Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

kitchen.  She was not by any standards a beautiful woman; 91

 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

un pleasingly 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, in nit 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 anythin'?  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 everythin' 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?"

She leaned forward again and smiled as she drew deeply on her cigarette.

"Perhaps I could have done if I'd tried."

93

 "Could he give you anything?  To take out?"

"Well, nothin' he shouldn't.  Just as strict about that as the other way

round.  We all sat at tables, you know, and they were watchin' us all the

time all the screws.  You'd be lucky to get away with anythin'."

But Lewis knew that it was all a little too pat, this easy interchange.

Things got in, and things got out every prison was the same; and everybody

knew it.  Including this woman.  And for the first time Lewis sensed that

Strange was probably right: that the letter received by Thames Valley Police

had been written by Harry Repp at Bullingdon Prison, handed to one of his

visitors, and posted somewhere outside at Lower Swinstead, say.

For whatever reason.

But as yet Lewis couldn't identify such a reason.

"Did Harry ever ask you to take anything out of prison?"

"Come off it!  What'd he got in there to take out?"

"Letters perhaps?"  suggested Lewis quietly.

"If he'd forgotten some address.  Not often, though."

"To some of his old cronies?"

"Crooks, you mean?"

"That's what I'm asking you, I suppose."

"Few letters, yes.  He didn't want them people in there lookin' through

everythin' he wrote.  Nobody would."

"So you occasionally took one away?"

"Not difficult, was it?  Just slip it in your handbag."

"What was the last one you took out?"

"Can't remember."

"I think you can."  Lewis was surprised with the firm tone of his own voice.

"No, I can't.  Just told you, didn't I?"  (Yet another cigarette.  ) "Please

don't lie to me.  You see, I know you posted a letter at Lower Swinstead.

Harry'd asked you to post it there because he thought he was wrong as it

turned out that it would be postmarked from there."

For the first time in the interview, Debbie Richardson seemed unsure of

herself, and Lewis pressed home his perceptible advantages.

"How did you get to Lower Swinstead, by the way?"

"Only three or four miles--' " You walked?  "

"No, I drove--' She stopped herself.  But the words, in Homeric phrase, had

escaped the barrier of her teeth.

"Didn't you say you couldn't drive?"

"Lied to you, didn't I?"

"Why?  Why lie to me?"