by Colin Dexter
requesting details of medical history, next of kin, religion, and the like,
were mercifully cut short by a specialist nurse who with all speed supervised
an urgent transfer.
Morse had always delighted in sesquipedalian terminology, since his education
in the Classics had given him much insight into the etymology of words more
than a foot-and-a-half long. And now, as he lay in the Coronary Care Unit,
he listened with interest to the words being spoken around him: thrombolysis;
tachicardia, strep to-something-something. One thing was certain: much was
happening and was happening quickly again. As if there were little time to
spare . . .
Were angels male or female? They'd started off life as male, surely?
So there must have been a sort of trans-sexual interim when . . .
Morse's mind was wondering . . What gender was the Angel of Death then,
whom he now saw standing at the right-hand side of his bed, with a nurse
holding one gently restraining hand on a softly feathered wing, and the other
hand on his own shoulder.
Morse awoke to full consciousness again, opened his eyes, and found Lewis's
hand on his shoulder.
"Sorry to disturb you, sir."
"You? What the 'ell are you doing here?"
"One o' the par as - knew who you were and heard you say, you know .
. "
Morse nodded, and smiled.
"How you doing, sir?"
"Fine! It's just a case of mis-identity."
"I mustn't be long. They've told me just a coupla minutes, you know."
"Why's that?" asked Morse wearily.
"They say you need, you know, a lot of rest."
"Law-is! Why do you keep saying " you know" all the time?"
"Not said " actually" yet though, have I?"
"When you go up to bring Harrison in today ' " Tomorrow, sir. "
"You sure?"
"Quite sure."
"Don't forget! I'm doing the interviewing."
Lewis turned to find Nurse Shelick standing behind him. "Please!" her lips
mouthed, as she looked down on Morse's intermittently closing eyes.
"Shan't be a second, nurse."
He bent down and whispered: "Anything I can do, sir?"
Morse's eyes were sdll closed, but he seemed to regain some of his earlier
coherence.
"Yes. Second drawer down on the right. There's a Carlisle number for Sister
McQueen. Give her a ring. Not today though . . . like you say, tomorrow.
Just say I'm .. ."
Lewis prepared to go.
"Leave it to me, sir, and .. . keep a stout heart! Promise me that!"
Morse opened his eyes briefly.
"That's what my old father used to say."
"So you will, won't you, sir?"
Morse nodded slowly.
"I'll try. I'll try ever so hard, my old friend."
Lewis was checking back the tears as he walked away from the Coronary Care
Unit, and failed to hear Nurse Shelick's quiet
"Goodbye'.
546
chapter SEVI^y. F^ The cart is shaken all to pieces, and i j i r tfg.
rugged road is very near its end (Dickens, Bleak House) that same day was to
be the longest and almost the unhappiest in Lewis's life. At 6.
30 c , , , , ,. 11 a pi. he drove out to Police HO and sat quietly in Morse
s offic( , yr i- i -< 17 p the Harrison case the last thing that concerned
him. At 7 i , . , , " , pi. he rang the JR2 and learned that Morse's
condition . . . , , ."
^as CnUcal but stable , although he had little real idea what that might
signify on the Coronary Richter Scale.
Strange, early apprised of Morse , . ,. .
6 j if ^ hospitalization, came in at 8 a. m. " himself immediately ringir .
, ,. . .
' ng the JR2, and impauendy asking several questions and hem ".
, " * a given the same answer as Lewis: " Critical but stable'. As n .
, . , nuch was being done as humanly possible, Strange learned, . . 7 r &
Any visit was, at present, quite out of the question.
For' , . .
' ^ l the minute it was all tests and further treatment. The ward I , . ",.
, ..
had the police number of Sergeant Lewis, and would ring if. . ", 6 " . if
there was any news.
Morse was fully conscious of what . . was going on around him. He felt
fairly sure that he was dying , , .
,. , ' 6 and pretended to himself that he would face death with at Ie;' , ,.
.
agt some degree of dignity, if not with equanimity. He had b . , , . , ,.
" ' / pgn seated beside his old father when he'd died, and hean , . ..
, , . , i him reciting the Lord s
Prayer, as if it were some sort of
insurance policy. And Morse wondered whether his own self-interest might
possibly be served by following suit. But if by any freak of chance there
was an Almighty, well. He'd understand anyway; and since, in Morse's view,
there wasn't, he'd be wasting his really (at this time) rather precious
breath. No. The long day's task was almost done, and he knew that he must
sleep . . .
