Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

The truth, or what Morse took to be half of the truth, was fairly soon out.

The teenaged Simon had known Ban-on well enough because the builder had done

a few things around the house, including a big structural job on the back

patio.  Frequently he'd found Barren in the kitchen having a mug of coffee

with his mother, and he'd sensed that Barren fancied her.  Jealous?  Yes,

he'd been jealous.  Angry, too, because his mother had once confided in him

that she found Barren a bit of a creep.

Then, so very recently, there'd been this upsurge of interest

in his mother's murder, bringing with it a corresponding upsurge in his

hatred of Barren.

Yes, he'd bought the trainers 70!  No, he'd not driven out to Stokenchurch

that Monday morning.  He'd driven out to Burford instead, where he knew that

Barron was working.

Here Morse had interrupted.

"How did you know that?"

"Pardon?"

Was it a genuine plea?  Morse was most doubtful, but he repeated the question

with what he trusted was legible enunciation, conscious as he had been

throughout of Simon's eyes upon his lips.

"He told me himself.  You see, I wanted the outside of my flat, er .  .

you know, the windows, doors .  .  .  they were all getting a bit .  .

Anyway, I asked him if he could do it and he said he'd come round and give me

an estimate after he'd finished his next job.  And I don't know why but he

just happened to mention where it was, that's all.  "

Morse nodded dubiously.  Even if it wasn't the truth, it wasn't a bad answer.

And Simon Harrison continued his unofficial statement: He'd just felt well,

murderous.  Simple as that.  He'd always suspected that Barron was involved

somehow in his mother's murder, and he was conscious of an ever-increasing

hatred for the man.  So he'd decided to go and see if Barron was there, in

Sheep Street, balanced precariously (as he hoped) on the top of an extended

ladder, painting the guttering or some- thing.  And he was.

Morse made a second interruption: "So why didn't you .  .  .?"

Simon understood the inchoate query immediately, and for Morse his answer had

the ring of truth about it: "I wanted to make sure he could be pushed off.

I'd noticed when he was doing Mum's roof that he used to anchor the top of

his ladder to the troughing or chimney stack or something.  And he'd done the

same there, in Sheep Street I could see

 it easily.  So even if I'd had the

guts to to it, the ladder wouldn't have fallen.  He might have done, agreed,

but.  .  .  Anyway, I was a nervous wreck when I got back home; and when I

read in the Oxford Mail that Mrs Somebody-or-other had mentioned seeing a

jogger there wearing red trainers ... I should have put them in the dustbin.

Stupid, I was!  But they'd cost me well, I told you.  And I've always loved

animals, so .  well, that's it really.  "

Although less than convinced by what sounded a suspiciously shaky story.

Morse was adequately impressed by the manner of the plea sandy spoken young

man.  Had he been as vain as Morse and many other mortals, he would probably

have grown his hair fairly long over his temples in order to conceal his

hearing-aids.  But Harrison's dark hair was closely cropped, framing a

clean-shaven face that seemed honest.  Or reasonably so.

Asking Harrison to remind him of his home address and telephone number.

Morse got to his feet and prepared to leave.

"You'll have to make an official statement, of course."

"I realize that, yes."

Morse pushed the trainers an inch or two further across the desk.

"You might as well keep them now.  I only wish I were as fit as you."

Was there a glint of humour in Simon's eyes as, in turn, he got to his feet?

"Fit a shoe, did you say, Inspector?"

Morse let it go.  The man's hearing was very poor, little doubt of that.

Which made it surprising perhaps that a mobile phone lay on the desk beside

him.

On his second impulse that day, Morse drove down to North Oxford and stopped

momentarily outside Simon Harrison's small property at 5 Grosvenor Street.

The replacement windows with their aluminium frames had clearly been

installed there fairly recently frames whose glory (as advertised) was

never to need any painting at all.

Courteously if somewhat cautiously received, Lewis listened carefully as one

of the Bank's important personages spelled out the situation with (as was

stressed) utter confidentiality, with appropriate delicacy, and with (for

Lewis) a leavening of incomprehensible technicalities.  In simple terms it

amounted to this: Mr Frank Harrison, currently on furlough, was currently

also, if unofficially, on suspension from his duties with the Bank on

suspicion, as yet unsubstantiated, of misappropriation of monies: viz.  an

unexplained black hole of some 520,000 in his department's Investment

Portfolios.

chapter sixty-four Refrain to-night And that shall lead a kind of easiness

To the next abstinence: the next more easy; For use almost can change the

stamp of nature (Shakespeare, Hamkt) sloane square .  .  .  gridlock .  .  .

Siren .  .  .  Gridlock .  .  .  Siren .  It is not a matter for any surprise