The Remorseful Day

Chapter thirty

As Lewis drove up to HQ, one particular thought was troubling him — as it often had: the marked inferiority of his own mental processes compared with those of the man he had just left; the man who was doubtless now sleeping off the effects of what had been (even for Morse) a hyper-alcoholic afternoon. It wasn’t that his own processes were necessarily all that much slower; just that they seemed always to leave the starting blocks way after Morse had sprinted on ahead. Obviously (Lewis knew it!) innate intelligence was a big factor in everything: the speed of perception and understanding, the analysis of data, the linkage of things. But there was something else: the knack of prospective thinking, of looking ahead and asking oneself the right questions, as well as the wrong questions, about what was likely to happen in the future; and then of coming up with some answers, be they right or wrong.

So frequently in previous cases had Morse led him along, and by prompting the right questions evinced the right sort of answers. “Socratic dialectic,” Morse had called it, recounting how Socrates had managed to elicit from a totally untutored slave boy the basic principles of plane geometry — just by asking the right questions.

So.

So, in his office that early evening, Lewis visualized himself seated opposite Morse — opposite Socrates, rather.

You’ve got to find the car, haven’t you? The car that dumped the body? Where will you find it?

I don’t know.

Where would you have driven that car?

I don’t know. Anywhere, I suppose.

Isn’t there blood everywhere? Blood all over your clothes?

Yes.

Haven’t you got to change your clothes then?

Yes.

So you couldn’t just leave the car anywhere, could you? You couldn’t walk too far all covered in blood?

No.

So where would you go?

I’d go home, like as not.

Before, or after, you’d ditched the car?

Before, probably, although...

Go on!

Might be a bit risky. Neighbors would probably notice the strange car. Might even notice the bloodstained clothes.

What’s the alternative for you?

Well, get someone to meet me somewhere and bring me a full change of clothes.

Where would you meet?

Anywhere. How do I know. Except...

Go on!

If we met in a lay-by, say, I’d have to leave the car there, wouldn’t I? I couldn’t get back in and get the new clothes almost as bloodstained as the old. And the car would pretty certainly get reported almost immediately. So...

So?

So I’d have somebody to meet me. Friend? Wife, perhaps?

Where do you meet?

I don’t know.

You do know. You know the Chesterton story — I’ve often mentioned it.

Remind me.

Where do you hide a leaf?

Ah, yes. In the forest.

Where do you hide a pebble?

On the shore.

Where do you hide a corpse?

On the battlefield.

And where do you hide a car?

In a car park.

Which car park?

I don’t know.

The bigger the better?

Yes.

In Oxford?

Probably.

How many car parks are there in Oxford?

Dozens.

If you’d committed a murder near Oxford, what would you want to do above all?

Get the hell out of the place.

How?

Drive away.

You haven’t got a car now, have you?

Bus?

Where’s the bus station?

Gloucester Green.

Isn’t there a car park opposite?

Yes.

And you could catch a train?

Yes.

Isn’t there a station car park opposite?

Yes...

As he drove down toward Oxford, Lewis felt pleased with himself, and just after he’d negotiated the Cutteslowe roundabout he was tempted to call in on Morse. But he put the temptation behind him. He felt fairly certain that the great man would be asleep.

And on this occasion he was right.

Instead, he decided to continue the Socratic dialogue, though this time installing himself as Chief Inquisitor and making the far bolder hypothesis that if only the blurred outlines of the anonymous murderer could be adjusted more sharply, it was Harry Repp who would come into focus.

Don’t you think it would be easier, sir, for Debbie Richardson to take a change of clothes to him? Wouldn’t it be dangerous for him to go out to Lower Swinstead?

I don’t know, Lewis.

I asked you two questions.

I don’t know. I don’t know.

What do you think Harry Repp did?

I just don’t know.

What about the car? Where’s that? Come on! Back your hunch!

The car? Oh, I know where the car is, Lewis. It’s parked at the back of Oxford Railway Station.