At 1. 30 p. m. the consultant looked down on the sleeping man. There had
been no positive reaction from the comprehensive tests and treatments; no
success from the diuretic dosages that should have cleared the fluid that was
flooding the lungs; no cause for the sligh est optimism from the
echo-cardiogram. He sat at the desk there and wrote: "Clinical evidence that
the heart is irreparably damaged; kidney failure already apparent. Without
specific request from n.o.k.
in my judgement inappropriate to resuscitate' The nurse beside him read
through what he had written.
"Nothing else we can do, is there?"
The consultant shook his head.
"Pray for a miracle, that's about the only hope. So if he asks for anything,
let him have it."
"Even whisky?"
"Why do you say that?"
"He's already asked for a drop."
"Something we don't stock in the pharmacy, I'm afraid."
The nurse smiled gently to herself after the consultant had left, for someone
had already slipped a couple of miniature Glenfiddichs into the top of
Morse's bedside table; and there'd only been the one visitor.
Seated outside a cafe on the Champs Elysees, Maxine Ridgway clinked her glass
across the table. It had been a splendid lunch and she felt almost happy.
Thank you! You're a terrible, two-timing fellow you know that. But you're
giving me a wonderful time. You know that, too. "
"Yes, I do know. Trouble is the time's gone by so quickly."
"No chance of staying another few days? Day or two? Day?"
"No. We're back in the morning as scheduled. I've got a meeting I've agreed
to attend."
"A board meeting?"
"No, no. Much more interesting. A meeting with a chief inspector of police.
I've met him once before, only the once, at a funeral; and then only very
briefly. But he's - well, he's a bit like me, in a way, I suppose. He'd
never run away from anyone, I reckon; and I'd never forgive myself if I ran
away from him."
Maxine looked over at Frank Harrison, and realized for the first time in
their relationship that she was probably in love with the man. In those
early heady days it had
been all Daimlers and diamonds; but she would always
have chosen the wine and the roses of these last forty-eight hours . . .
Suddenly she sensed that she was never going to see him again, and she
yearned at that moment to be alone with him, and to give herself to him.
"Let's go back to the hotel, Frank."
"What? On a beautiful sunny afternoon like this?"
"Yes!"
Frank Harrison leaned across and placed his right hand on her bare shoulder.
"Shall I tell you a secret, my darling? I was about to suggest exactly the
same thing myself."
It was a happy moment.
But a moment only.
Harrison got to his feet.
"I've just got to make a phone call first."
"You can ring from the room."
"No, it's a private call." "And you don't want me to ?" "No, I don't."
"If he asks for anything," that's what the consultant said. And when Morse
made his second request (the first already granted) the nurse rang Police HQ
immediately. Lewis and Strange Morse wanted to see them.
Perhaps she had given the two names in alphabetical order, but Lewis hoped it
had been in order of preference a hope though that had probably been
unjustified, he thought, as he stood waiting at the back of the unit, since
it had clearly been Strange who had been first on Morse's visiting list.
"Right old mess you've got yourself into. Morse!"
"Looks like it, I'm afraid."
"You're in the best of hands, you know that."
"I'm going to need a bit more than that."
"Look, Morse. Don't you think it would be a good thing . . . don't you
think I ought ?"
But Morse was shaking his head in some agitation.
"No! Please! If you really want to help . . ."
"Course! Course, I do!"
"Can you ask Lewis . . . ?"
"Course! Just you keep hold of the hooks, old mate! And that's an order.
Don't forget I'm still your superior officer."
"Lewis!" Morse spoke the name very quietly but quite clearly. His eyes were
open, and his lips moved as if he were about to say something.
But if such were the case, he never said it; and Lewis decided to do what so
many people have done beside a hospital bed; decided to speak a few
comforting thoughts aloud:
"You've got the top load of quacks in Oxfordshire looking after you, sir.
All you've got to do promise me! - is to do what they say and . .. And
what I really want to say is thank- you for ..."
But Lewis could get no further.
And in any case Morse had closed his eyes and turned his head away to face
the pure-white wall.
Just a little word from Morse would have been enough.
But it wasn't to be.
