by Colin Dexter
towards him: a woman in a wheelchair who brusquely informed him that she knew
nothing of the whereabouts of her son. He had not been home the previous
evening. He had a key. He was sometimes out all night, yes. No, she didn't
know where. And if it was of any interest to the police, she didn't care
didn't bloody well care.
There was no reply to PC Kershaw's importunate ringing and knocking.
But at last he was able to locate the mildly disgruntled middle-aged woman
who looked after the two 'lets'; and who accompanied him back to the
ground-floor flat. She appeared to have little affection for either of the
two lessees, although when she opened the door she must have felt a horrified
shock of sympathy with one of them.
Christine Coverley lay supine on a sheepskin rug in front of an unlit
electric-fire. She was wearing a summery, sleeveless, salmon-pink dress, her
arms very white, hands palm-upwards, with each of her wrists slashed deeply
and neatly across. A black-handled kitchen-knife lay beside her left
shoulder.
Young Kershaw was unused to such horrors; and over the next few days the
visual image was to refigure repeatedly in his nightmares. Two patches on
the rug were deeply steeped in blood; and Kershaw was reminded of the Welsh
hill-farm where he'd once stayed and where the backs of each of the owner's
sheep had been daubed with a dye of the deepest crimson.
No note was found by Kershaw; indeed no note was found by anyone afterwards.
It was as if Christine had left this world with a despair she'd found
incommunicable to anyone: even to her parents; even to the uncouth lout who
penetrated her so pleasurably now, though at first against her will; even to
the rather nice police inspector who'd seemed to her to under- stand so much
about her. Far too much. .
including (she'd known it! ) the fact that she had lied. Roy could never
have been cycling along Sheep Street when Barron fell to his death because at
that very moment he had been in bed with her . . .
316
chapter sixty-eight It is not the criminal things which are hardest to
confess, but the ridiculous and the shameful (Rousseau, Confessions) lewis
had not been surprised no, certainly not that. But disappointed? Yes. Oh
yes! And Morse had been aware of his reaction, clearly anticipating it, yet
saying nothing to lessen the impact of the revelation. The relationship
between them would never be quite the same again, Lewis realized that. It
wasn't at all the fact that Morse had driven out one evening (two evenings?
ten evenings? ) to meet a seductively attractive woman. Lewis had seen the
sharply focused photographs other body stretched out on the bed that night;
and it could be no great wonder that many a man, young and old alike, had
lusted after a woman such as that. No, it was something else.
Itwas the out-of-character, under-hand way that Morse had allowed the
dishonest subterfuge to linger on and on from the beginning of the case.
Indeed Morse had been less than wholly forthcoming in his confession even
now, Lewis was fairly sure of it. Yes, Morse agreed, he had gained access to
the file containing the intimate correspondence addressed to Y H. Yes, he
had 'appropriated' the handcuffs, police handcuffs, with a number stamped on
them that could easily be traced back to the officer issued with them, in
this case to Morse himself.
And yes (he readily admitted it) he had 'withdrawn' the relevant sheet of the
issue-numbers kept at HQ. As far as the partial letter was concerned (Morse
31?
accepted immediately that it was in his own hand) Lewis had hoped, in an
old-fashioned sort of way, that Morse had in fact never been invited to Lower
Swinstead, in spite of his own plea for some communication from her; in spite
of that almost school boyish business about looking through his mail every
morning in the hope of finding something from her. And that was about it.
Morse had wanted to cover up something of which he was rather ashamed and
very embarrassed; just wanted his own name, previously his own good name,
never to be associated with the life and the death of Yvonne Harrison. He'd
been careless about leaving that single page of a longer letter but (as he
asked Lewis to agree) it was hardly an incriminating piece of evidence wi-.
-. * i^-~ --- ' s- -3 *. ^. 3 . 0 - a k- >l a^Snag'l'SS^ ^ 2 1-i^l ^ -^o
^2 ill blacky | ^ y a | N I ^ -ss I 1 ^,"S I s Young ^ ^ - S | . g .S S . |
| ^ I 1 -" "" & "' g M g V v " fl x S a. S -S -a 3 nextfewday^
-g-^Sis^S^it'Sii nightmares. TwP g ^ | | ^ ^ -^ fl ^ ^ ^ g J g v cs . 2 v '
" " u u a blood; and Kersh&l | s So ^ : | ^ | ^ S 8 where he'd once stayS, i
5 s^'^g. Sa 5S ~ cq _. w ^ w y (to _ ^ S'T! rSO'"ut
had beer? u ^S ^y Sa^^S S crimson, ^a-a^^.^^^l y-So-i^'^S^^'g^ crimson,
^ai^^.^^^l No note was found by Kersh" I'a^^^-^^i^ ^ by anyone afterwards.
