by Colin Dexter
“Certainly one, sir.”
“We'll make a detective of you yet,” mumbled Morse, leaning forward as he buried his nose in the froth.
“Could've been two, I suppose. I can't really remember but… you know, it was a bit like one of those cars going off on a family holiday, you know what I mean?”
“No.”
“Well, you know—”
“For Christ's sake stop saying ‘you know'!” 73
“Well, you've got things packed everywhere, haven't you? Not just cases and things but nappies, bedding, towels, boots, wellingtons, thermoses, carrier bags—all piled up so you can hardly see out of the back window.”
“What sort of bags?”
Lewis was trying hard to revisualize the scene, and fortunately Morse had picked on the one thing that finally jogged his fading memory. Bags! Yes, there'd been bags in the back of that car: bags you could stick all sorts of things inside. And suddenly the picture had grown clearer:
“Black bags!”
“You think he was off to the rubbish dump?”
“Could've been. ‘Waste Reception Area,’ by the way, sir.”
“Where's the biggest rubbish dump in Oxfordshire?”
“Or in Oxford, perhaps?” Lewis's face had brightened. “Redbridge. People go there from all over the county—straight down the A34—then turn off—” But Lewis stopped. “Forget it, sir. From Bullingdon you'd turn on to the A41, and then straight on to the A34. You wouldn't go into Bicester at all.”
“And you're quite sure the car went into Bicester?”
“That's one thing I am sure about.”
“If only you'd concentrated on that car, Lewis, and forgotten all about the bus!”
“I just don't understand why you're so interested in the car. Repp was on the bus.”
“So you keep saying,” said Morse quietly. “But you're not right, are you? Repp wasn't on the bus.”
“Not when he got to Oxford, no.”
“You lost him. You might as well face it.”
Lewis drained his orange juice. “Yep! I agree. I lost him. And that's exactly why I need a bit of help.”
“Like the number of that car, you mean?”
“I think you're having me on about that.”
“Oh no. And if you think it'll help …”
Morse took out his pen and pushed his empty glass across the table: “Your round! And pass me your notebook.”
A minute later, Lewis stared down at Morse's small, neat handwriting:
And incredulity vied with amazement in his face as Morse continued quietly: “You know, you weren't your usual sharp self this morning, were you? You failed to observe the car in front of you—and you failed to observe the car behind you.”
“ You—you don't mean… ?”
“I do mean, yes. I was right behind you this morning. But being the law-abiding citizen I am, I instructed my driver to keep an appropriately safe distance from the vehicle in front.”
“I just don't believe this. I just don't understand.”
“Easy, really. I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to keep an eye on our Mr. Repp, just like Strange did. So I rang up the prison Governor, an old friend of mine, and told him what I was intending to do; and he said there was no need because he'd had a call from Strange setting up your surveillance. So I just told him to forget it—told him we'd got some crossed wires—came out in an unmarked car, like you did—parked in the visitors’ area—listened to Mahler's Eighth—and watched and waited. And took a flask of coffee—yes, coffee, Lewis—and the rest is history.”
“You're having me on!”
“Oh no! How the hell do you think I could give you that car number unless I'd seen the bloody thing? You don't think I'm psychic or something, do you?”
Lewis reflected on this extraordinary new development. Then slowly formulated his thoughts aloud. “You saw the car in front of me. You saw who was in it and what was in it—”
“Black plastic bags, yes. You were right.”
“—and you saw the Registration Number.”
“Only just. You know, I'll have to see an optician soon.”
“You told me off for saying ‘you know',” snapped Lewis.
Morse curled his right hand lovingly round his beer glass. “Sometimes, you don't fully appreciate my help, you know.”
Lewis let it go. “And you knew the car went into Bicester, to the bus station. You knew it all the time.”
“Yes.”
“So when I went to get a paper you saw Repp get out of the bus and get into the car. But you didn't tell me—oh no! You just left me to go on a wild goose chase after the bus. Well, thank you very much.”
For a while Morse was silent. Then: “How many times have I been to the Gents this morning?”
“Twice since you've been here.”
“Six times in all, Lewis! And the reason for such embarrassingly frequent retirements is not any lack of bladder control. It's those diuretic pills they've put me on.”
The light slowly dawned; and Sergeant Lewis suddenly looked a happy man. “The thermos, sir? Three cups of coffee in that, say?”
Morse nodded. Not a happy man.
“So when you got to Bicester bus station you were dying for a leak and you saw the Gents’ loo there, and when you came out—the car was gone. Right?”
Reluctantly Morse nodded once more. “And we followed you, you and the bus, back to Oxford.”
A gleeful Lewis looked as if he'd won the Lottery. “You really should have kept your eyes on that car, sir!”
“You mean the black R-reg Peugeot, Lewis? You were right, by the way: £19,950 licensed and on the road, so they inform me. Not far off, were you?”
“And the owner?”
“Some insurance broker in Gerrard's Cross reported it missing two days ago.”
Twenty-one
BURMA (Be Undressed Ready My Angel)
(An acronym frequently printed on the backs of envelopes posted to sweethearts by servicemen about to go on leave, or by prisoners about to be released.)
