The Remorseful Day (9 page)

Harry Repp turned his back on the prison for the last time, and walked more briskly toward the bus stop and toward freedom.

Seated at the front window of the Central Reception Area, Sergeant Lewis had been a vigilant observer of the final events recorded in the previous chapter, immediately ducking down when the newly released man had turned to look back at the prison complex. Needlessly so, for the two men were quite unknown to each other.

This was hardly the trickiest assignment he'd ever been given, Lewis knew that; and in truth he could see little justification for the trouble being taken. Except in Superintendent Strange's (not usually fanciful) imagination, there seemed only a tenuous connection between the Harrison murder and Harry Repp—the latter sentenced to fifteen months’ imprisonment, and now released early on parole on grounds of exemplary behavior. And in any case, Strange's instructions (not Morse's) had been vague in the extreme: “Keep an eye on him, see where he goes, who he meets, and, er, generally, you know … well, no need to tell an experienced officer like you.”

And yet (Lewis considered the point afresh) had Strange's motivation been
all
that fanciful? Repp was known to have been active in the vicinity at the relevant period, and had in fact been under limited police surveillance for some time, although not of course on the night of the murder. And then there was the letter to Strange—a letter which, whilst pointing a finger only vaguely at the general locality of Lower Swinstead, had
quite specifically pointed toward the man now being released from prison.

As Repp walked away Lewis got to his feet and shook hands with the prison officer who had communicated to him as much as anyone at Bullingdon was ever likely to know about the man just released: aged 37; height 5′ 10″; weight 13 stone 4 pounds; hair dark brown, balding; complexion medium; tattoo (naval design) covering left forearm; sentenced for the receipt and sale of stolen goods; at the time of arrest cohabiting with Debbie Richardson, of 15 Chaucer Lane, Burford.

After driving the unmarked police car from the crowded staff car park, Lewis stopped on the main road, moving round the car as he slowly checked his tire pressures, all the while keeping watch on the bus stop, only fifty yards away, where two men, Repp and a slimmer ferrety-looking fellow, stood waiting; from where Lewis could hear so very clearly the frequently vociferated plaints from the ferret: “Where the fuckin’ ‘ell's the fuckin’ bus got to?”

In fact, the fuckin’ bus was well on its way; and a few minutes later the two men boarded a virtually empty bus and uncommunicatively took their separate seats.

Lewis moved smoothly into gear and followed discreetly, not at all unhappy when another (rather posh) car interposed itself between him and the bus. (Another posh car behind him, for that matter.) Any minor worry that Repp might unexpectedly get off at some stage between Bullingdon and Bicester was taking care of itself very nicely, since the bus made no stop whatsoever until reaching the Bure Place bus station in Bicester, where the ferret straightaway alighted (and straightaway disappeared); and where Repp, the immediate quarry, walked up the line of bus shelters to the 27 oxford (Direct) bay, promptly boarding the bus already standing there.

Repp was not the only one who had done his homework on the Bicester-Oxford timetable. For Lewis, knowing there would be a full ten-minute wait before departure, and leaving his car in the capacious car park
opposite, walked quickly through the short passageway to Sheep Street, passing the public toilets on his left, where at Forbuoys Newsagent's he bought the
Mirror.
Even if there was a bit of a queue, so what? He would rather enjoy not following but chasing the 27 to Oxford. But the bus was still there, filling up quite quickly, as he got back into his car.

After the implementation of the Beeching Report of the mid-sixties, passengers between Oxford and Bicester had perforce to use their own cars. But the former railway line had now been re-opened; and the deregulated bus companies were trying their best, and sometimes succeeding, in tempting passengers back to public transport. There were no traffic jams on the rail, and a newly designated bus lane from Kidlington gave a comparatively fast-track entry into Oxford. So perhaps (Lewis pondered the matter) it was hardly surprising that Repp had not been picked up at Bullingdon by a friend, or by a relative, or by his common-law wife. Yet it would surely have been so much easier, quicker, more convenient that way?

