The Remorseful Day (26 page)

This in various ways.

It is highly unlikely, for example, that a well-focused video camera will be in operation in that first particular place; and even if it is, some smart electronic alec may well be able to doctor the evidence. Almost always, therefore, corroboration will depend on the testimony of eyewitnesses who, even if honest, can be the victims of tricks of memory over times and sightings;
or
on the testimony of witnesses who are dishonest, and are willing to fabricate falsehoods—for friends, perhaps, or for a fee. The alibi problem is further complicated by the confident assertion of some mystic sects that one
can
, in fact, be in two places simultaneously, although the police are grateful that such bizarre beliefs are currently not widely embraced.

Morse himself championed the view that all alibis should probably be ignored in the first instance, on the not illogical grounds that if just
one
of them were suspect, it was sensible to assume that all of them were …

Such views (with variants) Sergeant Lewis had heard several times before, and it was therefore with some diffidence that he broached the subject the following morning.

“Don't you reckon it would be a good idea to get all these alibis sorted out a bit clearer?”

“A bit more clearly, Lewis.”

“The night Mrs. Harrison was murdered, the morning Flynn and Repp were murdered—”

“And don't forget Monday morning.”

“Barron, you mean? You surely don't still think—?” Morse held up his right hand in surrender. “You're right, perhaps. Let's make a list. Well, you make a list. Ready?”

He steepled his slim fingers in front of him and stared into the middle distance, though with little observable enthusiasm in his eyes:

“That's the short list?”

Morse nodded.

“OK. First I'll recheck where they all were, or where they were all supposed to be, first when Mrs. Harrison—”

“Already been done. You've read the files.”

“Weren't checked very thoroughly though, some of ‘em.”

“Long time ago, Lewis. People forget or want to forget or pretend to forget.”

“A day like that though, when she was murdered? Biggest day in village history. Everybody remembers where they were, like when Kennedy was assassinated.”

“Nonsense, Lewis! People remember where they were and what they were doing at the time they
heard
of things like that. Agreed. But what else? Do you remember what you were doing for the rest of the day when Kennedy was shot? Do you?”

“No. I take your point, sir.”

“Who are you thinking of particularly?”

“Well the family got away with some pretty flimsy alibis, didn't they? Especially Simon and Sarah. No one seems to have checked them much at all.”

“Ye-es.”

“Simon said he got home from work about a quarter past five, had a meal, then went down to the ABC cinema in George Street to see
The Full Monty.
Still had his ticket if I remember rightly.”

Morse nodded and Lewis continued:

“Sarah? She was at a diabetes conference in the Rad-cliffe Infirmary that day—no doubt about that. And after it had finished she went over the road to the Royal Oak for a drink with a few friends—no doubt about that either—and then left for her flat in Jericho at about a quarter to seven, where she listened to
The Archers
, had a long hot bath, watched the
Nine O ‘Clock News
, and then had an early night.”

“Making no mention in the course of her evidence that she had a phone call in the middle of the evening, as a result of which she tore down to the ABC Cinema, bought a ticket for
The Full Monty
—”

“Probably no seats left that night, sir.”

“—bought a ticket and promptly tore it across the middle and then tore out of the place—”

“Sir! Not so much of this tearing about all over the shop! She'd sprained her ankle just before then and she'd probably be hobbling—”

“—she hobbled out of the cinema with a very valuable little alibi in her pretty little hand.”

“Alibi for Simon, you mean?”

“Or for herself.”

“You're losing me again, sir.”

“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?”

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.

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.