler ofDooney) morse, after disappearing into the
Gents for several long minutes, now sat looking slightly more his wonted self
as he sank his nose into the deep head on the Guinness. Just the stuff if
you've got a foul taste in the throat! " Giving his chief a little while to
recover some measure of dignity, Lewis gazed around him. Everything was
wooden there: the bar, the wall-settles, the floor, the table at which they
sat all good solid if somewhat battered wood, with any once-applied stain
long since worn off. The walls and ceilings had originally been painted in
yellow and orange, but now were coated over with the nicotine of countless
cigarettes. The friezes of the walls were adorned with the dicta of several
great Irishmen, their words attractively set in black-lettered
Gaelic script. One in particular had already caught Lewis's eye: Where is
the we of calling it a lend when I know I will never see it again ?
Good question! But a question not so pressing as the one he now put to
Morse: "Was it a surprise to you?"
"Was what a surprise?"
"Finding Harry Repp's body in the boot?"
Morse nodded as he wiped away a white moustache.
"This morning I thought I had a fair idea about what we were dealing with.
But now that I'm perfectly sure that I've none . . ." He pointed up at the
wall to their right.
"Bit like Oscar Wilde, really."
Lewis looked up at the words written there: / was working on the proof of my
poems all this morning and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it hack
again.
For Lewis it was a sombre moment and he sipped his orange juice with little
joy; even less joy as he saw the outline of Chief Superintendent Strange
looming large in the doorway, then waddling awkwardly to their table, where
he sat down, wiping his moistened brow with a vast handkerchief.
"Pretty kettle o' fish you've got us into now, Morse!"
Then, turning to Lewis: "You in the chair?"
"Well ' " Good! Good man! I'll have the same as the Chief Inspector here. "
"Pint, sir?"
"The same as the Chief Inspector that's what I said, Sergeant."
Lewis repaired to the bar once more and listened to the
15S
comparatively quiet background music that was as Trish as the pub was
Trish, all flutes and fiddles, and wondered how long Morse would stick the
noise before calling for a few less decibels.
After taking a deep draught, Strange turned to Morse.
"You do realize, don't you, that you and Lewis have dragged me away from the
golf course twice!"
Td've thought you'd be glad, especially if you were losing. "
Strange grinned wryly.
"I don't often win these days, you're right."
"None of us gets much better as we get older."
"Only two things we can be sure of. Morse death and taxes. Some US
President said that."
turned with some surprise, though without enquiry into the provenance of such
splendid knowledge.
"What do you make of all this?" continued Strange quietly.
Morse shook his head.
"You may have been having a lousy round of golf. I was having a lovely sleep
myself."
"That's no answer."
"Dr Hobson'll be here soon."
"Already here."
"Nothing we can do till we get some reports, results of the postmortems ' "
Somebody once told me the plural should be post-mortes. "
"Bloody pedant!"
"It was you actually, Morse."
"Ah!"
"You've got a good team of SO COs
Morse nodded.
"So we'll wait to hear about all the bits and bobs they'll be bagging up and
labelling and sending off to forensics. And all the fingerprints they'll be
taking from windows and side-mirrors and body-work and seat-belt buckles and
cassettes and . . ." Morse had run out of potential surfaces.
"That's it!" Strange sounded somewhat heartened.
"All you've got to do is eliminate ninety-five per cent of the dabs, and then
you've got your man."
"Unless he was wearing gloves," suggested Lewis.
"It's all tied up with that bloody Lower Swinstead business!" blurted out
Strange.
"You're probably right," said Morse.
"And don't forget the simplest answer is usually the correct answer!
Spur o' the moment stuff, most homicides. You know that. "
"Perhaps so," admitted Morse, beckoning the landlord over. "Open all day?"
"All night too should you wish it, sorr."
And yes, of course the police could make use of one of the bars for the
evening; of course the police could make use of whatever the Rosie O'Grady
had to offer: telephone, washing and toilet facilities, bar facilities . . .
"And perhaps . . . ?" The landlord pointed to the two empty glasses.
"On the house the pleasure's all mine."
"Well, perhaps, er . . ." said Strange.
"You're twisting my arm," said Morse.
"Make it three pints of Guinness," said Lewis.
Morse glanced across at his sergeant with a look of astonishment the landlord
departed; and Strange got down to business.
"Logistics, Morse. Let's talk logistics. How many men do you want?"
"If you gave me a hundred, I wouldn't know what to do with one of them not
yet."
