Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

The light in Alf's old eyes suddenly sparked, like the coals on a fire that

were almost ready to sink back to an ashen-grey; and he nodded his head -just

as Bert, in his turn, would have nodded across the cribbage-board.

Enviously.

With the consulting rooms all taken up with a series of interviews for

diabetes students, Lewis sat with Sarah Harrison behind a curtain in the

Blood-Testing Room.

"Did you see your father while he was staying at the Randolph last week?"

"I always see my father when he comes to Oxford.  In fact, I had a meal with

him one evening."

"So you get on well with him?"

Lewis's smile was not reciprocated, and she almost spat her reply at him:

"WTiat the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not sure really.  It's just that I've got a list of questions here from

Chief Inspector Morse by the way, I think you know him .

.  ?  "

295

 "I've met him once."

"Well he's asked me to ask you not very well phrased, that- ' " What's he

want to know?  "

"What the relationships were like in your family."

"I can't speak for Simon you must ask him.  If you mean did I have any

preference?  No.  I loved Mum, and I loved, love, Dad.  Some children love

both their parents, you know."

"You never felt that your mother loved Simon a bit more than she loved you

you know, because he was a bit handing- capped, perhaps because he needed

more affection than you did?"

There was a silence before Sarah answered the question; and as Lewis looked

at her he realized how attractive she must have appeared to all the men and

boys in the village; how attractive she was now, and would be for many years

to come, in whatever place she found herself.

"You know I've never thought of it quite like that before, but yes ... I

suppose you could be right.  Sergeant Lewis."

After leaving the Maiden's Arms, where the fruit machine had stood unwontedly

and unprofitably silent, Morse called on Alien (sic) Thomas at his home in

Lower Swinstead.  Alf had told him where to go: the lad was sure to be there.

He'd not be at work, because he'd never done a hand's turn in his life.

And Alf was right.

The dingy room was untidy and un dusted with three empty cans on the top of

the TV and a hugely piled ash-tray on the arm of the single armchair.  But

Thomas (the facial resemblance between him and Roy Holmes so very obvious to

him now) was a paragon of civility compared with the crudity of that sibling

of his, and Morse found himself feeling more pro than and the unshaven youth

in front of him.

"How often do you keep in touch with your dad?"  began Morse.

The cigarette that had been dangling from Thomas's loose mouth fell to the

carpet; and although it was swiftly retrieved the damage had been done.

Thomas knew it.  And Morse knew it.  And fairly soon the truth, or what Morse

took to be half of the truth, had started to surface.

Yes, Elizabeth Holmes was his natural mother.

Yes, Roy Holmes was his stepbrother or his real brother he'd never really

known.

Yes, he kept in touch with his natural father, and his natural father kept in

touch with him: Frank Harrison, yes he'd always known that.

No.  His father had never sent him what could loosely be called a

fruit-machine allowance.

No.  His father had never asked him to keep him regularly informed about any

developments in the enquiries into Yvonne Harrison's murder.

No.  He'd had no contact whatever recently either with his father or his

mother or his brother.

Morse was half-smiling to himself as finally he drove back to Oxford, knowing

beyond any peradventure that the No No No was in reality a Yes Yes Yes.

In the semi-coordinated strategy earlier agreed between the pair of them,

Lewis's last allotted task had been some further enquiries into the balances

and business activities of Mr Frank Harrison.  Somewhat trickier than

anticipated though.  Yet far more exciting, as Lewis discovered after

depositing (as agreed) the Sainsbury's bag, with contents, in Morse's office

late that same afternoon, and ringing the London offices of the Swiss

Helvetia Bank.

Reaching the senior manager surprisingly speedily.

 Being informed that he, Lewis, ought really to get to London immediately

and urgently.

Deciding to go.

Using the siren (one of Lewis's greatest joys) if he found himself stuck, as

he knew he would be, amidst the capital's inevitable grid locks

Morse took the red trainers from the bag and placed them on Simon Harrison's

desk.

"These yours?"

"Pardon?  What shorts?"

The interview wasn't going to be easy, Morse conceded that.  Yet already the

suspicion had crossed his mind that any deaf man, and especially a canny deaf

man, might occasionally pretend to mis-hear in order to give himself a little

more time to consider an awkward question.

"Your car, Mr Harrison?  Toyota, P-Reg?"

"It ought to be what, Inspector?"

"Llandudno?  Mean anything to you?"

"Did you know, you say?  Didn't know?"

"The time for playing games is over, lad," said Morse quietly.  "Let's start

at the beginning again, shall we?"  He pointed to the trainers.

"These yours?"