“I just don’t believe this. I just don’t understand.”
“Easy, really. I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to keep an eye on our Mr. Repp, just like Strange did. So I rang up the prison Governor, an old friend of mine, and told him what I was intending to do; and he said there was no need because he’d had a call from Strange setting up your surveillance. So I just told him to forget it — told him we’d got some crossed wires — came out in an unmarked car, like you did — parked in the visitors’ area — listened to Mahler’s Eighth — and watched and waited. And took a flask of coffee — yes, coffee, Lewis — and the rest is history.”
“You’re having me on!”
“Oh no! How the hell do you think I could give you that car number unless I’d seen the bloody thing? You don’t think I’m psychic or something, do you?”
Lewis reflected on this extraordinary new development. Then slowly formulated his thoughts aloud. “You saw the car in front of me. You saw who was in it and what was in it—”
“Black plastic bags, yes. You were right.”
“—and you saw the Registration Number.”
“Only just. You know, I’ll have to see an optician soon.”
“You told me off for saying ‘you know’,” snapped Lewis.
Morse curled his right hand lovingly round his beer glass. “Sometimes, you don’t fully appreciate my help, you know.”
Lewis let it go. “And you knew the car went into Bicester, to the bus station. You knew it all the time.”
“Yes.”
“So when I went to get a paper you saw Repp get out of the bus and get into the car. But you didn’t tell me — oh no! You just left me to go on a wild goose chase after the bus. Well, thank you very much.”
For a while Morse was silent. Then: “How many times have I been to the Gents this morning?”
“Twice since you’ve been here.”
“Six times in all, Lewis! And the reason for such embarrassingly frequent retirements is not any lack of bladder control. It’s those diuretic pills they’ve put me on.”
The light slowly dawned; and Sergeant Lewis suddenly looked a happy man. “The thermos, sir? Three cups of coffee in that, say?”
Morse nodded. Not a happy man.
“So when you got to Bicester bus station you were dying for a leak and you saw the Gents’ loo there, and when you came out — the car was gone. Right?”
Reluctantly Morse nodded once more. “And we followed you, you and the bus, back to Oxford.”
A gleeful Lewis looked as if he’d won the Lottery. “You really should have kept your eyes on that car, sir!”
“You mean the black R-reg Peugeot, Lewis? You were right, by the way: £19,950 licensed and on the road, so they inform me. Not far off, were you?”
“And the owner?”
“Some insurance broker in Gerrard’s Cross reported it missing two days ago.”
Chapter twenty-one
BURMA (Be Undressed Ready My Angel)
(An acronym frequently printed on the backs of envelopes posted to sweethearts by servicemen about to go on leave, or by prisoners about to be released.)
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?”