The Remorseful Day

Chapter fifty-three

For Morse, that early evening followed much the same old pattern: same sort of bundle of ideas abounding in his brain; same impatience to reach that final, wonderfully satisfying, penny-dropping moment of insight; same old pessimism about the future of mankind; same old craving for a dram of Scotch that could make the world, at least for a while, a kindlier and a happier place; same old chauffeur — Lewis.

It was just after 6:30 P.M. when they were shown up a spiral flight of rickety stairs to the small office immediately above the bar of the Maiden’s Arms. Around the walls, several framed diplomas paid tribute to the landlord’s expertise and the cleanliness of his kitchen, although the untidy piles of letters and forms that littered the desk suggested a less than methodical approach to the hostelry’s paperwork.

“Quick snifter, Inspector?”

“Later, perhaps.”

“Mind if I, er...?” Biffen reached behind him and poured out a liberal tot of Captain Morgan. “You make me feel nervous!” Knocking back the neat rum in a single swallow, he smacked his lips crudely: “Ahh!”

“Royal or Merchant?” asked Morse.

“Bit o’ both.” But Biffen seemed disinclined to discuss his earlier years at sea and came to the point immediately: “How can I help you, gentlemen?”

So Morse told him: for the moment the village seemed to be at the center of almost everything; and the pub was at the center of village life and gossip; and the landlord was always going to be at the center of the pub; so if...

For Lewis, Morse’s subsequent interrogation seemed (indeed, was) aimless and desultory.

But Biffen had little to tell.

Of course the villagers had talked — still talked — talked all the time except when that media lot or the police came round. No secret, though, that the locals knew enough about Mrs. H.’s occasional and more than occasional liaisons; no secret that they listened with prurient interest to the rumors, the wilder and whackier the better, concerning Mrs. H.’s sexual predilections.

It was left to Lewis to cover the crucial questions concerning alibis.

The day of Mrs. H.’s murder? Tuesday, that was. And Tuesday was always a special day — a sacrosanct sort of day. (He’d mentioned it earlier.) His one day off in the week when he refused to have anything at all to do with cellarage, bar-tending, pub meals — fuck ‘em all! Secretary of the Oxon Pike Anglers’ Association, he was. Had been for the past five years. Labor of love! And every Tuesday during the fishing season he was out all day, dawn to dusk. Back late, almost always, though he couldn’t say exactly when that day. No one had questioned him at the time. Why should they? He’d pretty certainly have met a few of his fellow anglers but... what the hell was all this about anyway? Was he suddenly on the suspect list? After all this time?

Thomas Biffen’s eyes had hardened; and looking across at the brawny tattooed arms, the ex-boxer Sergeant Lewis found himself none too anxious ever to confront the landlord in a cul-de-sac.

Biffen was a family man? Well, yes and no, really. He’d been married — still was, in the legal sense. But his missus had gone off four years since, taking their two children with her: Joanna, aged three at the time, and Daniel, aged two. He still regularly gave her some financial support; always sent his kids something for their birthdays and Christmas. But that side of things had never been much of a problem. She was living with this fellow in Weston-super-Mare — fellow she’d known a long time — the same fellow in fact she’d buggered off with when they’d broken up.

“Whose fault was that?” asked Morse quietly.

Biffen shrugged. “Bit o’ both, usually, innit?”

“She’d been seeing someone else?”

Biffen nodded.

“Had you been seeing someone else?”

Biffen nodded.

“Someone local.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

It was Morse’s turn to shrug.

“Well... chap’s got to get his oats occasionally, Inspector.”

“Mrs. Harrison?”

Biffen shook his head. “Wouldna minded, though!”

“Mrs. Barron?”

“Linda? Huh! Not much chance there — with him around? SAS man, he was. Probably slice your prick off if he copped you mucking around with his missus.”

Lewis found himself recalling the photograph of the confident-looking young militiaman.

“Debbie Richardson?” suggested Morse.

“Most people’ve had a bit on the side with her.”

“You called yourself occasionally? While Harry was inside?”

“Once or twice.”

“Including the day after he was murdered.”

“Only to take a bottle — I told you that.”

“You fancied her?”

“Who wouldn’t? Once she’s got the hots on...”

Morse appeared to have lost his way, and it was Lewis who completed the questioning: “Where were you earlier on the Friday when Flynn and Repp were murdered?”

“In the morning? Went into Oxford shopping. Not much luck, though. Tried to get a couple of birthday presents. You’d hardly credit it, but both o’ my kids were born the same day — 3rd o’ September.”

“Real coincidence.”

“Depends which way you look at it, Sergeant. Others’d call it precision screwing, wouldn’t they?”

It was a crude remark, and Morse’s face was a study in distaste as Biff en continued: “Couldn’t find anything in the shops though, could I? So I sent their mum a check instead.”

Downstairs, it was far too early for any brisk activity; but three of the regulars were already foregathered there, to each of whom Biffen proffered a customary greeting.

“Evening, Mr. Bagshaw! Evening, Mr. Blewitt!”

One of the warring partners allowed himself a perfunctory nod, but the other was happily intoning a favorite passage from the cribbage litany: “Fifteen-two; fifteen-four; two’s six; three’s nine; and three’s twelve!”

With an “Evening, Mr. Thomas!” the landlord had completed his salutations.

In response, the youth pressed the start button yet again, his eyes keenly registering the latest alignment of the symbols on the fruit machine.

“Now! What’s it to be, gentlemen? On the house, of course.”

“Pint of bitter,” said Morse, “and an orange juice. Want some ice in it, Lewis?”

A bored-looking barmaid folded up the Mirror and pulled the hand-pump on the Burton Ale.