The Remorseful Day (17 page)

“Anyone touched anything?”

“No more than we needed to, sir.” (It was Lewis who replied.)

Morse looked again at the car for some lingering while—the car he'd followed when Harry Repp had turned his back on Bullingdon. Then he lifted his eyes and looked, again for some lingering while, at the pub sign of the Rosie O'Grady.

Bill Flowers was standing beside him.

“All yours!” pronounced Morse.

“Car's locked.”

“How do you know?”

“Door catches all in the locked position.”

Morse pressed a hand down on the nearside front handle.

“Don't—!” But Flowers checked his admonition in midvoice.

“You're right. Any of your lads here ever a juvenile car thief?”

“I know somebody who was.”

“Where's he live?”

“Silverstone.”

Morse turned to Lewis. “Give Johnson a ring.”

“Know his number?”

“Saturday afternoon? He'll be in the Summertown bookie's.”

“It's long gone afternoon, sir.”

“Ah!”

“There'll be a Local Directory in the pub.”

“You won't find him listed. They've cut his phone off.”

“So how—?”

“He'll be in the Dew Drop if he's won a few quid.”

“Perhaps he's not won a few quid.”

“He'll still be in the Dew Drop.”

“Do you know the number?”

“Get me a mobile!” snapped Morse.

Edwards watched as Morse turned his back on his colleagues, tapped out a number, and spoke
sotto voce
into the mouthpiece for a while, before blasting out
fortissimo:

“Well, just tell him to get here on the bloody
bus
and get here bloody
quick!”

Yet this order was not obeyed with either accuracy or immediacy, since there was a further twenty-minute wait before a rusting A-Reg. Ford pulled up on the main road outside the Rosie O'Grady, whence emerged from the passenger seat a sparely built, nondescript man, in his late forties, a self-rolled cigarette dangling from a thin mouth that even from a few yards exuded the reek of strong, excessive alcohol.

“Mr. Morse?”

The latter pointed to the car.

“Fee, is there?”

“Just open it, Malcolm!” (Edwards was surprised with the Christian-name address.)

The key wizard made no further remonstration as he winched a bunch of skeleton keys and bits of wire from his right-hand trouser pocket. Then, turning his back on his expectant audience, he surveyed the problem synop-tically. Like Capablanca contemplating his next move in the World Chess Championship.

“It's central-locking,” volunteered Flowers.

But Johnson said nothing, responding only for a semisecond with a look of contemptuous ingratitude.

As far as Edwards could make out, Morse had enjoyed that moment, since more than a semismile formed around his mouth when fifteen seconds later there was a quiet “clunk” as the catches on the four doors sprang upward in simultaneous freedom.

R456 LJB was open for inspection.

After pulling on a pair of green latex gloves, Flowers now opened the two offside doors; and Morse glanced over the front seats, before contemplating for a good deal longer the darkly glutinous covering of blood that stained the seats and flooring in the back. With a softly spoken “OK,” he was walking away toward the Rosie O'Grady when Johnson tapped him on the shoulder.

“You mentioned expenses, Mr. Morse?”

“I did. You're right.”

“Well, there's that taxi I came in—eight quid—two-quid tip—ten quid—here and back. Twenny, I make that.”

“Since when's Snotty Joe been running a taxi business?”

“Well, you know, more a sort of…private hire, like.”

Morse felt in his pockets and pulled out a handful of coins. “85p, isn't it, the bus fare to St. Giles? And, you're right, you've got to get back.”

He handed Johnson two £1 coins. “Keep the change. You can buy a copy of
The Times
to read on the ride back.”

“Wrong, aincha, Mr. Morse!
Times
is 50p Sat'days.”

Unsmiling, Morse handed over a further 20p, and the pair parted without any further word. And Edwards, who had witnessed the brief scene, found himself wondering what exactly were the favors each had bestowed upon the other in the prosecution and pursuance of crime in North Oxford over recent years.

Morse was a few steps ahead of Lewis as he made his way to the pub entrance. “We'd better leave ‘em for half an hour or so. They won't want us breathing down their necks … By the way, you'd better lend me a fiver, Lewis. I've just parted with the only—”

Morse stopped. Turned round. Stepped back to the scene of the crime. Ordered Flowers to open the boot.

Not himself knowing the identity of the body he now saw curled up in fetal configuration there, young Edwards was to remember that particular moment with an oddly inappropriate sense of gratitude, for he saw the color of Morse's cheeks fade by swiftly developing degrees from dingy yellow to sickly white, and watched as of a sudden the great man turned away and vomited violently over the recently renovated tarmac. It was like a fledgling actor appearing on stage with Sir John Giel-gud and seeing
that
great man fluffing the friendliest of lines in rehearsal, and thereby giving some unexpected encouragement to the rest of the cast, all of them now less terrified of fluffing their own.

Morse, after disappearing into the Gents for several long minutes, now sat looking slightly more his wonted self as he sank his nose into the deep head on the Guinness.

“Just the stuff if you've got a foul taste in the throat!”

Giving his chief a little while to recover some measure of dignity, Lewis gazed around him. Everything was wooden there: the bar, the wall-settles, the floor, the table at which they sat—all good solid if somewhat battered wood, with any once-applied stain long since worn off. The walls and ceilings had originally been painted in yellow and orange, but now were coated over with the nicotine of countless cigarettes. The friezes of the walls were adorned with the dicta of several great Irishmen, their words attractively set in black-lettered Gaelic script. One in particular had already caught Lewis's eye:

Good question! But a question not so pressing as the one he now put to Morse:

“Was it a surprise to you?”

“Was
what
a surprise?”

“Finding Harry Repp's body in the boot?”

Morse nodded as he wiped away a white moustache.