It was asif>%? SQ3yg-^b B0 with a despair she'd found incommtS ^ ^ "^ t3 c!
^ c1' to her parents; even to the uncouth loi&> ^ ^ ^ " S 5 so pleasurably
now, though at first against rfc^ g ^ @ S rather nice police inspector who'd
seemed GS S ^ 2 , stand so much about her.
Far too much. . . incl'S s ,3 S known it! ) the fact that she had lied.
Roy could have been cycling along Sheep Street when Ban-on fell to him
SC because at that very moment he had been in bed with her
partnership had resulted from some incident or series of incidents at school;
that the youth had agreed, for money, to make a statement to the police about
a supposedly accidental collision with a high ladder a statement that was
wholly untrue, because Roy Holmes had been nowhere near Sheep Street that
morning; the hypothesis (to be confirmed! ) that it was Frank Harrison who
had murdered Barren, and who had engineered an ingenious scheme whereby all
suspicion would be diverted both from himself and from Simon the scheme
itself probably prompted by another son, by Alien Thomas, who regularly
gathered a good deal of information from his vantage-point in the Maiden's
Arms and who regularly passed it on to his father, the man at the centre of
everything.
Lewis nodded to himself. No wonder Frank Harrison had gone to earth
somewhere. Not for long though, surely. He had nowhere to go; nowhere to
hide. Airports and seaports had been apprised of his passport number, and
photographs would be on their way. Unless it was too late.
It was Morse's suggestion that the two of them together should interview Roy
Holmes and Christine Coverley, with Lewis invited to do most of the talking
with the youth.
"I detest him, Lewis! And you're better at those sort of things than I am."
It was flattering, but it didn't work. Morse was sadly wrong if he thought
he could so easily re-establish some degree of integrity in the eyes of his
sergeant.
In mid-morning, Lewis left the office without asking Morse if he would like a
coffee. He knew that the omission would be noted; he knew that Morse would
feel the hurt.
Not so.
When Lewis returned ten minutes later, he found Morse leaning back and
beaming happily.
"Fetch me a coffee, will you, Lewis! No sugar we diabetics, you know . ..
Something to celebrate." Th^Iaumras folded
accepted immediately that it
was in his own hand) Lewis had hoped, in an old-fashioned sort of way, that
Morse had in fact never been invited to Lower Swinstead, in spite of his own
plea for some communication from her; in spite of that almost school boyish
business about looking through his mail every morning in the hope of finding
something from her. And that was about it. Morse had wanted to cover up
something of which he was rather ashamed and very embarrassed; just wanted
his own name, previously his own good name, never to be associated with the
life and the death of Yvonne Harrison. He'd been careless about leaving that
single page of a longer letter but (as he asked Lewis to agree) it was hardly
an incriminating piece of evidence. What Morse stoutly refused to accept was
that what he had done, however cowardly and dishonest and foolish, had in any
way jeopardized the course of the original enquiry, which he now had the
nerve to assert had been conducted with almost unprecedented incompetence.
Such arrogance was of course not all that unusual; yet in the present
circumstances it seemed to Lewis quite gratuitously cheap.
Leaving all such considerations aside though, what stuck in Lewis's throat
was that initial, duplicitous refusal on Morse's part to have anything to do
with the original case. Agreed, once he had been drafted on to what seemed
to both Lewis and Strange the second half of the same case. Morse had risen
to his accustomed heights of logical analysis and depths of human
understanding. Agreed, he had (as usual) been several furlongs ahead of the
field and, for once, on the right racecourse from the 'off'.
Who else but Morse could have put forward the quite extraordinary hypotheses
made earlier that morning about the murder ofJ. Ban-on, Builder? The
hypothesis (seemingly confirmed) that Roy Holmes who'd do almost anything
to get drugs and who'd do absolutely anything when he was on drugs - was
having a sexual relationship with Christine Coverley; the hypothesis
(seemingly confirmed) that the weirdly incongruous
partnership had resulted from some incident or series of incidents at school;
that the youth had agreed, for money, to make a statement to the police about
a supposedly accidental collision with a high ladder a statement that was
wholly untrue, because Roy Holmes had been nowhere near Sheep Street that
morning; the hypothesis (to be confirmed! ) that it was Frank Harrison who
had murdered Barron, and who had engineered an ingenious scheme whereby all
suspicion would be diverted both from himself and from Simon the scheme
itself probably prompted by another son, by Alien Thomas, who regularly
gathered a good deal of information from his vantage-point in the Maiden's
Arms and who regularly passed it on to his father, the man at the centre of
everything.
Lewis nodded to himself. No wonder Frank Harrison had gone to earth
somewhere. Not for long though, surely. He had nowhere to go; nowhere to
hide. Airports and seaports had been apprised of his passport number, and
photographs would be on their way. Unless it was too late.
