The Remorseful Day

Chapter twenty-one

Unlike the (equally unknown) man who had called upon her the previous evening, he held up his ID for several seconds in front of her face, like a conjurer holding up a playing card toward an audience.

But she didn’t really look at it; didn’t even notice his name. He seemed a decent, honest-looking sort of fellow — not one of those spooky pseuds who occasionally sought her company. And she was hardly too bothered if he wasn’t one of those decent, honest-looking sort of fellows.

“Deborah Richardson?” (He sounded rather shy.)

“Yes.”

“Sergeant Lewis, Thames Valley CID.”

“He’s not here, yet. It was Harry you wanted?”

“Can I come in?”

“Be my guest!”

As she sat opposite him at the Formica-topped table, Lewis saw a woman in her midthirties, of medium build, with short blonde hair, and wearing a white dress, polka-dotted in a gaudy green, that reached halfway down (or was it halfway up?) a pair of thighs now comfortably crossed in that uncomfortable kitchen. She was not by any standards a beautiful woman; certainly not a pretty one. Yet Lewis had little doubt that many men, including Morse perhaps, would have called her quietly (or loudly) attractive.

She lit a cigarette and smiled rather nervously, the pleasingly regular teeth unpleasingly coated with nicotine.

“He’s OK, isn’t he?”

“I’m sure he is, yes.”

“It’s just — well, I was expectin’ him a bit before now.”

“You didn’t arrange to meet him at the prison?”

“No. We’ve got a car, in the garage, but I never got on too well with drivin’.”

“Perhaps one of his mates...?”

“Dunno, really. Expect so. He just said he’d be here as soon as he could.”

“He might have rung you.”

“Havin’ a few beers, I should think. Only natural, innit? The champagne’s back in the fridge anyway.”

Lewis looked at his watch, surprised how quickly the latter part of the morning had sped by. “Only half-past one.”

“So? So why have you called then, Sergeant?”

Lewis played his less than promising hand with some care. “It’s just that we’ve received some... information, unconfirmed information, that Harry might have... well, there might be some slight connection between him and the murder of Mrs. Harrison.”

“Harry never had nothin’ to do with that murder!”

“You obviously remember the case.”

“Course I do! Everybody does. Biggest thing ever happened round here.”

“So as far as you know Harry had nothing—”

“You reckon I’d be tellin’ you if he had?”

“But you say he hadn’t?”

“Course he hadn’t!”

“You see, all I’m saying is that Harry’s a burglar—”

“Was a burglar.”

“—and there was some evidence that there could have been a burglary that night that might have gone a bit wrong perhaps.”

“What? Her lyin’ on the bed there with her legs wide open? Funny bloody burglary!”

“How did you know that? How she was found?”

“Come off it! How the hell do any of us know any-thin’? Common knowledge, wasn’t it? Common gossip, anyway.”

“Where did you hear it?”

“Pub, I should think.”

“Maiden’s Arms?”

“Shouldn’t be surprised. Everybody talks about every-thin’ there. The landlord, ‘specially. Still, that’s what landlords—”

“Is he still there?”

“Tom? Oh, yes. Tom Biffen. Keeps about the best pint of bitter in Oxfordshire, so Harry said.” (Lewis made a mental note, for Morse would be interested.)

“You know him fairly well, the landlord?”

She lit another cigarette, her eyes widening as she leaned forward a little. “Fairly well, yes, Sergeant.”

Lewis changed tack. “You saw Harry pretty regularly while he was inside?”

“Once a week, usually.”

“How did you get there?”

“Friends, mostly.”

“Awkward place to get to.”

“Yep.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Week ago.”

“What did you take him?”

“Bit o’ cake. Few cigs. No booze, no drugs — nothin’ like that. You can’t get away with much there.”

“Can you get away with anything there?”

She leaned forward again and smiled as she drew deeply on her cigarette. “Perhaps I could have done if I’d tried.”

“Could he give you anything? To take out?”

“Well, nothin’ he shouldn’t. Just as strict about that as the other way round. We all sat at tables, you know, and they were watchin’ us all the time — all the screws. You’d be lucky to get away with anythin’.”

But Lewis knew that it was all a little too pat, this easy interchange. Things got in, and things got out — every prison was the same; and everybody knew it. Including this woman. And for the first time Lewis sensed that Strange was probably right: that the letter received by Thames Valley Police had been written by Harry Repp at Bullingdon Prison, handed to one of his visitors, and posted somewhere outside — at Lower Swinstead, say.

For whatever reason.

But as yet Lewis couldn’t identify such a reason.

“Did Harry ever ask you to take anything out of prison?”

“Come off it! What’d he got in there to take out?”

“Letters perhaps?” suggested Lewis quietly.

“If he’d forgotten some address. Not often, though.”

“To some of his old cronies?”

“Crooks, you mean?”

“That’s what I’m asking you, I suppose.”

“Few letters, yes. He didn’t want them people in there lookin’ through everythin’ he wrote. Nobody would.”

“So you occasionally took one away?”

“Not difficult, was it? Just slip it in your handbag.”

“What was the last one you took out?”

“Can’t remember.”

“I think you can.” Lewis was surprised with the firm tone of his own voice.

“No, I can’t. Just told you, didn’t I?” (Yet another cigarette.)

“Please don’t lie to me. You see, I know you posted a letter at Lower Swinstead. Harry’d asked you to post it there because he thought — he was wrong as it turned out — that it would be postmarked from there.”

For the first time in the interview, Debbie Richardson seemed unsure of herself, and Lewis pressed home his perceptible advantages.

“How did you get to Lower Swinstead, by the way?”

“Only three or four miles—”

“You walked?”

“No, I drove—” She stopped herself. But the words, in Homeric phrase, had escaped the barrier of her teeth.

“Didn’t you say you couldn’t drive?”

“Lied to you, didn’t I?”

“Why? Why lie to me?”

“I get used to it, that’s why.” She leaned forward across the table. And Lewis saw for certain what he had already suspected for semicertain — that she wore no bra beneath her dress; probably no knickers, either.

“How often do you go to the pub there, the Maiden’s Arms?”

“Often as I can.”

“Not in the car, I hope?”

“Sometimes get a lift there — you know, if somebody rings.”

“When were you there last?”

“When I posted the letter.”

“Open all day, is it?”

“What’s all this quizzin’ about?”

“Just that my boss’ll be interested, that’s all.”

“You’re all alike, you bloody coppers!”

It seemed a strange reply, and Lewis looked puzzled.

“Pardon?”

“What you just asked me — about the pub bein’ open all day. Exactly what the other fellow asked.”

“What other fellow?”

“Can’t remember his name. So what? Can’t remember yours, come to that.”

“When was this?”

“Last night. Asked me out for a drink, didn’t he? I reckon he fancied me a little bit. But I was already—”

“ From the police, you say?”

“That’s what he said.”

“You didn’t check?”

Debbie Richardson shrugged her shoulders. “Nice he was — sort o’ well educated. Know what I mean?”

“You can’t recall his name?”

“No, sorry. Tell you one thing though, Sergeant, er...”

“Lewis.”

“Had a lovely car, he did. Been nice it would — ridin’ round in that. A Jag — maroon-colored Jag.”