Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

two-year wait before a bit of re-plastering gets done .  .  Difficult to say,

offhand, whether the Barrens were better or worse off than they appeared.

From experience, Lewis had learned never to try his hand at commiseration or

counselling; but when he questioned her, he did so in the kindly fashion that

was his wont.  He asked her tactfully about the times and places relevant to

her husband's

alibis; more tactfully about the family finances; most tactfully about the

state of her marriage.

Alibis?  On the two key dates she could be of little help.  Mondays to

Fridays he usually got home about 6 p.  m.  " when she'd have a cooked meal

ready for him.  Between 8 and 9 p.m.  he'd quite often go out for a pint or

two, either down at the local or sometimes at a pub in Burford.  But he

wasn't a big drinker.  She knew he'd rung up Mrs Harrison on the night of her

murder something about roofing dies but he'd not been able to get through.

Tried twice he'd told her so; the police knew all about that, though: it had

been important evidence.  On the second key date, the Friday, he'd gone off

to Thame in the morning, she remembered that.  He'd been asked for an

estimate on some work there, and he'd gone over to size up the job.  She

didn't know didn't ask what he'd done after that; but he was back home at the

usual sort of time.  He always was on Fridays, because it was eggs-and-chips

day his favourite meal.

MrJ.  Barron, Builder, was going up in Lewis's esteem.  Money?  They were OK.

For the past three years or so houses were selling fairly freely again; and

mobility in the housing market always meant new owners wanting some

renovation or structural changes: conservatories, extensions, garages, loft-

conversions, patios.  Yes, the past few years had been fairly good for them:

she knew that better than he did.  Her part in the business, for which she

took a small official salary, was to look after the books: tax returns,

invoices, VAT, expenses, bad debts everything.  If he was ever in the habit

of accepting cash instead of the usual cheque-payments, she wasn't aware of

it; and quite certainly neither of them was sufficiently bright in

business-finance to be able to exploit any tax loopholes.  She knew nothing

about any regular payments in cash.  ("What payments?"  ) She'd have known if

any envelopes had arrived through the post, because the mail was invariably

delivered after he'd set off for work every morning.  They had a joint

account; and he had a separate private account, with an overdraft facility of

2,000.

Mr J.  Barron, Builder, Lewis decided, was hardly in the Gates or the Soros

brackets.

Marriage?  It was only here that Linda Barron was less than fluent in her

answers.

"Would you say the pair of you had a " tight" marriage?"

'.  .  Perhaps not, no.  "

"Was he ever unfaithful?"

"Aren't wtorimen?"

"Not all of them," said Lewis quietly.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Washe?"

'.  .  .  He may have been.  "

"Do you think he ever had an.  affair with Mrs Harrison?"

'.  .  No.  "

"Would you have known?"

She smiled bleakly.

"Probably."

"What about you, Mrs Barron?  Were you ever unfaithful?"

'.  .  Once or twice.  "

"With Harry Repp?"

"God, no!  I hardly knew him."

"Tom Biffen?"

'.  .  Once.  He called one afternoon about eighteen months ago to bring a

leg of lamb Johnnie won in the raffle.  And .  .  "

"What happened?"

"Do I have to tell you.  Sergeant?"

"No.  No, you don't, Mrs Barron."

Wedlock for the Barrens (Lewis agreed with Dixon) did not appear to have been

a wholly idyllic affair.

As he left, Lewis noticed on the wall in the hallway a framed photograph of a

strong, fine-looking man in military uniform.

"Your husband?"

She nodded; and the rust-flecked hazel eyes were filmed with tears.

242

chapter fifty-two With a generous ol'pal who will pick up the tab It's

always real cool in a nice taxi-cab (J.  Willington Spock, Mostly on the

Dole) if lewis's (morse-initiated) interview had been a task of some fair

difficulty.  Morse's own (self-appointed) mission was wholly straight-forward

the single problem being that of finding a parking-space in a car-cluttered

Warwick Street, just off the Iffley Road.

In the outer office of Radio Taxis were seated two young ladies, their

telephones, keyboards, and VDUs in front of them, with maps of Oxford,

Oxfordshire, and the UK, pinned on the walls around.  Morse was ushered

through into the inner sanctum, where a six-foot, strongly built man of fifty

or so, his short, dark hair greying at the temples, introduced himself:

"JeffMeasor, Company Secretary.  How can I help?"

"Flynn, Paddy Flynn, he used to work for you- until you sacked him."

Yes.  Measor remembered him well enough.  Flynn had worked for the company

for just over a year.  It was generally agreed that he'd been a competent

driver, but he'd never fitted very happily into the team.

There'd been several complaints from clients, including the reported "Just

help me get these bitches out of here!"  request to the doorman at The

Randolph, where three giggly and slightly unstable young

 ladies were