The Remorseful Day by Colin Dexter Page A

learning that Harry Repp had left on schedule that morning with a bus warrant for Oxford. Nothing further they could tell her: no longer their responsibility, was he? She could ring the Probation Office in Oxford—that might have been his first port-of-call. Which number she was about to dial when she noticed a car pulling up outside—an R-Reg., dark blue, expensive-looking model; and a man she'd never seen before getting out of it, and walking toward her up the narrow, amateurishly cemented front path.

Twenty
    Then said the Jews unto him, Thou art not yet fifty years old, and hast thou seen Abraham? Jesus said unto them, Verily, verily, I say unto you, Before Abraham was, I am.
    (The Gospel according to St. John
, ch. VIII, vv. 57, 58)
    Already, an hour or so before driving out to see Debbie Richardson, it had been an unusual morning for Sergeant Lewis.
    Morse had insisted on buying the second round in the Woodstock Arms, albeit one consisting only of one pint of Morrell's Best Bitter for himself, since as yet Lewis was only halfway down his obligatory orange juice.
    Unusual? Yes. And quite certainly surprising.
    “Do you really mean it—about the car number, sir?”
    “Just be patient!”
    “What do you think I
am
being?”
    “You say the car was darkish, newish, toppish range?”
    “Like I said, I was really concentrating on the bus.”
    “Be more
specific
, man! Go for it. Back your hunches!”
    “All right: black; R-Reg.; twenty thou.”
    “That's better.”
    Lewis smiled dubiously. “Thank you.”
    “And how many people in that car of yours? One? Two? Three?”
    “Certainly one, sir.”
    “We'll make a detective of you yet,” mumbled Morse, leaning forward as he buried his nose in the froth.
    “Could've been two, I suppose. I can't really remember but… you know, it was a bit like one of those cars going off on a family holiday, you know what I mean?”
    “No.”
    “Well, you know—”
    “For Christ's sake stop saying ‘you know'!” 73
    “Well, you've got things packed everywhere, haven't you? Not just cases and things but nappies, bedding, towels, boots, wellingtons, thermoses, carrier bags—all piled up so you can hardly see out of the back window.”
    “What sort of bags?”
    Lewis was trying hard to revisualize the scene, and fortunately Morse had picked on the one thing that finally jogged his fading memory. Bags! Yes, there'd been bags in the back of that car: bags you could stick all sorts of things inside. And suddenly the picture had grown clearer:
    “Black bags!”
    “You think he was off to the rubbish dump?”
    “Could've been. ‘Waste Reception Area,’ by the way, sir.”
    “Where's the biggest rubbish dump in Oxfordshire?”
    “Or in Oxford, perhaps?” Lewis's face had brightened. “Redbridge. People go there from all over the county—straight down the A34—then turn off—” But Lewis stopped. “Forget it, sir. From Bullingdon you'd turn on to the A41, and then straight on to the A34. You wouldn't go into Bicester at all.”
    “And you're quite sure the car went into Bicester?”
    “That's one thing I am sure about.”
    “If only you'd concentrated on that car, Lewis, and forgotten all about the bus!”
    “I just don't understand why you're so interested in the car. Repp was on the
bus.”
    “So you keep saying,” said Morse quietly. “But you're not right, are you? Repp
wasn't
on the bus.”
    “Not when he got to Oxford, no.”
    “You lost him. You might as well face it.”
    Lewis drained his orange juice. “Yep! I agree. I lost him. And that's exactly why I need a bit of help.”
    “Like the number of that car, you mean?”
    “I think you're having me on about that.”
    “Oh no. And if you think it'll help …”
    Morse took out his pen and pushed his empty glass across the table: “Your round! And pass me your notebook.”
    A minute later, Lewis stared down at Morse's small, neat handwriting:

    And incredulity vied with amazement in his face as