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