At 10:10
A.M.
the 27 pulled out of the bus station and headed toward Oxford, in due course crossing over the M40 junction and making appropriately good speed along the A34, before turning off through Kidlington and then over the A40 down toward Oxford City Centre.

And again Lewis was fortunate, for no one had got off the bus along the route until the upper reaches of the Banbury Road.

Easy!

Driving at a safe and courteous distance behind the bus, Lewis had ample opportunity for reflecting once more on the slightly disturbing developments of the previous few days…

Morse had been as good as his word that Monday morning, when the latter part of their audience with Strange had turned almost inexplicably bitter. No, Morse could not agree to any involvement in the reopening of the Harrison inquiries. Yes, Morse realized
(“Fully, sir!”) the possible implications of his non-compliance with the decision of a superior officer. Yet oddly enough, it had been Strange who had seemed the more unsure of himself during those final exchanges; and Lewis had found himself puzzled, and suspecting that there were certain aspects of the case of which he himself was wholly unaware.

Could it be… ?

Could it be perhaps… ?

Could it be perhaps that Morse had some reason for keeping his head above the turbid waters still swirling around the unsolved murder of Yvonne Harrison? Some
personal
reason, say? Some connection with the major participants in the case? Some connection (Lewis was thinking the unthinkable) with
the
major participant: with the murdered woman herself? For there must be
some
reason …

Some reason, too, for Morse's (virtually unprecedented) absence from HQ on those two following days, the Tuesday and the Wednesday? To be fair, he had rung Lewis (at home) early on the Tuesday morning, saying that he was feeling unwell, and in truth
sounding
unwell. He'd be grateful, he'd said, if Lewis could apologize to all concerned; perhaps for the following day as well. Lewis had rung Morse that Tuesday evening, but there was no answer; had rung again on the Wednesday evening—again with no answer.

Was Morse ill?

Not all that ill, anyway, because he'd appeared on the Thursday morning at his usual, comparatively early hour. And said nothing about his absence. Or about his row with Strange. Or about his health, for that matter. But Morse seldom mentioned his health …

Just below the Cutteslowe roundabout, the bus stopped and four passengers alighted—but not Repp.

At the Martyrs’ Memorial, the majority of the passengers alighted—but not Repp.

At the Gloucester Green terminus, the last few passengers alighted—but not Repp.

The 27 bus was now empty.

Lewis knew what he must do as soon as he saw Morse's maroon Jaguar parked in its wonted place.

“Still feeling better, sir?”

“Better than what?”

“Can you spare a minute?”

“Si’ down!”

Seated opposite, in his own wonted place, Lewis said his piece.

“You're in a bit of a mess,” said Morse, at the end of the sorry story.

“That's not much help, is it?”

“Remember the Sherlock Holmes story,
Case of Identity?
A fellow gets in one side of a hansom cab and gets out through the opposite side.”

“Doors on buses are always on the
same
side.”

“Really?”

“You never go on a bus.”

“But you weren't watching
either
side. You were queuing for coffee.”

“Buying a paper.”

“Listen!” Morse looked and sounded strained and weary. “I thought you were asking for my advice. Do you want to hear it?”

There was a brief silence before Morse continued: “It's not really a question of your own competence or incompetence—probably the latter, I'm afraid. The main concern is what's happened to your man, Repp. Agreed?”

Lewis nodded joylessly.

“Well, the situation's fairly simple. You just lost contact with him in the middle of things, that's all. No great shakes, is it? He's fine, believe me! Absolutely fine. At this very second he's probably got his bottom on the top sheet with that common-law missus of his. She picked him up somewhere—that's for certain. Most of these people released from the nick have somebody to pick ‘em up.”

“Except she doesn't drive a car.”

“All right. She arranged for somebody
else
to pick him up.”

“Why did he ask for a travel warrant, then?”

Morse looked less than happy. “He got on the bus at Bicester and while he was sitting there somebody saw him and tapped on the window and offered him a lift to Oxford or wherever he was going—and we know where that is, don't we?
Home.
Which is exactly where he is now, you can put your bank balance on that! It's a racing certainty. And if you don't believe me, go and see for yourself!”

