Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

anything else anything odd any- thing unusual - anything at all .  .  ."

And suddenly she had remembered something.  It was Morse's involuntarily

shivering shoulders that had jogged yes, jogged her memory.

The jogger.

 "There was something a bit unusual.  We don't get many people jogging here

we're all a bit too old.  But there was one this morning, about a

quarter-to-eight.  He'd pulled the hood of his tracksuit over his head as if

he was feeling the cold a bit."

"Or wasn't anxious to be recognized," added Morse quietly.  "Perhaps you

could recognize him though.  Inspector.  You see, he was wearing a very

distinctive pair of training shoes.  Red, they were."

The two policemen left with appropriate expressions of gratitude; and with

the two digestive biscuits still untouched on the circular tray, beside two

cups, one of them full, of stone-cold coffee.

202

chapter forty-three For coping with even one quarter of that running

course known as "Marathon' for coping without frequent halts for refreshment

or periodic bouts of vomiting a man has to dedicate one half of his youthful

years to quite intolerable training and endurance.  Such dedication is not

for me (Diogenes Small, 1797 1805, The Joys of Occasional Idleness) after

lewis had turned right at the junction of Sheep Street and High Street and

slipped the marked police car into the queue up to the A40 roundabout.  Morse

pointed peremptorily to the right, to the Cotswold Gateway Hotel.

Seated at a wall-settle in the bar.  Morse tasted his pint of

cask-conditioned ale and proclaimed it 'not so bad'.  And Lewis, seated

opposite, sipped his iced orange juice and said nothing.

Morse looked sourly out of sorts.

"Just nip and get me a packet of cigarettes, Lewis.  Dunhill, if they've got

them.  I don't seem to .  .  ."  In time-honoured fashion, he patted his

trouser-pockets with little prospect, as it seemed, of finding any funds

therein.

"I thought you'd stopped," ventured Lewis, as minutes later Morse peeled off

the cellophane.

"First today!"  said Morse as with obvious gratification he inhaled deeply.

In turn, Lewis took a deep breath himself: "You mustn't get cross with me if

'

 " Certainly not.  " Morse pushed his empty glass across the table.

Waiting at the bar, Lewis was rehearsing his carefully formulated sentence;

was ready with it once he took his seat again.

"You mustn't be cross with me, sir, but ' " Someone's been round to Mrs

Barron?  You've seen to that?  "

"Dixon, yes.  With WPC Towie - she's an experienced officer."

"PC Towie, you mean.  They're all PCs now, whatever the sex.  Stands for

Politically Correct."

For the umpteenth time in his working life with Morse, Lewis knew that any

potentially favourable wind had suddenly stopped blowing for him; and that it

would be Morse who would now be sailing serenely on, whatever the state of

the weather.  As he did now: "Something worrying you, Lewis?"

"Yes.  Something is.  We started off with two murders and you said you knew

who the murderer was.  And now this murderer of yours gets murdered himself

and .  .."

"And there's not all that much point in sitting around in a pub all day just

thinking about things.  Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes!  Why don't we sit back and look at what we've got look at the evidence?"

"You're talking to me in italics, Lewis."

"All right!  But don't you think it is time to start again at the beginning?"

"No," said Morse (no italics).

"Let's start with those red trainers."

"All right.  Good news that.  There can't be more than a dozen people in

Oxfordshire who've got a pair like that.  Give us a few days.  We'll find

him.  Guaranteed!"

"Let's hope you're right.  Bit odd, though.  Quarter-to-eight?  And still

running when Barron fell at ten-past-ten?"

"We're not all as unfit as you."

"What?  I could have run a marathon in that time.  Once."

Lewis smiled quietly to himself as Morse continued: "You know, what worried

me about the murders of Flynn and Repp was how anyone could have got away

from that car without people noticing all the blood on his clothes.  Then it

struck me.  Barren could have got away with it easily.  His overalls were

already covered in red covered in the maroon paint from Debbie Richardson's

out-house before the murders.

Nobody's going to worry about what he looks like, not in Lower Swinstead

anyway.  It's not exactly like spilling a bottle of Claret over your white

tuxedo on the QE2.  Is it now?  "

"I wouldn't know, sir."

"Being too clever, am I?"

"Perhaps."

"You see, I thought he was clever, Barron.  And in spite of what some of

these criminologists say, some criminals are clever."

Lewis agreed.

"Pretty clever of our murderer to knock him off his ladder: no weapon, no

fingerprints .  .  ."

"Mm."  Morse drained his beer and stood up.

"You will be glad to know that the brain is now considerably clearer,

although I am still, if it's of interest to you, exceedingly puzzled as to

why our murderer should decide to draw almost inevitable attention to himself

by wearing such a conspicuous pair of plimsolls and running around Burford