Unlike the (equally unknown) man who had called upon her the previous evening, he held up his ID for several seconds in front of her face, like a conjurer holding up a playing card toward an audience.
But she didn't really look at it; didn't even notice his name. He seemed a decent, honest-looking sort of fellow—not one of those spooky pseuds who occasionally sought her company. And she was hardly too bothered if he wasn't one of those decent, honest-looking sort of fellows.
“Deborah Richardson?” (He sounded rather shy.)
“Yes.”
“Sergeant Lewis, Thames Valley CID.”
“He's not here, yet. It was Harry you wanted?”
“Can I come in?”
“Be my guest!”
As she sat opposite him at the Formica-topped table, Lewis saw a woman in her midthirties, of medium build, with short blonde hair, and wearing a white dress, polka-dotted in a gaudy green, that reached halfway down (or was it halfway up?) a pair of thighs now comfortably crossed in that uncomfortable kitchen. She was not by any standards a beautiful woman; certainly not a pretty one. Yet Lewis had little doubt that many men, including Morse perhaps, would have called her quietly (or loudly) attractive.
She lit a cigarette and smiled rather nervously, the pleasingly regular teeth unpleasingly coated with nicotine.
“He's OK, isn't he?”
“I'm sure he is, yes.”
“It's just—well, I was expectin’ him a bit before now.”
“You didn't arrange to meet him at the prison?”
“No. We've got a car, in the garage, but I never got on too well with drivin'.”
“Perhaps one of his mates… ?”
“Dunno, really. Expect so. He just said he'd be here as soon as he could.”
“He might have rung you.”
“Havin’ a few beers, I should think. Only natural, innit? The champagne's back in the fridge anyway.”
&nbs
p; Lewis looked at his watch, surprised how quickly the latter part of the morning had sped by. “Only half-past one.”
“So? So why have you called then, Sergeant?”
Lewis played his less than promising hand with some care. “It's just that we've received some … information, unconfirmed information, that Harry might have … well, there might be some slight connection between him and the murder of Mrs. Harrison.”
“Harry never had nothin’ to do with that murder!”
“You obviously remember the case.”
“Course I do! Everybody does. Biggest thing ever happened round here.”
“So as far as you know Harry had nothing—”
“You reckon I'd be tellin’ you if he had?”
“But you say he hadn't?”
“Course he hadn't!”
“You see, all I'm saying is that Harry's a burglar—”
“Was a burglar.”
“—and there was some evidence that there could have been a burglary that night that might have gone a bit wrong perhaps.”
“What? Her lyin’ on the bed there with her legs wide open? Funny bloody burglary!”
“How did you know that? How she was found?”
“Come off it! How the hell do any of us know any-thin’? Common knowledge, wasn't it? Common gossip, anyway.”
“Where did you hear it?”
“Pub, I should think.”
“Maiden's Arms?”
“Shouldn't be surprised. Everybody talks about every-thin’ there. The landlord, ‘specially. Still, that's what landlords—”
“Is he still there?”
“Tom? Oh, yes. Tom Biffen. Keeps about the best pint of bitter in Oxfordshire, so Harry said.” (Lewis made a mental note, for Morse would be interested.)
“You know him fairly well, the landlord?”
She lit another cigarette, her eyes widening as she leaned forward a little. “Fairly well, yes, Sergeant.”
Lewis changed tack. “You saw Harry pretty regularly while he was inside?”
“Once a week, usually.”
“How did you get there?”
“Friends, mostly.”
“Awkward place to get to.”
“Yep.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Week ago.”
“What did you take him?”
“Bit o’ cake. Few cigs. No booze, no drugs—nothin’ like that. You can't get away with much there.”
“Can you get away with anything there?”
She leaned forward again and smiled as she drew deeply on her cigarette. “Perhaps I could have done if I'd tried.”
“Could he give you anything? To take out?”
“Well, nothin’ he shouldn't. Just as strict about that as the other way round. We all sat at tables, you know, and they were watchin’ us all the time—all the screws. You'd be lucky to get away with anythin'.”
But Lewis knew that it was all a little too pat, this easy interchange. Things got in, and things got out—every prison was the same; and everybody knew it. Including this woman. And for the first time Lewis sensed that Strange was probably right: that the letter received by Thames Valley Police had been written by Harry Repp at Bullingdon Prison, handed to one of his visitors, and posted somewhere outside—at Lower Swinstead, say.
For whatever reason.
But as yet Lewis couldn't identify such a reason.
“Did Harry ever ask you to take anything out of prison?”
“Come off it! What'd he got in there to take out?”
“Letters perhaps?” suggested Lewis quietly.
“If he'd forgotten some address. Not often, though.”
“To some of his old cronies?”
“Crooks, you mean?”
“That's what I'm asking you, I suppose.”
“Few letters, yes. He didn't want them people in there lookin’ through everythin’ he wrote. Nobody would.”
“So you occasionally took one away?”
“Not difficult, was it? Just slip it in your handbag.”
“What was the last one you took out?”
“Can't remember.”
“I think you can.” Lewis was surprised with the firm tone of his own voice.