Lewis considered what he had just heard. “It must have been somebody unexpected, sir. Like I say, he'd asked for a warrant.”

“You're right, yes. Well, partly right. Either unexpected—or not really expected … Perhaps not really welcome, either,” added Morse slowly, a weak smile playing on his lips as though for the first time that morning his brain was possibly engaged in some serious thinking.

“You reckon that's what happened?”

“Lewis!
Something
happened, didn't it? If you think your man decided to dematerialize, you've been watching too many space videos.”

“I don't watch—”

“Look! Remember what I've always told you when we've been on a case together—unlike this one! There's always, without exception, some wholly explicable, wholly logical causation for any chain of events, in any situation. In this case, you've just got to ask yourself where the link broke, then how it broke, then why it
broke—and nothing in that sequence of events is going to be anything but simple and commonplace.”

Lewis looked the troubled man he was. “I just can't see how…”

Morse's question was quietly spoken. “You remember that car, the one you said somehow squeezed in between you and the bus from Bullingdon?”

Lewis looked across the desk in pained surprise. “You don't think …”

“What do you remember about it?”

“Dark color—black, I think—pretty recent Reg—one person in it—man, I think—pretty sure it was a man.”

“Not very observant—”

“I was looking at the
bus
all the time, for God's sake!”

“—and not much help, if you want the truth.”

No, it wasn't, Lewis knew that. “What do I tell the Super, though?”

“If I were you? I certainly wouldn't tell him the truth. Not a very wise thing, you know, going through life telling nothing but the truth. So in this case, I'd tell him I'd followed the bus to Bicester, then followed the bus to Oxford, then seen Repp get off outside The Randolph, get picked up there in a car, and get driven off in the general direction of Chaucer Lane, Burford. Easy!”

Uneasy, however, was Lewis's minimal nod.

“But I'm
not
you, Lewis, am I? I'm a very accomplished liar myself, but I've never rated you too highly in that department.”

A puzzled look suddenly came over Lewis's brow. “How come you know where Repp lives?”

“Great man, Chaucer, born in 1343, it's thought—”

“You're not answering my question!”

“I know a lot of things, Lewis—far more than you think.”

“You've still not told me what I'm supposed to say to the Super.”

“Cut your losses and tell him the truth.”

“He'll tear me apart.”

“You may well be surprised.”

But, as he rose to his feet, Lewis appeared far from convinced.

“Well, I suppose I'd better—”

“Hold your horses!” (Morse looked at his wrist-watch.) “It may just be that I can help you.”

Lewis's eyebrows lifted a little as Morse continued:

“
You
promise to buy me a couple of drinks, and
I'll
promise to give you a big, fat juicy clue.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“Off we go then.”

“What's this big, fat—?”

“I'll give you the Registration Number of the car that you followed from Bullingdon to Bicester! Bargain, is it?”

Lewis's eyebrows lifted a lot. “No kidding?”

Morse rechecked his wristwatch. “First things first, though. They've already been open five minutes.”

With increasing impatience and with incipient disquiet, lighting one cigarette from another, drinking cup after cup of instant coffee, Deborah Richardson had been watching from the front-room window, on and off from 10:30
A.M.
, on and off from 11:30
A.M.
, and virtually on and on from midday and thereafter—at first with that curiously pleasing
expectation
of happy events which Jane Austen would have swapped for happiness itself. Not that Debbie had ever read Jane Austen. Heard of her, though, most recently from that elderly Oxford don (well, wasn't fifty-eight elderly?) with whom she'd spent the night at the Cotswold Hotel in Burford …

It wasn't that she was keenly anticipating any renewal of sexual congress with her newly liberated partner. Although she felt gratified that physically he'd always been so demanding of her, it had often occurred to her that he was probably enjoying the sex more for its own sake than because he was having it with
her.
And perhaps that was why only occasionally did she experience that “intercrural effusion” of which she'd read in one of the women's magazines…