It was Morse's suggestion that the two of them together should interview Roy
Holmes and Christine Coverley, with Lewis invited to do most of the talking
with the youth.
"I detest him, Lewis! And you're better at those sort of things than I am."
It was flattering, but it didn't work. Morse was sadly wrong if he thought
he could so easily re-establish some degree of integrity in the eyes of his
sergeant.
In mid-morning, Lewis left the office without asking Morse if he would like a
coffee. He knew that the omission would be noted; he knew that Morse would
feel the hurt.
Not so.
When Lewis returned ten minutes later, he found Morse leaning back and
beaming happily.
"Fetch me a coffee, will you, Lewis! No sugar we diabetics, you know .
Something to celebrate." The Times was folded
S^
back in quarters in front of him, the crossword-grid completely filled in.
"Six and a half minutes! I've never done it quicker."
"Shouldn't that be " more quickly"?"
"Good man! You're learning at last. You see it's a question, as I've told
you, of the comparative adjective and the comparative adverb.
If you say ' The phone rang.
Dixon.
For the moment Roy Holmes was not to be found: he wasn't at home; he wasn't
anywhere. Did Morse want him to keep looking?
'"What the hell do you think?" Morse had snapped at him. "You remember the
old proverb? If at first you don't succeed, don't take up hang-gliding."
The brief telephone conversation pleased Lewis, and for a few seconds he
wondered if he was being a little unfair in his judgement on Morse. But only
for a few seconds.
"Not the only one we can't find, sir."
"Frank Harrison, you mean? Ye-es. I'm a bit puzzled about him. He might be
a crook he is a crook but he's not a fool. He's an experienced, hard-nosed,
single-minded, rich banker, and if you're all those things you don't suddenly
put your fingers in the ' The phone rang.
Kershaw.
Morse listened, saying nothing; but the eyes that lifted to look across the
desk into Lewis's face, if not wholly surprised, seemed very disappointed and
very sad. Much as two hours earlier Lewis's own eyes had looked.
In mid-afternoon (Morse was no longer at HQ) the phone rang. Swiss Helvetia
Bank.
"Could we speak to Superintendent Lewis, please?" "Sergeant Lewis speaking."
320
chapter sixty-nine sec. off. : Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit of
Count Orsino. ant. : You do mistake me, sir. first off. No, sir, no jot.
(Shakespeare, Twelfth Night) at 5. 20 p. m. he was still standing beside
his minimal hand- luggage a few yards from the Euro-Class counter at
Heathrow's Terminal 4, looking around him with as yet dismiss able anxiety,
but with gradually increasing impatience. 5. 10 p. m. - that was when
they'd agreed to meet, giving them ample time, once through the fast-track
channel, to have some gentle relaxation together in the British Airways
Lounge before boarding the 18. 30 Flight 338.
Paris . . .
A long time ago he and Yvonne had gone to Paris on their honeymoon: lots of
love, lots of sex, lots of sightseeing, lots of food and wine. A whole
fortnight of it, although he'd known even then that just a week of it would
have been rather better. It was not difficult (he already knew it well) to
get bored even in the presence of a mistress; and he'd begun to realize on
that occasion that it was perfectly possible to grow just a little wearied
even in the company of a newly wed wife. There had been one or two
incidents, too, when he'd thought Yvonne was experiencing similar thoughts .
. .
especially diat time one evening when she'd quite obviously been exchanging
long 321
looks with a moustachioed Frenchman who looked exactly
like Proust.
He'd called her 'a flirtatious bitch' when they got to their hotel room; and
when she'd glared back at him and told him they'd make a 'bloody good pair'
one way or another . .
There would be no trouble like that with Maxine: only two and a half days
just right, that! And she was a real honey, a law professor from Yale, aged
forty-two, divorced, a little over- sexed, a little overweight, and hugely
desirable.
She finally appeared, pulling an inordinately large suitcase on wheels.
"You're late!" His tone was a combination of anger and relief; and he
immediately moved forward ahead of her to the back of the short queue at the
First-Class counter.
"You didn't get my message, did you? I tried and tried--' " Like I told you?
On the mobile? "
"It wasn't working. I think you'd forgotten--' " Christ! " Harrison took
his mobile from an inside pocket, tapped a few digits, then another few; then
repeated the blasphemy: " Christ!
I'd had enough of the bloody mobile recently and--' "And you forgot that we'd
agreed--' " Sorry! Say you'll forgive me! "
He looked down at her squarish, slightly prognathic face, her dark-brown
silky hair cut short in a fringe across her broad forehead and above the
quietly gentle eyes that were becoming tearful now, perhaps from her hectic
rush, perhaps from the undeserved brusqueness of his greeting, but perhaps
above all from the knowledge that his love for her homodyned only with the
