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The Remorseful Day

Page 20

by Colin Dexter

“I'm losing myself. Don't worry.”

  “What about Frank Harrison?”

  “You tell me!”

  “Well, anyone who finds the body first is usually going to be number one in your book, I know that. But there's no doubt about Paddy Flynn being on taxi shift from 8 P.M. that night. He was seen on and off by his fellow drivers as well as being contacted at regular intervals from base. No doubt either about him picking up Frank Harrison about eleven from Oxford railway station. But that's not to say—is it, sir?—that Harrison had just got off a train at the railway station. It would be the most natural thing in the world for anyone to think he had, but…”

  Morse smiled. “Could hardly have put it better myself. But somebody paid Flynn for something. So it was probably for something that happened after eleven o'clock. And there was only one person with Flynn then: Frank Harrison. And he's the only one of the whole bunch with the sort of money to buy Flynn off.”

  “And buy Repp off, if we're right about him being there that night. Harrison must be earning, well…”

  “A little more than you are, Lewis, yes. In fact he got a bonus—a bonus—of £85,000 last year. Seems he was sorting out his bank's involvement in the Nazi confiscation of Jewish assets, and his bosses were more than pleased with him.”

  “How on earth do you know that?”

  “Aren't we supposed to be detectives?”

  Lewis pursued the matter no further. “So, what do you think?”

  “Waste of time as far as the children are concerned. But it might help to look at their father again.”

  “You think it was Harrison who murdered his wife?”

  “I dunno.”

  “You think he murdered Flynn and Repp?”

  “He had enough reason to. He couldn't go on forking out indefinitely.”

  “So we'd better have a careful check on wherever he was that Friday morning.”

  “Well, wherever else he was he wasn't in his London office.”

  “How on earth—?”

  “What else can I tell you?” asked Morse wearily.

  “I've just asked you. Do you think he murdered Flynn and Repp?”

  “He could have done. But somehow I don't believe he did.”

  “So who…?”

  “I keep telling you, Lewis. My modest bet is still on Barron.”

  “Shouldn't we be looking a bit more into their backgrounds? Repp's? Flynn's? Barron's?”

  “I don't think we're going to get anything more out of Debbie Richardson.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Just a feeling, Lewis. Just a feeling.”

  “What about Flynn?”

  Morse nodded. “You're right. He was being paid for something. Exactly what, though … Yes. Leave that to me.”

  “What about Barron? Shall I leave that to you, as well?”

  “No, no! The less I have to do with the women in this case the better. You go along. And if you can find out more about where he was or where he was supposed to be on both those days… Yes, you do that!”

  “All right. But don't you think we ought to widen the net, sir? Haven't we got any other suspects?”

  “TomBiffen, perhaps?”

  Lewis's eyebrows shot up. “You mean—?”

  “The landlord of the Maiden's Arms, no less. We'll go out and interview him together once we get a chance. You'll be able to buy me a pint.”

  “But wasn't it a Tuesday when Mrs. Harrison was murdered?”

  “You're right, yes.”

  “Well, he always goes out fishing on Tuesdays, Biffen—dawn to dusk.”

  “Really? How on earth do you know that?”

  “Aren't we supposed to be detectives, sir?”

  Fifty-one

  Once cheated, wife or husband feels the same; and where there's marriage without love, there will be love without marriage.

  (Benjamin Franklin, Poor Richard's Almanack)

  At 9:30 A.M. the following day, Mrs. Linda Barron stepped back from the threshold, nodding rather wearily as Lewis produced his ID. In the kitchen, he accepted her offer of instant coffee.

  She was a brunette of medium height, slightly overweight, with a small, cupid-lipped mouth, wearing a blue-striped kitchen apron over skirt and blouse.

  Lewis decided she was coping with life, just about.

  The smallish kitchen was cluttered with shelves and cupboards, the floor space additionally limited by the usual appliances: cooker, dishwasher, fridge, microwave, washing machine. Lewis immediately noticed the damp patch of crumbling ceiling over the cooker. Same old story! Husband a plumber, and a tap-washer never gets fixed; husband a builder, and there's a two-year wait before a bit of replastering gets done … Difficult to say, offhand, whether the Barrons were better or worse off than they appeared.

