Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

"When I asked Sergeant Dixon where he thought the letter was posted, he

agreed with you: Lower Swinstead.  And when I showed him the postmark he said

it might still have been posted there, because he knew that some of the

letters from that part of the Cotswolds were brought to Oxford for franking.

So he went out and did a bit of leg-work, and he traced the fellow who did

the collections last week; and the postman remembered the envelope!

There'd only been three letters that day in the box, and he'd noticed one of

'em in particular.  Not surprising, eh?  So Dixon decided to test things,

just for his own satisfaction.  He addressed an envelope to himself and

posted it at Lower Swinstead.  "

Strange now produced a white unopened envelope and passed it across the desk.

It was addressed in red Biro to Sergeant Dixon at Police HQ Kidlington, the

pewter-gold first- class stamp cancelled with the same circular franking:

Strange paused for effect.

"Perhaps you ought to start eating doughnuts.  Morse."

"They won't let me have any sugar these days, sir."

67

 "There's no sugar in beer, you're saying?"

Lewis was expecting some semi-flippant, semi-prepared answer from his chief

something about balancing his intake of alcohol with his intake of insulin.

But Morse said nothing; just sat there staring at the intricate design upon

the carpet.

"One of these days, perhaps," persisted Strange quietly, 'you might revise

your opinion of Dixon

"Why not put him in charge of the case?  If you're still determined ' "

Steady on, Morse!  That's enough of that.  Just remember who you're talking

to.  And I'll tell you exactly why I'm not putting that idiot Dixon in

charge.  Because I've already put somebody else in charge you and Lewis!

Remember?  "

"Lewis maybe, sir, but I can't do it."

Feeling most uncomfortable during these exchanges, Lewis watched the colour

rise in Strange's cheeks as several times his mouth opened and closed like

that of a stranded goldfish.

"You do realize you've got little say in this matter.  Chief Inspector?  I am

not pleading with you to undertake an investigation for Thames Valley CID.

What I am doing, as your superior officer, is telling you that you've been

assigned to a particular duty.  That's all.  And that's enough."

"No.  It's not enough."

For several minutes the conversation continued in similar vein before Strange

delivered his diktat: "I see ..  .  Well, in that case ..  .  you give me no

option, do you?  I shall have to report this interview to the Chief Con-

stable.  And you know what that'll mean."

Morse rose slowly to his feet, signalling Lewis to do the same.

"I

don't think you're going to report this interview to the Chief Constable or

to the Assistant Chief Constable or to anyone else, for that matter, are you,

Superintendent Strange?  "

chapter sixteen The vilest deeds like poison weeds Bloom well in prison-air,

It is only what is good in Man That wastes anil withers there: Pale Anguish

keeps the heavy gate, And the warder is Despair (Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of

Reading Gaol) until comparatively recently, Harry Repp had associated the

word 'porridge' chiefly with the tide of the TV comedy series and not with

oatmeal stirred in boiling water.  For as long as he could remember, his

breakfasts had consisted of Corn Flakes covered successively '(as his

beer-gut had ballooned) with full, semi-skimmed, and finally the thinly

insipid fully skimmed varieties of milk.  It was his common-law wife, Debbie,

who'd insisted: 'you keep pouring booze into your belly every night and it's

low-fat milk for breakfast!  Under- stood?  "

So there'd been little choice, had there?  Until almost a year ago, when he

had come to realize that the TV title was wholly appropriate, with porridge

(occasionally ill-stirred in hike-warm water) providing the basic breakfast

diet for prison inmates.

Normally Repp would have accepted the proffered dollop of porridge; but he

asked only for two sausages and a spoonful of baked beans as he and his

co-prisoners from A Wing stood 69

 queuing at the food counter at 8 a.  m.

He had read that prisoners in the condemned cell were always given the break-

fast of their choice; but he felt he could himself have eaten little in such

circumstances with the twin spectres of death and terror so very close behind

him.  And even now, back in his cell, he managed only one mouthful of beans

before pushing his plate away from him.  He felt agitated and apprehensive,

although he found it difficult to account for such emotions.  After all, he

wasn't awaiting the Governor and the flunkey from the Home Office and the

Prison Chaplain .  .  and the Hangman.

Far from it.  It was that day, Friday 24 July, that was set for his release

from HM Prison, Bullingdon.

At 8.  35 a.  m.  " still in his prison clothing, he heard steps outside the

cell, heard his name called, and was on his feet immediately, picking up the

carrier bag in which he'd already placed his personal belongings: a

battered-looking radio, a few letters still in their grubby envelopes, and a