Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

and the landlord was always going to be at the centre of the pub; so if.  For

Lewis, Morse's subsequent interrogation seemed (indeed, was) aimless and

desultory.

But Biffen had little to tell.

Of course the villagers had talked still talked talked all the time except

when that media lot or the police came round.  No secret, though, that the

locals knew enough about Mrs His occasional and more than occasional

liaisons; no secret that they listened with prurient interest to the rum ours

the wilder and whackier the better, concerning Mrs His sexual predilections.

It was left to Lewis to cover the crucial questions concerning alibis.

The day of Mrs His murder?  Tuesday, that was.  And Tuesday was always a

special day a sacrosanct sort of day.  (He'd mentioned it earlier.  ) His one

day off in the week when he refused to have anything at all to do with

cellerage, bar- tending, pub-meals fuck 'em all!  Secretary of the Oxon Pike

Anglers' Association, he was.  Had been for the past five years.  Labour of

love!  And every Tuesday during the fishing season he was out all day, dawn

to dusk.  Back late, almost always, though he couldn't say exactly when that

day.  No one had questioned him at the time.  Why should they?  He'd pretty

certainly have met a few of his fellow-anglers but.  .  .  what the hell was

all this about anyway?  Was he suddenly on the suspect- list?  After all this

time?

Thomas Biffen's eyes had hardened; and looking across at the brawny tattooed

arms, the ex-boxer Sergeant Lewis found himself none too anxious ever to

confront the landlord in a cul-de-sac.

 Biffen was a family man?  Well, yes and no, really.  He'd been married -

still was, in the legal sense.  But his missus had gone off four years since,

taking their two children with her: Joanna, aged three at the time, and

Daniel, aged two.  He still regularly gave her some financial support; always

sent his kids something for their birthdays and Christmas.  But that side of

things had never been much of a problem.  She was living with this fellow in

"Weston-super-Mare fellow she'd known a long time the same fellow in fact

she'd buggered off with when they'd broken up.

"Whose fault was that?"  asked Morse quietly.

Biffen shrugged.

"Bit o' both, usually, in nit

"She'd been seeing someone else?"

Biffen nodded.

"Had you been seeing someone else?"

Biffen nodded.

"Someone local."

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

It was Morse's turn to shrug.

"Well .  ..  Chap's got to get his oats occasionally.  Inspector."

"Mrs Harrison?"

Biffen shook his head.

"Wouldna minded, though!"

"Mrs Barron?"

"Linda?  Huh!  Not much chance there with him around?  SAS man, he was.

Probably slice your prick off if he copped you mucking around with his

missus."

Lewis found himself recalling the photograph of the confident-looking young

militiaman.

"Debbie Richardson?"  suggested Morse.

"Most people've had a bit on the side with her."

"You called yourself occasionally?  While Harry was inside?"

"Once or twice."

"Including the day after he was murdered."

"Only to take a bottle I told you that."

"You fancied her?"

"Who wouldn't?  Once she's got the hots on .  .  ."

Morse appeared to have lost his way, and it was Lewis who completed the

questioning: "Where were you earlier on the Friday when Flynn and Repp were

murdered?"

"In the morning?  Went into Oxford shopping.  Not much luck, though.

Tried to get a couple of birthday presents.  You'd hardly credit it, but both

o' my kids were born the same day 3rd o' September.  "

"Real coincidence."

"Depends which way you look at it, Sergeant.  Others'd call it precision

screwing, wouldn't they?"

It was a crude remark, and Morse's face was a study in distaste as Biffen

continued: "Couldn't find anything in the shops though, could I?  So I sent

their mum a cheque instead."

Downstairs, it was far too early for any brisk activity; but three of the

regulars were already forgathered there, to each of whom Biffen proffered a

customary greeting.

"Evening, Mr Bagshaw!  Evening, Mr Blewitt!"

One of the warring partners allowed himself a perfunctory nod, but the other

was happily intoning a favourite passage from the cribbage litany:

"Fifteen-two; fifteen-four; two's six; three's nine; and three's twelve!"

With an

"Evening, Mr Thomas!"  the landlord had completed his salutations.

In response, the youth pressed the start-button yet again, his eyes keenly

registering the latest alignment of the symbols on the fruit machine.

"Now!  What's it to be, gentlemen?  On the house, of course."

"Pint of bitter," said Morse, 'and an orange juice.  Want some ice in it,

Lewis?  "

A bored-looking barmaid folded up the Mirror, and pulled the hand-pump on the

Burton Ale.

chapter fifty-four The time you won your town the race We chaired you

through the market-place; Man and boy stood cheering by, And home we brought

you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come, Shoulder-high we bring you home, And set

you at your threshoU down, Townsman of a stiller town (A.  E.  Housman, A

Shropshire Lad, XIX) it was just after 7.  30 p.  m.  that same evening in