Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

chapter thirty-four Sunt lacrimae re rum ct mentem mort aha tangunt

(Always in life are there tears being shed for things, and human suffering

ever touches the heart) (Virgil, Ameid, I, I.  462) As she opened the door,

the recently re-applied blonde dye showed little or no trace of the hair's

brunette inheritance.

"Oh, hullo."  The greeting was less than enthusiastic.

"May I come in?"  asked Morse.

Apart from the minimal towel held in front of her body, she was naked: "Just

wait there a sec I'll just.  .."

She re-closed the door and Morse stood, as she had bidden, on the threshold.

Stood there for a couple of minutes.  And when she re-opened the door and

re-appeared, it puzzled him that in such a comparatively long time she had

done little other than to exchange the white towel for an equally minimal

white dressing gown.

They sat opposite each other in the kitchen.

"Drink?"  she ventured.

"No.  I've had a busy day on the drink."

"That good or bad?"

"Bit of both."

"Mind if I have one?"

"Can you wait?  Just a minute?"

"It's about Harry, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"He's dead, isn't he?"

"He's been murdered," said Morse flatly.

Debbie Richardson leaned forward on her elbows, the long fingers with their

crimson nails vertically veiling her features.  Then after a while she got to

her feet and turned to the sink, where she moulded her hands into a shallow

receptacle under the cold tap.

As they had spoken at the kitchen table.  Morse had observed (how otherwise?

) that whatever else Debbie Richardson had done behind the closed front door

she had certainly not been searching for a bra; and now, as she leaned

forward and held her face in the water, he observed (how otherwise?  ) that

she'd had no thought for any knickers either.  A provocative prick- teaser,

that was what she was.  Morse knew it; had known it when they'd met that once

before.  But for the moment his mind was many furlongs from fornication .  .

.

He felt fairly sure that she'd been upstairs when he'd rung the bell, for the

light had been on in the front bedroom with the night now drawing in.  Yet

she'd answered the door very quickly, almost immediately in fact.  Whoever

the caller was, had she wished to give the impression to someone that she'd

been downstairs all the while?

It seemed a bit odd.  After all, he could well have been a Jehovah's Witness

or an equally dreaded member of the Mormons or a charity-worker bearing an

envelope.  Quite certainly though she hadn't rushed down the stairs from a

bath, since about her was none of that freshly scented aura of a woman

recently risen from her toilet.

Rather perhaps (although Morse was no connoisseur in such matters) it was the

musky odour of sex that lingered around her.

Whilst she had stood silently at the sink, he had strained his ears as acutely

as any astronomer waiting for the faintest bleep from outer space.  But of

any other presence in the house the re had been no sound at all; no sight at

all either, except for the two unwashed wine glasses that stood on the

draining board, a heel-tap of red in each of them.  And Morse guessed 59

that Debbie Richardson would never have taken the slightest risk of Claret

and intercourse that day with anyone unless it were with Harry Repp.  And it

couldn't have been with Harry Repp .  .  .  Yet she may well have been

tempted, this flaunting, raunchy woman who now dried her face and turned back

to Morse; could certainly have been tempted if one of her admirers had called

that evening for whatever reason and if she had already known that Harry Repp

was dead.

Morse watched her almost disinterestedly as she returned to the table.

"Shall I pour you that drink now?"  he asked.

"Only if you'll join me."

Quite extraordinarily.  Morse gave the impression that he was quite

extraordinarily sober; and he poured their drinks gin (hers), whisky (his) -

with only a carefully camouflaged shake of the right hand.

Quietly, as gently as he could, he told her almost as much as he knew of what

had happened that day; and of the help that immediately awaited her should

she so need it: advice, comfort, counselling .  .  .

But she shook her head.  She'd be better off with sleepin' pills than with

all that stuff.  She needed nothin' of that.  She'd be copin' OK, given a

chance.  Independent, see?  Never wanted to share any worryin' with anyone.

Loner most of her life, she'd been; ever since she'd been a teenager .  .  .

A tear ran hurriedly down her right cheek, and Morse handed her a

handkerchief he'd washed and ironed himself.

"We ought to ring your GP: it's the usual thing."

She blew her nose noisily and wiped the moisture from her eyes.  You go now.

I'll be fine.  "

"We'll need a statement from you soon."

"Course."

"You'll stay here ..  .?"

Before she could reply the phone rang, and she moved into the hallway to

answer it.

"Hello?"  "You've got the wrong number."

"You've got the -wrong number."

Had she replaced the receiver with needless haste?  Morse didn't know.

"Not one of those obscene calls?"

"No."

"Best to be on the safe side, though."  Giving her no chance to obstruct his