A nurse was standing beside him, testing his lip-reading skills once more:
"I'm afraid we must ask you to go ..."
At 4. 20 p. m. Morse seemed to rally a little, and held his hand up for
the nurse.
"I'm allowed a drop more Scotch?" he whispered.
She poured out the miserably small contents of the second miniature and held
a jug of water over the glass.
"Yes?"
"No," said Morse.
She put her arm around his shoulders, pulled him towards her, and held the
glass to his lips. But he sipped so little that she wondered whether he'd
drunk a single drop; and as he coughed and spluttered she took the glass away
and for a few moments held him closely to her, and felt profoundly sad as
finally she eased the white head back against the pillows.
For just a little while, Morse opened his eyes and looked up at her.
"Please thank Lewis for me . . ."
But so softly spoken were the words that she wasn't quite able to catch them.
The call came through to Sergeant Lewis just after 5 P. M.
chapter
seventy-six Say, for what were hop-yards meant, Or why was Burton built on
Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews Livelier liijuor than the Muse, And malt does
more than Milton can To justify Cod's ways to man (A. E. Housman, A
Shropshire Lad before leaving for Heathrow, Lewis had informed Chief
Superintendent Strange that it would not be at all sensible, in fact it would
be wholly inappropriate, for him to continue as a protagonist, virtually the
protagonist, in the Harrison case: he was exhausted mentally, physically,
emotionally; and, well . . he just begged for a rest.
And Strange had granted his request.
"I'm going to put someone in charge who's considerably more competent than
you and Morse ever were."
"Yourself, sir?"
"That's it," smiled Strange sadly.
"You have two or three days off from tomorrow. You could take the missus to
South Wales."
"I said I needed a rest, sir! And there are one of two things that Morse ..."
"Make a few calls you mean yes. And go through his diary and see what dates
..."
"I don't think there'll be many of those."
"You don't?" asked Strange quietly.
"And I haven't got much of a clue how he was going to tackle Frank Harrison."
Strange lumbered round the table and placed a vast hand on Lewis's shoulder.
"You've got a key?"
Lewis nodded.
"Just bring Harrison Senior straight to me. Then . . ."
Lewis nodded. He was full up to the eyes; and left without a further word.
On journeys concerned with potential criminals or criminal activity, CID
personnel were never advised, and were seldom permitted, to travel alone.
And the following morning Lewis was not wholly unhappy to be travelling
alongside a familiar colleague, albeit alongside Sergeant Dixon. After the
first few obligatory words, the pair of them had lapsed into silence.
There was never likely to be any risk of missing the returning couple at the
Arrivals exit. Nor was there. And it was Lewis who read from his prepared
notes, as unostentatiously as he could: "Mr Frank Harrison, it is my duty as
a police officer to inform you that I am authorized to remand you into
temporary custody on two counts: first, on suspicion of the murder of Mr John
Barron of Lower Swinstead on the 3rd of August, 1998; second, on suspicion of
the murder of your wife, Yvonne Harrison, on the 8th July 1997. It is also
my duty to tell you ' " Forget it. Sergeant. You told me what to expect.
Just a couple of favours though, if that's all right? Won't take long. "
"What have you got in mind?" In truth, Lewis had neither the energy nor the
enthusiasm to initiate any determined pursuit had Frank Harrison and partner
decided to make a dash for it and vault the exit-barriers. But that was
never going to happen. Nor did it.
"Well, it's the car, first of all. I left it ' " All taken care of, sir. Or
it will be. "
"Thank you. Second thing, then. You know the one thing I really missed in
Paris? A pint of real ale, preferably brewed in Burton-on-Trent. The bars
are open here and ..."
"OK."
Dixon stood beside him as Harrison ordered a pint of Bass and a large gin and
tonic (and, of course, nothing else) whilst Lewis sat at a nearby table,
momentarily alone with Maxine Ridgway.
"You know," she said very firmly, 'you're quite wrong
about one thing. I
don't know too much about Frank's life, but it does just so happen I was with
him the night that his wife was murdered. We were together in his London
flat! I was there when the phone rang and when he ordered a taxi to Padding-
ton ' Frank Harrison was standing by the table now: "Why don't you learn to
keep your mouth shut, woman!" But his voice was resigned rather than
angered, and if he had contemplated throwing the gin and tonic in her face,
it was only for a second or two.
He sat down and drank his beer.
