The Remorseful Day (18 page)

They sat opposite each other in the kitchen.

“Drink?” she ventured.

“No. I've had a busy day on the drink.”

“That good or bad?”

“Bit of both.”

“Mind if I have one?”

“Can you wait? Just a minute?”

“It's about Harry, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“He's dead, isn't he?”

“He's been murdered,” said Morse flatly.

Debbie Richardson leaned forward on her elbows, the long fingers with their crimson nails vertically veiling her features. Then after a while she got to her feet
and turned to the sink, where she molded her hands into a shallow receptacle under the cold tap.

As they had spoken at the kitchen table, Morse had observed (how otherwise?) that whatever else Debbie Richardson had done behind the closed front door she had certainly not been searching for a bra; and now, as she leaned forward and held her face in the water, he observed (how otherwise?) that she'd had no thought for any knickers either. A provocative prick-teaser, that was what she was. Morse knew it; had known it when they'd met that once before. But for the moment his mind was many furlongs from fornication …

He felt fairly sure that she'd been upstairs when he'd rung the bell, for the light had been on in the front bedroom with the night now drawing in. Yet she'd answered the door very quickly, almost immediately in fact. Whoever the caller was, had she wished to give the impression to someone that she'd been downstairs all the while? It seemed a bit odd. After all, he could well have been a Jehovah's Witness or an equally dreaded member of the Mormons or a charity worker bearing an envelope. Quite certainly though she hadn't rushed down the stairs from a bath, since about her was none of that freshly scented aura of a woman recently risen from her toilet. Rather perhaps (although Morse was no connoisseur in such matters) it was the musky odor of sex that lingered around her.

Whilst she had stood silently at the sink, he had strained his ears as acutely as any astronomer waiting for the faintest bleep from outer space. But of any other presence in the house there had been no sound at all; no sight at all either, except for the two unwashed wineglasses that stood on the draining board, a heel-tap of red in each of them. And Morse guessed that Debbie Richardson would never have taken the slightest risk of Claret and intercourse that day with anyone—unless it were with Harry Repp. And it
couldn't
have been with Harry Repp … Yet she may well have been tempted, this flaunting, raunchy woman who now dried her face and turned back to Morse; could certainly have been
tempted if one of her admirers had called that evening for whatever reason—and if she had already known that Harry Repp was dead.

Morse watched her almost disinterestedly as she returned to the table.

“Shall I pour you that drink now?” he asked.

“Only if you'll join me.”

Quite extraordinarily, Morse gave the impression that he was quite extraordinarily sober; and he poured their drinks—gin (hers), whiskey (his)—with only a carefully camouflaged shake of the right hand.

Quietly, as gently as he could, he told her almost as much as he knew of what had happened that day; and of the help that immediately awaited her should she so need it: advice, comfort, counseling …

But she shook her head. She'd be better off with sleepin’ pills than with all that stuff. She needed nothin’ of that. She'd be copin’ OK, given a chance. Independent, see? Never wanted to share any worryin’ with anyone. Loner most of her life, she'd been, ever since she'd been a teenager …

A tear ran hurriedly down her right cheek, and Morse handed her a handkerchief he'd washed and ironed himself.

“We ought to ring your GP: it's the usual thing.”

She blew her nose noisily and wiped the moisture from her eyes. “You go now. I'll be fine.”

“We'll need a statement from you soon.”

“Course.”

“You'll stay here…?”

Before she could reply the phone rang, and she moved into the hallway to answer it.

“Hello?”

…

“You've got the wrong number.”

…

“You've got the
wrong number.”

Had she replaced the receiver with needless haste? Morse didn't know.

“Not one of those obscene calls?”

“No.”

“Best to be on the safe side, though.” Giving her no chance to obstruct his sudden move, Morse picked up the receiver, dialed 1471, and duly noted the number given.

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.

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.

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.