The Remorseful Day

by Colin Dexter

  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 ol’ 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 gettin’ 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, unfurrowed 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 along that amateurishly concreted path that led toward 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 D-Reg. Volvo parked at the far end there. Not there any longer though.”

  “And?”

  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) untraced caller who had just rung Debbie Richardson; 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.

  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, July 27, as he sat in the outpatients’ lounge at the Oxford Diabetes Centre at the Radcliffe Infirmary, Morse reflected on the uncoordinated, hectic inquiries 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 blood blood blood. And, of course, prints galore—far too many of them—subimposed, imposed, and superimposed everywhere. The vehicle's owner had allowed his second wife and his three stepchildren regular access to his latest supercharged 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 SOCOs had taped over every square centimeter 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 room 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 nondia-betic people, he was nevertheless somewhat disturbed by his findings, and immediately halved that very high third reading to 11.3. Then he'd extrapolated backward 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 unisexloo'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-colored 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 outpatient 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:

  And underneath it, a copy of a letter (Strictly Confidential) sent to the Summertown Health Centre and dated May 18, 1998.

  Re Annual Review: E. Morse.

  Dear Dr. Roblin,

  Hemoglobin A lc (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.”

  While 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 signaled 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.”

  “Touché! 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 downstairs—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 dialed 9 for an outside line on the phone there; then called a number.

  “Hullo? Hullo? Could you put me through to Simon Harrison, please?”

  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 that 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 thought that was! And so unworthy …

  “Mr. Morse?”

  A nurse led him behind the blood-letting curtain; and as she wiped the inside of his right arm with a sterilizing swab of cotton wool before inserting a needle, Morse found himself thinking of Dr. Sarah Harrison … wondering exactly what she was thinking (doing?) at that very moment.

  “Hullo? Simon Harrison here.”

  “Simon? Sarah! Are you hearing OK?”

  “Where else? Course I'm here in the UK.”

  “Are you hearing me all right?”

  “Oh, sorry! Yes. Fantastic this new phone system. You know that.”

  “Are you on your own, Simon?” She was speaking softly.

  “Yes. But you can never count on it, sis. You know that.”

  “Now listen! I've only got a minute or so. I've just been talking to Chief Inspector Morse—”

  “Who?”

  “Morse! He's with the Thames Valley Police and he's just become one of my patients.”

  “He wasn't on Mum's case.”

  “Well, he's on this one.”

  “So?”

  “So we've got to be careful, Simon.”

  “You told him Dad was here?”

  “Had to! He'd have soon found out.”

  “What's wrong, sis?”

  “Nothing's wrong. But I'm a bit frightened of him, and when he sees you—”

  “Seizure? What? Say it again.”

  “If he sees you, Simon, you did not come round last Wednesday. You did not come—”

  “I heard you! I stayed at home and watched the telly. What was on, by the way?”

  “Look it up in the Radio Times! And stop being—!”

  A knock on the consulting-room door caused Sarah to replace the receiver hurriedly, almost hoping that another outpatient had passed out in Reception. But the knock was only a polite reminder that Dr. Harrison's A.M. schedule was now running over half an hour late.

  Yet even as the next outpatient was ushered in, Dr. Sarah Harrison found herself wondering exactly what Chief Inspector Morse was thinking (doing?) at that very moment.

  Turning right from the front entrance of the Radcliffe Infirmary, Morse began walking slowly down toward St. Giles, noting that the time was 10:40—twenty minutes before the pubs were due to open. Yet since drink was now definitely out for the duration, such an observation was of little moment.

  The Oratory was on his right, a building he'd seldom paid attention to before, although he must have walked past it so many, many times. But apart from that wonderful line of cathedrals down the eastern side of England—Durham, York, Lincoln, Peterborough, Ely—the architecture of ecclesiastical edifices had never meant as much as they should have to Morse; and the reason why he now checked his step remains inexplicable.

  He entered and looked around him: all surprisingly large and imposing, with a faint, seductive smell of incense, and statues of assorted saints around him, with tiers of candles lit beside their sandaled, holy feet.

  A youngish woman had come in behind him, a Marks & Spencer carrier bag in her left hand. She dipped her right hand into the little font of blessed water there, then crossed herself and knelt in one of the rear pews. Morse envied her, for she looked so much at home there: looked as if she knew herself and her Lord so well, and was wholly familiar with all the trappings of prayer and the promises of forgiveness. She didn't stay long, and Morse guessed that the cause of her brief sojourn was probably the paucity of any sins worthy of confession. As she left, Morse could see some of the contents of the carrier bag: a Hovis loaf and a bottle of red plonk.

 
Bread and wine.

  The door clicked to behind her, and Morse stepped over to meet St. Anthony, wondering whence had sprung that oddly intrusive “h.” According to the textual blurb at the base of the statue, this great and good man was clearly capable of performing quite incredible miracles for those who almost had sufficient faith. Morse picked up a candle from the box there and stuck it in an empty socket on the top row. At which point (it appeared) most worshipers would have prayed fervently for a miracle. But Morse wasn't at all sure what miracle he wanted. Nevertheless the elegant, elongated candle was of importance to him; and on some semi-irrational impulse he took a second candle and placed it beside the first. Together, side by side, they seemed to give a much stronger light than both of them separate.

  A notice suggested an appropriate donation per candle, and Morse pushed a £1 coin into the slot in the wall behind St. Anthony. Half of bitter. Then, remembering that he'd doubled his investment, the reluctant hagio-later pushed in a second £1 coin. A whole pint.

  As he walked down to St. Giles, the man who had virtually no faith in the Almighty and even less in miracles noted that the past few minutes had slipped by quickly. It was now just after 11 A.M.; and when he came in sight of the Bird and Baby on his right, he saw that the front door was open.

  He went in.

  Thirty-seven

  Careless talk costs lives.

  (Second World War slogan)

  I think men who have a pierced ear are better prepared for marriage. They've experienced pain and bought jewelry.

  (Rita Rudner)

  Five days after Morse had declined the free draw for a miracle at the Oratory, at noon, at Lower Swinstead, at the bar of the Maiden's Arms, Tom Biffen stood leaning forward on his tattooed arms. Very quiet so far for a Saturday. Just the two hardy perennials, horns already locked over their continuous cribbage; and the pale-faced, ear-pierced, greasy-haired youth already squaring up to the fruit machine.