Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

had guided his training in photography, fingerprinting, forensic labelling,

and the meticulous procedure vital to all in-situ investigations.

Edwards had introduced himself immediately to the plain- clothed Sergeant

Lewis, obviously the man in charge: yet perhaps only temporarily in charge,

since (as Edwards guessed) it would only be a matter of time before some more

senior-ranking officer would put in an appearance -just as he himself was

awaiting Bill Flowers, the senior SOCO, a man who had seen everything in

life.  As he, Barry Edwards, hadn't.  Not yet.  For the moment, however, the

appropriate procedure had been applied, with blue-and-white police ribbon

cordoning off an area containing three cars, noses all to the wall: R

456 LJB;

to its left, a grey H-Reg Citroen; to its right a dark-blue P-Reg Rover the

owner of the latter (just arrived) making a statement to one of two uniformed

PCs summoned from the St Aldate's Station.  No effort had as yet been made to

disperse the growing band of curious onlookers who stood in silent, hopeful

expectation of some gruesome discovery.  Things were happening, though.

Flowers arrived just before the other two SO COs and soon everything would be

ready, once they got the word from someone.  Doubtless the same someone

awaited by Sergeant Lewis, the latter a man with 'under authority' written

all over his honest and slightly worried features.

But there was a frustrating twenty-minute wait before the 'authority' put in

his appearance, stepping from the back of a 147

 marked police car with a

marked un suppleness of limb, the slate-grey suit decidedly rumpled, the

tell-tale crease around the waistband betokening an increase in girth over

recent months.  A white-haired man, of medium height, his face of a

pale-olive colour, as if perhaps he had spent a holiday of less than

uninterrupted sunshine in Torremolinos, or was suffering from incipient

jaundice.  But his voice was that of someone who demanded immediate attention

like another voice that Edwards once had known, that of his old Latin master.

Vox auctoritatis.

Lewis had approached the newcomer, and the two were in brief conversation

before coming over to the others.  Chief Inspector Morse (for such was he)

appeared to recognize the other SO COs and nodded briefly as he was

introduced to the youngest member of the team.

"Hello, Edwards!"  He'd said nothing more, and Edwards gathered that the

Chief Inspector was not a convert to the currently widespread practice of

everyone addressing everyone - superiors, equals, and subordinates alike by

their Christian names.  Yet he seemed a pleasant enough fellow, now surveying

the scene with a keen if somewhat melancholy eye, while the SOCO team began

to put on their green boiler suits and over boots

"Anyone touched anything?"

"No more than we needed to, sir."  (It was Lewis who replied.  ) Morse looked

again at the car for some lingering while the car he'd followed when Harry

Repp had turned his back on Bullingdon.  Then he lifted his eyes, and looked,

again for some lingering while, at the pub sign of the Rosie O'Grady.

Bill Flowers was standing beside him.

"All yours!"  pronounced Morse.

"Car's locked."

"How do you know?"

"Door catches all in the locked position."

Morse pressed a hand down on the near side front handle.

"Don't !"  But Rowers checked his admonition in mid-voice.

"You're right.  Any of your lads here ever a juvenile car thief?"

"I know somebody who was."

"Where's he live?"

"Silverstone."

Morse turned to Lewis.

Give Johnson a ring.  "

"Know his number?"

"Saturday afternoon?  He'll be in the Summertown bookie's."

"It's long gone afternoon, sir."

"Ah!"

"There'll be a Local Directory in the pub."

"You won't find him listed.  They've cut his phone off."

"So how ?"

"He'll be in the Dew Drop if he's won a few quid."

"Perhaps he's not won a few quid."

"He'll still be in the Dew Drop."

"Do you know the number?"

"Get me a mobile!"  snapped Morse.

Edwards watched as Morse turned his back on his col- leagues, tapped out a

number, and spoke sotto voce into the mouthpiece for a while, before blasting

out fortissimo: "Well, just tell him to get here on the bloody bus and get

here bloody quickV Yet this order was not obeyed with either accuracy or

immediacy, since there was a further twenty-minute wait before a rusting

A-Reg Ford pulled up on the main road outside the Rosie O'Grady, whence

emerged from the passenger seat a sparely built, nondescript man, in his late

forties, a self-rolled cigarette dangling from a thin mouth that even from a

few yards exuded the reek of strong, excessive alcohol.

"Mr Morse?"

The latter pointed to the car.

"Fee, is there?"

^9

 "Just open it, Malcolm!"  (Edwards was surprised with the Christian-name

address.  ) The key-wizard made no further remonstradon as he winched a bunch

of skeleton-keys and bits of wire from his right-hand trouser-pocket.

Then, turning his back on his expectant audience, he surveyed the problem

synoptic ally Like Capablanca contemplating his next move in the World Chess

Championship.