  From experience, Lewis had learned never to try his hand at commiseration or counseling; but when he questioned her, he did so in the kindly fashion that was his wont. He asked her tactfully about the times and places relevant to her husband's alibis; more tactfully about the family finances; most tactfully about the state of her marriage.

  Alibis? On the two key dates she could be of little help. Mondays to Fridays he usually got home about 6 P.M., when she'd have a cooked meal ready for him. Between 8 and 9 P.M. he'd quite often go out for a pint or two, either down at the local or sometimes at a pub in Burford. But he wasn't a big drinker. She knew he'd rung up Mrs. Harrison on the night of her murder—something about roofing tiles—but he'd not been able to get through. Tried twice—he'd told her so; the police knew all about that, though: it had been important evidence. On the second key date, the Friday, he'd gone off to Thame in the morning, she remembered that. He'd been asked for an estimate on some work there, and he'd gone over to size up the job. She didn't know—didn't ask—what he'd done after that; but he was back home at the usual sort of time. He always was on Fridays, because it was eggs-and-chips day—his favorite meal.

  Mr. J. Barron, Builder, was going up in Lewis's esteem.

  Money? They were OK. For the past three years or so houses were selling fairly freely again; and mobility in the housing market always meant new owners wanting some renovation or structural changes: conservatories, extensions, garages, loft conversions, patios. Yes, the past few years had been fairly good for them: she knew that better than he did. Her part in the business, for which she took a small official salary, was to look after the books: tax returns, invoices, VAT, expenses, bad debts—everything. If he was ever in the habit of accepting cash instead of the usual check payments, she wasn't aware of it; and quite certainly neither of them was sufficiently bright in business-finance to be able to exploit any tax loopholes. She knew nothing about any regular payments in cash. (“What payments?”) She'd have known if any envelopes had arrived through the post, because the mail was invariably delivered after he'd set off for work every morning. They had a joint account; and he had a separate private account, with an overdraft facility of £2,000.

  Mr. J. Barron, Builder, Lewis decided, was hardly in the Gates or the Soros brackets.

  Marriage? It was only here that Linda Barron was less than fluent in her answers.

  “Would you say the pair of you had a ‘tight’ marriage?”

  “… Perhaps not, no.”

  “Was he ever unfaithful?”

  “Aren't most men?”

  “Not all of them,” said Lewis quietly.

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Was he?”

  “… He may have been.”

  “Do you think he ever had an affair with Mrs. Harrison?”

  “…No.”

  “Would you have known?”

  She smiled bleakly. “Probably.”

  “What about you, Mrs. Barron? Were you ever unfaithful?”

  “… Once or twice.”

  “With Harry Repp?”

  “God, no! I hardly knew him.”

  “Tom Biffen?”

  “… Once. He called one afternoon about
eighteen months ago to bring a leg of lamb Johnnie won in the raffle. And…”

  “What happened?”

  “Do I have to tell you, Sergeant?”

  “No. No, you don't, Mrs. Barron.”

  Wedlock for the Barrons (Lewis agreed with Dixon) did not appear to have been a wholly idyllic affair.

  As he left, Lewis noticed on the wall in the hallway a framed photograph of a strong, fine-looking man in military uniform.

  “Your husband?”

  She nodded; and the rust-flecked hazel eyes were filmed with tears.

  Fifty-two

  With a gen ‘rous ol'pal who will pick up the tab

  It's always real cool in a nice taxi-cab.

  (J. Willington Spoole, Mostly on the Dole)

  If Lewis's (Morse-initiated) interview had been a task of some fair difficulty, Morse's own (self-appointed) mission was wholly straightforward—the single problem being that of finding a parking space in a car-cluttered Warwick Street, just off the Iffley Road.

