Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day Read online

  not pleading with you to undertake an investigation for Thames Valley CID.

  What I am doing, as your superior officer, is telling you that you've been

  assigned to a particular duty. That's all. And that's enough."

  "No. It's not enough."

  For several minutes the conversation continued in similar vein before Strange

  delivered his diktat: "I see .. . Well, in that case .. . you give me no

  option, do you? I shall have to report this interview to the Chief Con-

  stable. And you know what that'll mean."

  Morse rose slowly to his feet, signalling Lewis to do the same.

  "I

  don't think you're going to report this interview to the Chief Constable or

  to the Assistant Chief Constable or to anyone else, for that matter, are you,

  Superintendent Strange? "

  chapter sixteen The vilest deeds like poison weeds Bloom well in prison-air,

  It is only what is good in Man That wastes anil withers there: Pale Anguish

  keeps the heavy gate, And the warder is Despair (Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of

  Reading Gaol) until comparatively recently, Harry Repp had associated the

  word 'porridge' chiefly with the tide of the TV comedy series and not with

  oatmeal stirred in boiling water. For as long as he could remember, his

  breakfasts had consisted of Corn Flakes covered successively '(as his

  beer-gut had ballooned) with full, semi-skimmed, and finally the thinly

  insipid fully skimmed varieties of milk. It was his common-law wife, Debbie,

  who'd insisted: 'you keep pouring booze into your belly every night and it's

  low-fat milk for breakfast! Under- stood? "

  So there'd been little choice, had there? Until almost a year ago, when he

  had come to realize that the TV title was wholly appropriate, with porridge

  (occasionally ill-stirred in hike-warm water) providing the basic breakfast

  diet for prison inmates.

  Normally Repp would have accepted the proffered dollop of porridge; but he

  asked only for two sausages and a spoonful of baked beans as he and his

  co-prisoners from A Wing stood 69

  queuing at the food counter at 8 a. m.

  He had read that prisoners in the condemned cell were always given the break-

  fast of their choice; but he felt he could himself have eaten little in such

  circumstances with the twin spectres of death and terror so very close behind

  him. And even now, back in his cell, he managed only one mouthful of beans

  before pushing his plate away from him. He felt agitated and apprehensive,

  although he found it difficult to account for such emotions. After all, he

  wasn't awaiting the Governor and the flunkey from the Home Office and the

  Prison Chaplain . . and the Hangman.

  Far from it. It was that day, Friday 24 July, that was set for his release

  from HM Prison, Bullingdon.

  At 8. 35 a. m. " still in his prison clothing, he heard steps outside the

  cell, heard his name called, and was on his feet immediately, picking up the

  carrier bag in which he'd already placed his personal belongings: a

  battered-looking radio, a few letters still in their grubby envelopes, and a

  'sexy-western' paperback that had clearly commanded regular re-reading. "

  Let's hope we don't meet again, mate! "

  one of the prison officers had volunteered as the double doors were unlocked

  and Repp was escorted for the last time from the spur of A Wing.

  At 8. 50 a. m. " after changing into his personal ciwies, he was admitted

  into a bench-lined holding-cell, where another prisoner, a thin sallow-faced

  man in his forties, was already seated. Their exchange of conversation was

  brief and un memorable " Not much more o' this shit, mate. "

  "No," said Repp.

  At 9. 05 a. m. his name was again called, and he was taken along to a

  reception desk where one of the Principal Officers took him through the forms

  pertaining to his release: identity check, behaviour and health records,

  details of destination and accommodation. It seemed to Repp somewhat

  reminiscent of a check-in at Heathrow or Gatwick.

  Except that this, as he kept reminding himself, wasn't a check-in at all. It

  was a check-out.

  He signed his name to several documents without bothering too much what they

  were. But before signing one form he was asked to read some relevant words

  aloud: "I understand that I am not allowed to possess or have anything to do

  with firearms or ammunition of any description . . ." It didn't matter

  anyway. In all probability there'd be no need to use the gun; and apart from

  himself only Debbie knew its whereabouts.

  Almost finished now.

  He took possession of an order issued under the Criminal Justice Act re

  Supervision in the Community, specifying the Oxford Probation Service in Park

  End Street as the office to which he was required to report regularly. Then

  he completed the Discharge Certificate itself, with a series of initials

  against Travel Warrant (Bullingdon to Oxford), Personal Property (as

  itemized), Personal Cash ( 24. 50), Discharge Grant ( 45), Discharge

  Clothing (offered but not issued).

  And, finally, one further full signature, dated and countersigned by the

  Princi- pal Officer, underneath the unambiguous assertion: i have no

  outstanding complaints. And indeed Harry Repp had nothing much to complain

  about. At least, not about Bullingdon - except perhaps that any residual

  good in him had wasted and had withered there.

  He was escorted across the prison yard to the main gates, where he reported

  to the Senior Officer, citing his full name and prison number to be checked

  against the Discharge List. And that was it. The heavy gates were opened,

  and Harry Repp stepped out of prison. A free man.

  He looked at his wristwatch, repeatedly glancing around him as if he might be

  expecting someone to meet him. But there seemed to be no one. According to

  the bus timetable they'd given him, there would be a wait of ten minutes or

  so; and he walked slowly down the paved path which led from the Central

  Reception Area to the road. There he turned and looked back at the high

  concreted walls, lightish beige with perhaps a hint of some pinkish

  coloration, lamp-posts 7i

  stationed at regular intervals in front of them,

  sturdily vertical until, at their tops, they leaned towards the prison, like

  guards- men inclining their heads around a catafalque.

  Harry Repp turned his back on the prison for the last time, and walked more

  briskly towards the bus stop and towards freedom.

  chapter seventeen What is it that roareth thus? Can it be a Motor Bus? All

  this noise and hideous hum Indicat Motorem Bum (Anon) 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 behaviour. 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 73

  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 towards 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 tyre

  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 un communicatively 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 Kid- ling ton 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 towards

  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 towards 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, 75

  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 re-opening of the Harrison

  enquir- it's . 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.

  77

  chapter eighteen Any fool can tell the truth; but it requires a man of

  some sense to know how to lie well (Samuel Butler) lewis knew what he must do

  as soon as he saw Morse's maroon Jaguar parked in its wonted place.

  "Sti
ll 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 a/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.