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 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 toward 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 tire 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 uncommunicatively 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 Kidlington 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 toward 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 toward 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, 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 reopening of the Harrison inquiries. 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.
Chapter eighteen
Any fool can tell the truth; but it requires a man of some sense to know how to lie well.
Lewis knew what he must do as soon as he saw Morse’s maroon Jaguar parked in its wonted place.
“Still 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 of 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. She picked him up somewhere — that’s for certain. Most of these people released from the nick have somebody to pick ‘em up.”