"Now come off it, matey! Couldn't you perhaps have a look at when and how
and what and why your bloody corpses were doing? See their relatives,
friends, enemies, wives, for God's sake?"
"Flynn hadn't got a wife," interposed Lewis.
"RepphzdV ^5
" No, sir," corrected Lewis bravely.
"He'd got a partner--' " Well go and see herV snapped Strange.
"No," said Morse.
"I'll go to see her myself."
"Why's that?"
"I have my reasons."
The landlord had returned with the drinks.
"As I said on the house, gentlemenI' Morse thanked him and made a request: "
You know this, er, music you're playing here this Trish music . ? "
"Perhaps you'd like it. .. ?"
"Yes. If you could turn it up just a bit?"
Lewis glanced across at the Chief Inspector with a look of astonishment; the
landlord departed; and Strange leaned back with an expression of contentment.
"You know, Morse, I'm glad you said diat.
The missus . we had a couple of days in Cork and we did a bit of Trish
dancing together . . me and the missus . or I suppose you'd say the missus
and me. "
"The missus and I, sir."
But further grammatical preferences were curtailed by the arrival of Dr Laura
Hobson.
"Everything all right. Doctor?" shouted Strange, above the background music
that had suddenly lunged to the fore- ground.
"No, everything's all wrong! I cannot cope with things as they are out die
re I want the car moved out to the lab with the body kept in the boot. How
on earth you tfiink?"
"Done!" Strange held up the great slab diat was his right hand.
"Lewis will arrange it immediately, once he's finished his drink. Si' down,
Doctor. Just give me a minute or two." He sat back in his chair, beaming
like a benign old uncle.
"Takes you back. Morse, doesn't it?"
"Remember the old poem, sir?
"When I play on my fiddle in Dooney, Folk dance like a wave of the sea. .."
"Yes! Yes, I do," said Strange gently.
And for a while Sergeant Lewis and Dr Hobson remained silent, as if they knew
they should be treading softly; as if they might be treading on other
people's dreams.
157
chapter thirty-four Sunt lacrimae re rum ct mentem mort aha tangunt
(Always in life are there tears being shed for things, and human suffering
ever touches the heart) (Virgil, Ameid, I, I. 462) As she opened the door,
the recently re-applied blonde dye showed little or no trace of the hair's
brunette inheritance.
"Oh, hullo." The greeting was less than enthusiastic.
"May I come in?" asked Morse.
Apart from the minimal towel held in front of her body, she was naked: "Just
wait there a sec I'll just. .."
She re-closed the door and Morse stood, as she had bidden, on the threshold.
Stood there for a couple of minutes. And when she re-opened the door and
re-appeared, it puzzled him that in such a comparatively long time she had
done little other than to exchange the white towel for an equally minimal
white dressing gown.
They sat opposite each other in the kitchen.
"Drink?" she ventured.
"No. I've had a busy day on the drink."
"That good or bad?"
"Bit of both."
"Mind if I have one?"
"Can you wait? Just a minute?"
"It's about Harry, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"He's dead, isn't he?"
"He's been murdered," said Morse flatly.
Debbie Richardson leaned forward on her elbows, the long fingers with their
crimson nails vertically veiling her features. Then after a while she got to
her feet and turned to the sink, where she moulded her hands into a shallow
receptacle under the cold tap.
As they had spoken at the kitchen table. Morse had observed (how otherwise?
) that whatever else Debbie Richardson had done behind the closed front door
she had certainly not been searching for a bra; and now, as she leaned
forward and held her face in the water, he observed (how otherwise? ) that
she'd had no thought for any knickers either. A provocative prick- teaser,
that was what she was. Morse knew it; had known it when they'd met that once
before. But for the moment his mind was many furlongs from fornication . .
.
He felt fairly sure that she'd been upstairs when he'd rung the bell, for the
light had been on in the front bedroom with the night now drawing in. Yet
she'd answered the door very quickly, almost immediately in fact. Whoever
the caller was, had she wished to give the impression to someone that she'd
been downstairs all the while?
It seemed a bit odd. After all, h
e could well have been a Jehovah's Witness
or an equally dreaded member of the Mormons or a charity-worker bearing an
envelope. Quite certainly though she hadn't rushed down the stairs from a
bath, since about her was none of that freshly scented aura of a woman
recently risen from her toilet.
Rather perhaps (although Morse was no connoisseur in such matters) it was the
musky odour of sex that lingered around her.
Whilst she had stood silently at the sink, he had strained his ears as acutely
as any astronomer waiting for the faintest bleep from outer space. But of
any other presence in the house the re had been no sound at all; no sight at
