The Remorseful Day by Colin Dexter Page B

Morse continued quietly: “You know, you weren't your usual sharp self this morning, were you? You failed to observe the car in
front
of you—and you failed to observe the car
behind
you.”
    “ You—you don't mean… ?”
    “I do mean, yes.
I
was right behind you this morning. But being the law-abiding citizen I am, I instructed my driver to keep an appropriately safe distance from the vehicle in front.”
    “I just don't believe this. I just don't understand.”
    “Easy, really. I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to keep an eye on our Mr. Repp, just like Strange did. So I rang up the prison Governor, an old friend of mine, and told him what I was intending to do; and he said there was no need because he'd had a call from Strange setting up
your
surveillance. So I just told him to forget it—told him we'd got some crossed wires—came out in an unmarked car, like you did—parked in the visitors’ area—listened to Mahler's Eighth—and watched and waited.
And
took a flask of coffee—yes,
coffee
, Lewis—and the rest is history.”
    “You're having me on!”
    “Oh no! How the hell do you think I could give you that car number unless I'd
seen
the bloody thing? You don't think I'm psychic or something, do you?”
    Lewis reflected on this extraordinary new development. Then slowly formulated his thoughts aloud. “You saw the car in front of me. You saw who was in it and what was in it—”
    “Black plastic bags, yes. You were right.”
    “—and you saw the Registration Number.”
    “Only just. You know, I'll have to see an optician soon.”
    “You told me off for saying ‘you know',” snapped Lewis.
    Morse curled his right hand lovingly round his beer glass. “Sometimes, you don't fully appreciate my help, you know.”
    Lewis let it go. “And you knew the car went into Bicester, to the bus station. You knew it all the time.”
    “Yes.”
    “So when I went to get a paper you saw Repp get out of the bus and get into the car. But you didn't tell
me
—oh no! You just left me to go on a wild goose chase after the bus. Well, thank you very much.”
    For a while Morse was silent. Then: “How many times have I been to the Gents this morning?”
    “Twice since you've been here.”
    “Six times in all, Lewis! And the reason for such embarrassingly frequent retirements is not any lack of bladder control. It's those diuretic pills they've put me on.”
    The light slowly dawned; and Sergeant Lewis suddenly looked a happy man. “The thermos, sir? Three cups of coffee in that, say?”
    Morse nodded. Not a happy man.
    “So when you got to Bicester bus station you were dying for a leak and you saw the Gents’ loo there, and when you came out—the car was gone. Right?”
    Reluctantly Morse nodded once more. “And we followed you, you and the bus, back to Oxford.”
    A gleeful Lewis looked as if he'd won the Lottery. “You really should have kept your eyes on that car, sir!”
    “You mean the black R-reg Peugeot, Lewis? You were right, by the way: £19,950 licensed and on the road, so they inform me. Not far off, were you?”
    “And the owner?”
    “Some insurance broker in Gerrard's Cross reported it missing two days ago.”

Twenty-one
    BURMA (Be Undressed Ready My Angel)
    (An acronym frequently printed on the backs of envelopes posted to sweethearts by servicemen about to go on leave, or by prisoners about to be released.)
    Unlike the (equally unknown) man who had called upon her the previous evening, he held up his ID for several seconds in front of her face, like a conjurer holding up a playing card toward an audience.
    But she didn't really look at it; didn't even notice his name. He seemed a decent, honest-looking sort of fellow—not one of those spooky pseuds who occasionally sought her company. And she was hardly too bothered if he
wasn't
one of those decent, honest-looking sort of fellows.
    “Deborah Richardson?” (He sounded rather shy.)
    “Yes.”
    “Sergeant Lewis, Thames Valley