Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

"If only you'd concentrated on that car, Lewis, and forgotten all about the

bus!"

"I just don't understand why you're so interested in the car.  Repp was on

the bus."

"So you keep saying," said Morse quietly.

"But you're not right, are you?  Repp wasn't on the bus."

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 "Not when he got to Oxford, no."

"You lost him.  You might as well face it."

Lewis drained his orange juice.  Yep!  I agree.  I lost him.  And that's

exactly why I need a bit of help.  "

"Like the number of that car, you mean?"

"I think you're having me on about that."

"Oh no.  And if you think it'll help .  .  ."

Morse took out his pen and pushed his empty glass across the table: "Your

round!  And pass me your notebook."

A minute later, Lewis stared down at Morse's small, neat handwriting:

R456 LJB

And incredulity vied with amazement in his face as Morse continued quietly:

"You know, you weren't your usual sharp self this morning, were you?  You

failed to observe the car in front of you and you failed to observe the car

behind you."

"You you don't mean .  .  .?"

"I do mean, yes.  I was right behind you this morning.  But being the

law-abiding citizen I am, I instructed my driver to keep an appropriately

safe distance from the vehicle in front."

"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

THE REMORSEFUL

DAY

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!"

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 "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 towards 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

mid-thirties, 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