  In the outer office of Radio Taxis were seated two young ladies, their telephones, keyboards, and VDUs in front of them, with maps of Oxford, Oxfordshire, and the UK pinned on the walls around. Morse was ushered through into the inner sanctum, where a six-foot, strongly built man of fifty or so, his short, dark hair greying at the temples, introduced himself:

  “Jeff Measor, Company Secretary. How can I help?”

  “Flynn, Paddy Flynn, he used to work for you—until you sacked him.”

  Yes. Measor remembered him well enough. Flynn had worked for the company for just over a year. It was generally agreed that he'd been a competent driver, but he'd never fitted very happily into the team. There'd been several complaints from clients, including the reported “Just help me get these bitches out of here!” request to the doorman at The Randolph, where three giggly and slightly unstable young ladies were attempting to alight. And, yes, a few other complaints about his less-than-sympathetic rejoinders to clients when sometimes (quite inevitably so) traffic jams had caused his cab to be late. But Flynn had been a punctual man himself, invariably clocking in on time—one of those dedicated night drivers who far preferred the 6 P.M.-2:30 A.M. shift. He'd known Oxford City and the surrounding area well—a big factor in taxi work; and there'd been no suspicion of his driving innocent clients on some roundabout route just to jump up the fare.

  “Could he have fiddled a few quid here and there?”

  “Not so easy these days. Everything's computerized in the cab. But I suppose …”

  “How?”

  “Well, let's say if he's cruising around the City Centre and gets a fare and doesn't clock it in. Just takes the cash and then goes back to cruising round as if he's been doing nothing else all the time …”

  “Did he do that sort of thing?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Morse was looking increasingly puzzled. “He seems to have been a reasonably satisfactory sort of cabbie, then.”

  “Well…”

  “So why did you sack him?”

  “Two things, really. As I said, he wasn't a good advertisement for the company. We always tell our drivers about the importance of friendliness and courtesy; but he wasn't quite … he always seemed a bit surly, and I doubt he ever swapped a few cheerful words with any of his passengers. Man of few words, Paddy Flynn. Not always though, by all accounts.”

  “No?”

  “No. Seems he used to do the rounds of the pubs and clubs—Oxford, Reading, and so on—with a little group. Played the clarinet himself, and introduced things with a bit of Irish blarney. Quite popular for a while, I think, ‘specially in those pubs guaranteeing music being played as loud as possible.”

  Morse looked pained as Measor continued: “Anyway, he just didn't fit in here. No one really liked him much. Simple as that!”

  “Two things though, you said?” prompted Morse gently.

  For the first time the articulately forthright Company Secretary was somewhat hesitant:

  “It's a bit difficult to explain but… well, he never quite seemed up to coping with the radio side of the job. Still very important, the radio side is, in spite of all this latest technology. You know the sort of thing: we'll be phoning from the office here and asking one of the drivers if he's anywhere near Headington or Abingdon Road or wherever … Mind you, Inspector, the radio's not all that easy: distortion, interference, crackle, feedback, traffic noise … You've certainly got to have your wits about you—and, well, he just couldn't quite cope with it well enough.”

  “It doesn't seem all that much of a reason for sacking him, though.”

  “It's not exactly like that, Inspector. You see, I don't myself employ drivers directly. They're contracted out to me. And so if I say to any owner of a taxi, or a group of taxis, ‘Look, there's no more work for you here'—well, that's it. It's like sub-contracting work on a building site. If I want to sack one of my staff here though, in the office, I'll have to give one verbal—recorded—and two written warnings.”

  “No problems with Flynn, then?”

  “Oh, no. And glad to see the back of him. Everybody was. One day he was here …”

  “… and the next day he was gone,” added Morse slowly, as he thanked the Company Secretary—and felt that long familiar shiver of excitement along his shoulders.

  Fifty-three

  At which period there were gentlemen and there were seamen in the navy. But the seamen were not gentlemen; and the gentlemen were not seamen.