“This morning I thought I had a fair idea about what we were dealing with. But now that I'm perfectly sure that I've none …” He pointed up at the wall to their right. “Bit like Oscar Wilde, really.”

Lewis looked up at the words written there:

For Lewis it was a somber moment and he sipped his orange juice with little joy; even less joy as he saw the outline of Chief Superintendent Strange looming large in the doorway, then waddling awkwardly to their table, where he sat down, wiping his moistened brow with a vast handkerchief.

“Pretty kettle o’ fish you've got us into now, Morse!”

Then, turning to Lewis: “You in the chair?”

“Well—”

“Good! Good man! I'll have the same as the Chief Inspector here.”

“Pint, sir?”

“The
same
as the Chief Inspector—that's what I said, Sergeant.”

Lewis repaired to the bar once more and listened to the comparatively quiet background music that was as Irish as the pub was Irish, all flutes and fiddles, and wondered how long Morse would stick the noise before calling for a few less decibels.

After taking a deep draught, Strange turned to Morse. “You do realize, don't you, that you and Lewis have dragged me away from the golf course twice!”

“I'd've thought you'd be glad, especially if you were losing.”

Strange grinned wryly. “I don't often win these days, you're right.”

“None of us gets much better as we get older.”

“Only two things we can be sure of, Morse—death and taxes. Some U.S. President said that.”

“Benjamin Franklin,” supplied Lewis, to whom each of the two senior officers turned with some surprise, though without inquiry into the provenance of such splendid knowledge.

“What do you make of all this?” continued Strange quietly.

Morse shook his head. “You may have been having a lousy round of golf. I was having a lovely sleep myself.”

“That's no answer.”

“Dr. Hobson'll be here soon.”

“Already here.”

“Nothing we can do till we get some reports, results of the postmortems—”

“Somebody once told me the plural should be post-mortes.”

“Bloody pedant!”

“It was
you
actually, Morse.”

“Ah!”

“You've got a good team of SOCOs.”

Morse nodded. “So we'll wait to hear about all the bits and bobs they'll be bagging up and labeling and sending off to forensics. And all the fingerprints they'll be taking from windows and side mirrors and body work and seat belt buckles and cassettes and …” Morse had run out of potential surfaces.

“That's it!” Strange sounded somewhat heartened. “All you've got to do is eliminate ninety-five percent of the dabs, and then you've got your man.”

“Unless he was wearing gloves,” suggested Lewis.

“It's all tied up with that bloody Lower Swinstead business!” blurted out Strange.

“You're probably right,” said Morse.

“And don't forget the simplest answer is usually the correct answer! Spur o’ the moment stuff, most homicides. You know that.”

“Perhaps so,” admitted Morse, beckoning the landlord over. “Open all day?”

“All night too should you wish it, sorr.”

And yes, of course, the police could make use of one of the bars for the evening; of course the police could make use of whatever the Rosie O'Grady had to offer: telephone, washing and toilet facilities, bar facilities…

“And perhaps…?” The landlord pointed to the two empty glasses. “On the house—the pleasure's all mine.”

“Well, perhaps, er …” said Strange.

“You're twisting my arm,” said Morse.

“Make it
three
pints of Guinness,” said Lewis.

Morse glanced across at his sergeant with a look of astonishment; the landlord departed; and Strange got down to business.

“Logistics, Morse. Let's talk logistics. How many men do you want?”

“If you gave me a hundred, I wouldn't know what to do with one of them—not yet.”

“Now come off it, matey! Couldn't you perhaps have a look at when and how and what and why your bloody corpses were doing? See their relatives, friends, enemies, wives, for God's sake?”

“Flynn hadn't got a wife,” interposed Lewis.

“Repp
had!”

“No, sir,” corrected Lewis bravely. “He'd got a partner—”

“Well go and see
her!”
snapped Strange.

“No,” said Morse. “I'll go to see her myself.”

“Why's that?”

“I have my reasons.”

The landlord had returned with the drinks. “As I said—on the house, gentlemen!”

Morse thanked him and made a request: “You know this, er, music you're playing here—this Irish music …?”

“Perhaps you'd like it …?”

“Yes. If you could turn it up just a bit?”

Lewis glanced across at the Chief Inspector with a look of astonishment; the landlord departed; and Strange leaned back with an expression of contentment. “You know, Morse, I'm glad you said that. The missus
… we had a couple of days in Cork and we did a bit of Irish dancing together … me and the missus … or I suppose you'd say the missus and me.”

“The missus and I, sir.”

But further grammatical preferences were curtailed by the arrival of Dr. Laura Hobson.

“Everything all right, Doctor?” shouted Strange, above the background music that had suddenly lunged to the foreground.

“No, everything's all wrong! I
cannot
cope with things as they are out there. I want the car moved out to the lab with the body kept in the boot. How on earth you think—?”

“Done!” Strange held up the great slab that was his right hand. “Lewis will arrange it immediately, once he's finished his drink. Si' down, Doctor. Just give me a minute or two.” He sat back in his chair, beaming like a benign old uncle.

“Takes you back, Morse, doesn't it?”

“Remember the old poem, sir?

“Yes! Yes, I do,” said Strange gently.

And for a while Sergeant Lewis and Dr. Hobson remained silent, as if they knew they should be treading softly; as if they might be treading on other people's dreams.

As she opened the door, the recently reapplied blonde dye showed little or no trace of the hair's brunette inheritance.

“Oh, hullo.” The greeting was less than enthusiastic.

“May I come in?” asked Morse.

Apart from the minimal towel held in front of her body, she was naked: “Just wait there a sec—I'll just…”

She reclosed the door and Morse stood, as she had bidden, on the threshold. Stood there for a couple of minutes. And when she reopened the door and reappeared, it puzzled him that in such a comparatively long time she had done little other than to exchange the white towel for an equally minimal white dressing gown.