“Barron’s phone calls, you mean? No luck there?”
“No. Change of BT office, change of procedure, change of monitoring, files reclassified... no hope! Wouldn’t help anyway. All Barron said was that he’d rung her and the number was engaged; and then rung her again and the call wasn’t answered. Neat, wasn’t it? No record of anything.”
“He was lying, you think?”
“Yes.”
“What about the burglar alarm?”
“Thunderstorm, possibly — that sets ‘em off.”
“There wasn’t a thunderstorm that night.”
“No? Probably a cat then — they set ‘em off too.”
“They hadn’t got a cat.”
“Oh.”
Strange lumbered to his feet. “Look! You surely don’t still think Barron’s your man, do you?”
Morse smiled. “Don’t I?”
Chapter fifty
I can’t tell a lie — not even when I hear one.
In the world of detective fiction, alibis are frequently concocted in order to mystify the reader. In what is called the “real” world they usually provide an invaluable method of eliminating a few runners in an already limited field, thereby affording the police a better prospect of backing the likely winner. For (except in Morse’s mind) an alibi is an alibi: if someone is seen in one place at one particular time, it seems highly improbable that this same someone may be seen in some other place at the same time. Yet it is sometimes difficult adequately to corroborate an alibi — viz, that plea of the criminal to have been in another place at the material time; and alibis may well be doubted, closely checked, and indeed, on occasion, be spectacularly broken.
This in various ways.
It is highly unlikely, for example, that a well-focused video camera will be in operation in that first particular place; and even if it is, some smart electronic alec may well be able to doctor the evidence. Almost always, therefore, corroboration will depend on the testimony of eyewitnesses who, even if honest, can be the victims of tricks of memory over times and sightings; or on the testimony of witnesses who are dishonest, and are willing to fabricate falsehoods — for friends, perhaps, or for a fee. The alibi problem is further complicated by the confident assertion of some mystic sects that one can, in fact, be in two places simultaneously, although the police are grateful that such bizarre beliefs are currently not widely embraced.
Morse himself championed the view that all alibis should probably be ignored in the first instance, on the not illogical grounds that if just one of them were suspect, it was sensible to assume that all of them were...
Such views (with variants) Sergeant Lewis had heard several times before, and it was therefore with some diffidence that he broached the subject the following morning.
“Don’t you reckon it would be a good idea to get all these alibis sorted out a bit clearer?”
“A bit more clearly, Lewis.”
“The night Mrs. Harrison was murdered, the morning Flynn and Repp were murdered—”
“And don’t forget Monday morning.”
“Barron, you mean? You surely don’t still think—?” Morse held up his right hand in surrender. “You’re right, perhaps. Let’s make a list. Well, you make a list. Ready?”
He steepled his slim fingers in front of him and stared into the middle distance, though with little observable enthusiasm in his eyes:
“Frank Harrison
Simon Harrison
Sarah Harrison
Harry Repp
John Barron...”
“That’s the short list?”
Morse nodded.
“OK. First I’ll recheck where they all were, or where they were all supposed to be, first when Mrs. Harrison—”
“Already been done. You’ve read the files.”
“Weren’t checked very thoroughly though, some of ‘em.”
“Long time ago, Lewis. People forget or want to forget or pretend to forget.”
“A day like that though, when she was murdered? Biggest day in village history. Everybody remembers where they were, like when Kennedy was assassinated.”
“Nonsense, Lewis! People remember where they were and what they were doing at the time they heard of things like that. Agreed. But what else? Do you remember what you were doing for the rest of the day when Kennedy was shot? Do you?”
“No. I take your point, sir.”
“Who are you thinking of particularly?”
“Well the family got away with some pretty flimsy alibis, didn’t they? Especially Simon and Sarah. No one seems to have checked them much at all.”
“Ye-es.”
“Simon said he got home from work about a quarter past five, had a meal, then went down to the ABC cinema in George Street to see The Full Monty. Still had his ticket if I remember rightly.”
Morse nodded and Lewis continued:
“Sarah? She was at a diabetes conference in the Radcliffe Infirmary that day — no doubt about that. And after it had finished she went over the road to the Royal Oak for a drink with a few friends — no doubt about that either — and then left for her flat in Jericho at about a quarter to seven, where she listened to The Archers, had a long hot bath, watched the Nine O’Clock News, and then had an early night.”
“Making no mention in the course of her evidence that she had a phone call in the middle of the evening, as a result of which she tore down to the ABC Cinema, bought a ticket for The Full Monty—”
“Probably no seats left that night, sir.”
“—bought a ticket and promptly tore it across the middle and then tore out of the place—”
“Sir! Not so much of this tearing about all over the shop! She’d sprained her ankle just before then and she’d probably be hobbling—”
“—she hobbled out of the cinema with a very valuable little alibi in her pretty little hand.”
“Alibi for Simon, you mean?”
“Or for herself.”
“You’re losing me again, sir.”
“I’m losing myself. Don’t worry.”
“What about Frank Harrison?”
“You tell me!”
“Well, anyone who finds the body first is usually going to be number one in your book, I know that. But there’s no doubt about Paddy Flynn being on taxi shift from 8 P.M. that night. He was seen on and off by his fellow drivers as well as being contacted at regular intervals from base. No doubt either about him picking up Frank Harrison about eleven from Oxford railway station. But that’s not to say — is it, sir? — that Harrison had just got off a train at the railway station. It would be the most natural thing in the world for anyone to think he had, but...”
Morse smiled. “Could hardly have put it better myself. But somebody paid Flynn for something. So it was probably for something that happened after eleven o’clock. And there was only one person with Flynn then: Frank Harrison. And he’s the only one of the whole bunch with the sort of money to buy Flynn off.”
“And buy Repp off, if we’re right about him being there that night. Harrison must be earning, well...”
“A little more than you are, Lewis, yes. In fact he got a bonus — a bonus — of £85,000 last year. Seems he was sorting out his bank’s involvement in the Nazi confiscation of Jewish assets, and his bosses were more than pleased with him.”
“How on earth do you know that?”
“Aren’t we supposed to be detectives?”