The Remorseful Day

Chapter thirty-five

At 9:20 A.M. on Monday, July 27, as he sat in the outpatients’ lounge at the Oxford Diabetes Centre at the Radcliffe Infirmary, Morse reflected on the uncoordinated, hectic inquiries which had occupied many of his colleagues for the whole of the previous day. He had himself made no contribution whatsoever to the accumulating data thus garnered, suffering as he was from one long horrendous hangover. Because of this, he had most solemnly abjured all alcohol for the rest of his life; and indeed had made a splendid start to such long-term abstinence until early evening, when his brain told him that he was never going to cope with the present case without recourse, in moderate quantities, to his faithful Glenfiddich.

Several key facts now seemed reasonably settled. Paddy Flynn had been knifed to death at around noon the previous Friday; Harry Repp had died in very similar fashion about two or three hours later. Flynn had probably died instantaneously. Repp had met a slower end, almost certainly dying from the outpouring of blood that so copiously had covered the earlier blood in the back of the car, and quite certainly had been dead when someone, somewhere, had lugged the messy corpse into the boot of the same car. No sign of any weapon; only blood blood blood. And, of course, prints galore — far too many of them — subimposed, imposed, and superimposed everywhere. The vehicle’s owner had allowed his second wife and his three stepchildren regular access to his latest supercharged model, and fingerprint elimination was going to be a lengthy business. Even lengthier perhaps would be the analysis by boffins back at Forensics of the hairs and threads collected on the sticky strips the SOCOs had taped over every square centimeter of the vehicle’s upholstery.

Yet in spite of so many potential leads, Morse felt dubious (as did Dr. Hobson) about their actual value. Too many cooks could spoil the broth, and too many crooks could easily spoil an investigation. For the moment, it was a question of waiting.

As Morse was waiting in the waiting room now...

On the day before, the Sunday, Morse had woken up, literally and metaphorically, to the fact that he should have been keeping an accurate record of his blood-sugar levels for the previous month. Thus it was that he had taken four such readings that day: 12.2; 9.9; 22.6; 16.4. Although realizing that he could never hope for an average anywhere near the 4–5 range normal for nondia-betic people, he was nevertheless somewhat disturbed by his findings, and immediately halved that very high third reading to 11.3. Then he’d extrapolated backward as intelligently as he could for the previous six days, with the result that a reasonably satisfactory set of readings, neatly tabulated in his small handwriting, was now folded inside his blue appointment card.

He was ready.

He had finally managed to produce a “specimen,” although inaccuracy of aim had resulted in a puddle on the unisexloo’s floor; and the dreaded weighing-in was over.

And so was the waiting.

“Mr. Morse?”

The white-coated, slimly attractive brunette led the way to a consulting room, her name, black lettering on a white card, on the door: DR. SARAH HARRISON.

“You knew my mother a bit, I believe,” she said as she opened a buff-colored folder.

Morse nodded, but made no comment.

A quarter of an hour later the medical side of matters was over. Morse had not attempted to be overly clever. Just short and reasonably honest in his replies.

“These readings — are they genuine?”

“Partly, yes.”

“You could lose a stone or two, you know.”

“I agree.”

“But you won’t.”

“Probably not.”

“How’s the drink going?”

“Rather too quickly.”

“It’s your liver, you know.”

“Yes.”

“Any problems with sex?”

“I’ve always had problems with sex.”

“You know what I mean — sex drive...?”

“I’m a bachelor.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Just that I lead a reasonably celibate life.”

“It is my job to ask these questions, you understand that.”

The dark-brown eyes were growing progressively less angry as she examined his feet, and then his eyes. She had in fact virtually finished with him when a nurse knocked and entered the room, explaining swiftly that an outpatient had just fainted in Reception; and since for the minute Dr. Harrison was the only consultant there...

After she had left, Morse stepped quickly over to the desk and opened his own folder. On top lay a brief handwritten note:

And underneath it, a copy of a letter (Strictly Confidential) sent to the Summertown Health Centre and dated May 18, 1998.

Re Annual Review: E. Morse.

Morse was sitting, slowly pulling on his socks, when Sarah Harrison returned.

“I’ll tell you one thing: you’ve got quite nice feet.”

“I’m glad bits of me are OK.”

While tying his shoelaces, Morse had missed the look of quick intelligence in the large brown eyes.

“Bit sneaky, wasn’t it?” She held up the file.

Morse nodded. “Don’t worry, though. Professor Turner sent me a copy of that last letter.”

“Well, in that case, there’s not really much more...” She got to her feet.

“Please!” Morse signaled to the chair, and obediently she sat down again. “Why haven’t you mentioned the murders, Doctor? They’re all over the national papers.”

“I bought six of them yesterday, if you must know.”

“Your father? Your brother — Simon, isn’t it? Do they know?”

“I’ve not seen Simon recently.”

“You could have phoned him.”

“Simon is not the sort of person you phone. He’s deaf, very deaf — as you probably know anyway.”

“And your father?” repeated Morse.

“I... whether or not... Oddly enough I saw him last week. He came to stay with me for a couple of nights.”

“Which nights?”

“Wednesday and Thursday. He went back to London on Friday.”

“What time?”

“Is this the Inquisition?”

“It is my job to ask these questions, you understand that.”

“Touché! He caught the train — I’m not sure which one. He didn’t bring the car — nowhere to park in Oxford, is there?”

“Why didn’t you see him off?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Were you working?”

“No. I’d arranged to have Thursday and Friday off myself. Like Dad, I’d a few days’ holiday to make up.”

“So why not see him off?”

The eyes were fiery now. “I’ll tell you why. Because he took me out the previous night to Le Petit Blanc in Walton Street and we had a super meal and we had far too much booze — before, during, and after, all right? And I got as pissed as a tailed amphibian and tried to sleep things off with enough pills to frighten even you! And when I finally staggered downstairs — eleven? half-eleven? — I saw this note on the kitchen table: ‘Off back to London. Didn’t want to wake you. Love Dad’ — something like that.”

“Any time on the note?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Have you kept it?”

“Course I’ve not kept it! Hardly a specimen of purple prose, was it?”

“Don’t be cross with me,” said Morse gently as he got to his feet and left the consulting room — with two blue cards for more immediate and urgent blood tests, and with instructions to fix up a further appointment for eight weeks’ time.

After the door had closed behind him, Sarah dialed 9 for an outside line on the phone there; then called a number.

“Hullo? Hullo? Could you put me through to Simon Harrison, please?”