“No, I can't. Just told you, didn't I?” (Yet another cigarette.)
“Please don't lie to me. You see, I know you posted a letter at Lower Swinstead. Harry'd asked you to post it there because he thought—he was wrong as it turned out—that it would be postmarked from there.”
For the first time in the interview, Debbie Richardson seemed unsure of herself, and Lewis pressed home his perceptible advantages.
“How did you get to Lower Swinstead, by the way?”
“Only three or four miles—”
“You walked?”
“No, I drove—” She stopped herself. But the words, in Homeric phrase, had escaped the barrier of her teeth.
“Didn't you say you couldn't drive?”
“Lied to you, didn't I?”
“Why? Why lie to me?”
“I get used to it, that's why.” She leaned forward across the table. And Lewis saw for certain what he had already suspected for semicertain—that she wore no bra beneath her dress; probably no knickers, either.
“How often do you go to the pub there, the Maiden's Arms?”
“Often as I can.”
“Not in the car, I hope?”
“Sometimes get a lift there—you know, if somebody rings.”
“When were you there last?”
“When I posted the letter.”
“Open all day, is it?”
“What's all this quizzin’ about?”
“Just that my boss'll be interested, that's all.”
“You're all alike, you bloody coppers!”
It seemed a strange reply, and Lewis looked puzzled.
“Pardon?”
“What you just asked me—about the pub bein’ open all day. Exactly what the other fellow asked.”
“What other fellow?”
“Can't remember his name. So what? Can't remember yours, come to that.”
“When was this?”
“Last night. Asked me out for a drink, didn't he? I reckon he fancied me a little bit. But I was already—”
“ From the police, you say?”
“That's what he said.”
“You didn't check?”
Debbie Richardson shrugged her shoulders. “Nice he was—sort o’ well educated. Know what I mean?”
“You can't recall his name?”
“No, sorry. Tell you one thing though, Sergeant, er …”
“Lewis.”
“Had a lovely car, he did. Been nice it would—ridin’ round in that. A Jag—maroon-colored Jag.”
Twenty-two
… a mountain range of Rubbish, like an old volcano, and its geological foundation was Dust. Coal-dust, vegetable-dust, bone-dust, crockery-dust, rough dust, and sifted dust—all manner of Dust in the accumulated Rubbish.
(Dickens, Our Mutual Friend)
“Not for scrap, is she?” Stan Cox nodded toward the Jag parked in the no-parking area outside his office window in the Redbridge Waste Disposal Centre.
“Getting on a bit,” conceded Morse, “like all of us. You know, windscreen wipers packing up, gearbox starting to jam, no heat…”
“Sounds a bit like the missus!”
“Pardon?”
“Joke, sir.”
“Ah, yes.” Morse's smile was even weaker than the witticism as he looked round the cramped office, his eyes catching a girlie calendar in the corner, from which a provocatively bare-breasted bimbo, with short blonde hair, stared back at him.
“Nice, ain't she!”
Morse nodded. “Past her sell-by date, though. She's the May girl.”
“Remember the ol’ song, sir—'From May to September’?”
“You just like having her around.”
It was Cox's turn to nod: “Drives me mad, sh
e does. Keeps me sane at the same time though, if you follows me meaning.”
Morse wasn't at all sure that he did, but he was conscious that he'd drunk too much beer that lunchtime; that he should never have driven himself out to Red-bridge; that what he'd earlier seen as a clear-cut outline had now grown blurred around the periphery. In the pub, with Lewis, he'd felt convinced he could see a cause, a sequence, a structure, to the crime.
Perhaps two crimes now.
It was the same old tantalizing challenge to puzzles that had faced him ever since he was a boy. It was the certain knowledge that something had happened in the past—happened in an ordered, logical, very specific way. And the challenge had been, and still was, to gather the disparate elements of the puzzle together and to try to reconstruct that “very specific way.”
Not too successfully now, though. For here, at Red-bridge, there seemed a great gulf fixed between the fanciful hypothesis he'd so recently formulated, and the humdrum reality of a rubbish dump.
Is that what Cox was trying to say?
“How d'you mean? Keeps you sane?”
“Well, it's not exactly your Botanical Gardens here, is it? Just all the filth and useless stuff people want shut of. So there's not much good to look at, ‘cept her, bless her heart! Pearl in a pigsty—that's what she is.”
“Why don't you write her a fan letter?”
“Think she'd read it?”
“No.”
“So what can we do for you, Chief?”
Morse told him, making most of it up as he went along.
And when he'd finished, Cox nodded. “No problem. We'd better just let the County Authorities know.”
“Already done,” lied Morse. And refusing a cup of coffee, he left the office and walked unaccompanied around the site, only a few hundred yards from the southern stretch of Oxford's Ring Road, thinking about the things he'd learned from Cox …
“Do you reckon,” he'd asked, “you could dispose of a body here, in one of your, er… ?”
“Only in one of the compactor bins—that'd be the best bet. You'll be able to see for yourself, though. The others are a bit too open, really.”
“Black bag, say? Put a body in it? Just chuck it in?”
“You'd need a big bag.”
“Well, let's say we've got a big bag.”
