Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

nevertheless somewhat disturbed by his findings, and immediately halved that

very high third reading to 11.  3.  Then he'd extrapolated backwards as

intelligently as he could for the previous six days, with the result that a

reasonably satisfactory set of readings, neatly tabulated in his small

handwriting, was now folded inside his blue appointment-card.

He was ready.

He had finally managed to produce a 'specimen', although inaccuracy of aim

had resulted in a puddle on the unisex-loo's floor; and the dreaded

weighing-in was over.

And so was the waiting.

"Mr Morse?"

The white-coated, slimly attractive brunette led the way to a consulting

room, her name, black lettering on a white card, on the door: dr sarah

harrison.

"You knew my mother a bit, I believe," she said as she opened a buff-coloured

folder.

Morse nodded, but made no comment.

A quarter of an hour later the medical side of matters was over.

Morse had not attempted to be overly clever.  Just short and reasonably

honest in his replies.

"These readings are they genuine?"

"Partly, yes."

"You could lose a stone or two, you know."

"I agree."

"But you won't."

"Probably not."

"How's the drink going?"

"Rather too quickly."

"It's your liver, you know."

"Yes.  "

"Any problems with sex?"

"I've always had problems with sex."

"You know what I mean sex-drive ..  .  ?"

"I'm a bachelor."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Just that I lead a reasonably celibate life."

"It is my job to ask these questions, you understand that."

The dark-brown eyes were growing progressively less angry as she examined his

feet, and then his eyes.  She had in fact virtually finished with him when a

nurse knocked and entered the room, explaining swiftly that an out-patient

had just fainted in Reception; and since for the minute Dr Harrison was the

only consultant there .

                                      .

After she had left, Morse stepped quickly over to the desk and opened his own

folder.  On top lay a brief handwritten note:

 Don't be intimidated, Sarah!

He's hugely economical with the truth, but he's really a softie at heart (I

think).  Robert (sic!  ) And underneath it, a copy of a letter (Strictly

Confidential) sent to the Summertown Health Centre and dated 18 May 1998.

Re Annual Review: E.  Morse.  Dear Dr Roblin, Haemoglobin A Ic (as you'll

see) is higher than we would like at 11.  5%.  I've instructed him to

increase each of his four daily insulin doses by 2 units up to 10, 6, 12, 36.

In addition, his cholesterol level is getting rather worrying.  It's

pointless to ask him to cut his intake of alcohol, so please add to his

prescribed medicines Atorvastatin 10 mg tablets nocte.

Eyes are remarkably good.  Blood pressure is still too high.  No problems

with feet.

His general condition gives me no real cause for immediate anxiety, but I

shall be glad if you can insist on a regular monthly review, at least for the

rest of the year.  I enclose the relevant clinical data.

Regards to your family.

With best wishes, Professor R C Turner Honorary Consultant Physician P.  S.

He tells me he's stopped smoking!  And he's certainly stopped listening to me.

Morse was sitting, slowly pulling on his socks, when Sarah Harrison returned.

"I'll tell you one thing: you've got quite nice feet."

"I'm glad bits of me are OK-' Whilst tying his shoelaces.  Morse had missed

the look of quick intelligence in the large brown eyes.

"Bit sneaky, wasn't it?"  she held up the file.

Morse nodded.

"Don't worry, though.  Professor Turner sent me a copy of that last letter."

"Well, in that case, there's not really much more .  .  ."  She got to her

feet.

"Please!"  Morse signalled to the chair, and obediently she sat down again.

"Why haven't you mentioned the murders.  Doctor They're all over the national

papers."

"I bought six of them yesterday, if you must know."

"Your father?  Your brother Simon, isn't it?  Do they know?"

"I've not seen Simon recently."

"You could have phoned him."

"Simon is not the sort of person you phone.  He's deaf, very deaf- as you

probably know anyway."

"And your father?"  repeated Morse.

"I ... whether or not.  .  .  Oddly enough I saw him last week.  He came to

stay with me for a couple of nights."

"Which nights?"

"Wednesday and Thursday.  He went back to London on Friday."

"What time?"

"Is this the Inquisition?"

"It is my job to ask these questions, you understand that."

"Touche!  He caught the train I'm not sure which one.  He didn't bring the

car nowhere to park in Oxford, is there?"

"Why didn't you see him off?"

"I couldn't."

"Were you working?"

"No.  I'd arranged to have Thursday and Friday off myself.  Like Dad, I'd a

few days' holiday to make up."

"So why not see him off?"

 The eyes were fiery now.

"I'll tell you why.  Because he took me out the previous night to Le Petit

Blanc in Walton Street and we had a super meal and we had far too much booze

before, during, and after, all right?  And I got as pissed as a tailed

amphibian and tried to sleep things off with enough pills to frighten even

you!  And when I finally staggered down- stairs eleven?  half-eleven?  - I