  (Macaulay, History of England)

  For Morse, that early evening followed much the same old pattern: same sort of bundle of ideas abounding in his brain; same impatience to reach that final, wonderfully satisfying, penny-dropping moment of insight; same old pessimism about the future of mankind; same old craving for a dram of Scotch that could make the world, at least for a while, a kindlier and a happier place; same old chauffeur—Lewis.

  It was just after 6:30 P.M. when they were shown up a spiral flight of rickety stairs to the small office immediately above the bar of the Maiden's Arms. Around the walls, several framed diplomas paid tribute to the landlord's expertise and the cleanliness of his kitchen, although the untidy piles of letters and forms that littered the desk suggested a less than methodical approach to the hostelry's paperwork.

  “Quick snifter, Inspector?”

  “Later, perhaps.”

  “Mind if I, er… ?” Biffen reached behind him and poured out a liberal tot of Captain Morgan. “You make me feel nervous!” Knocking back the neat rum in a single swallow, he smacked his lips crudely: “Ahh!”

  “Royal or Merchant?” asked Morse.

  “Bit o’ both.” But Biffen seemed disinclined to discuss his earlier years at sea and came to the point immediately: “How can I help you, gentlemen?”

  So Morse told him: for the moment the village seemed to be at the center of almost everything; and the pub was at the center of village life and gossip; and the landlord was always going to be at the center of the pub; so if…

  For Lewis, Morse's subsequent interrogation seemed (indeed, was) aimless and desultory.

  But Biffen had little to tell.

  Of course the villagers had talked—still talked—talked all the time except when that media lot or the police came round. No secret, though, that the locals knew enough about Mrs. H.'s occasional and more than occasional liaisons; no secret that they listened with prurient interest to the rumors, the wilder and whackier the better, concerning Mrs. H.'s sexual predilections.

  It was left to Lewis to cover the crucial questions concerning alibis.

  The day of Mrs. H.'s murder? Tuesday, that was. And Tuesday was always a special day—a sacrosanct sort of day. (He'd mentioned it earlier.) His one day off in the week when he refused to have anything at all to do with cellarage, bar-tending, pub meals—fuck ‘em all! Secretary of the Oxon Pike Anglers’ Association, he was. Had been for the past five years. Labor of love! And every Tuesday during the fishing season he was out
all day, dawn to dusk. Back late, almost always, though he couldn't say exactly when that day. No one had questioned him at the time. Why should they? He'd pretty certainly have met a few of his fellow anglers but… what the hell was all this about anyway? Was he suddenly on the suspect list? After all this time?

  Thomas Biffen's eyes had hardened; and looking across at the brawny tattooed arms, the ex-boxer Sergeant Lewis found himself none too anxious ever to confront the landlord in a cul-de-sac.

  Biffen was a family man? Well, yes and no, really. He'd been married—still was, in the legal sense. But his missus had gone off four years since, taking their two children with her: Joanna, aged three at the time, and Daniel, aged two. He still regularly gave her some financial support; always sent his kids something for their birthdays and Christmas. But that side of things had never been much of a problem. She was living with this fellow in Weston-super-Mare—fellow she'd known a long time—the same fellow in fact she'd buggered off with when they'd broken up.

  “Whose fault was that?” asked Morse quietly.

  Biffen shrugged. “Bit o’ both, usually, innit?”

  “She'd been seeing someone else?”

  Biffen nodded.

  “Had you been seeing someone else?”

  Biffen nodded.

  “Someone local.”

  “What's that got to do with it?”

  It was Morse's turn to shrug.

  “Well… chap's got to get his oats occasionally, Inspector.”

  “Mrs. Harrison?”

  Biffen shook his head. “Wouldna minded, though!”

  “Mrs. Barron?”

  “Linda? Huh! Not much chance there—with him around? SAS man, he was. Probably slice your prick off if he copped you mucking around with his missus.”

  Lewis found himself recalling the photograph of the confident-looking young militiaman.

  “Debbie Richardson?” suggested Morse.

  “Most people've had a bit on the side with her.”

  “You called yourself occasionally? While Harry was inside?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Including the day after he was murdered.”

 

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