Colin Dexter - The Remorseful Day

“What else can I tell you?” asked Morse wearily.

“I’ve just asked you. Do you think he murdered Flynn and Repp?”

“He could have done. But somehow I don’t believe he did.”

“So who...?”

“I keep telling you, Lewis. My modest bet is still on Barron.”

“Shouldn’t we be looking a bit more into their backgrounds? Repp’s? Flynn’s? Barron’s?”

“I don’t think we’re going to get anything more out of Debbie Richardson.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Just a feeling, Lewis. Just a feeling.”

“What about Flynn?”

Morse nodded. “You’re right. He was being paid for something. Exactly what, though... Yes. Leave that to me.”

“What about Barron? Shall I leave that to you, as well?”

“No, no! The less I have to do with the women in this case the better. You go along. And if you can find out more about where he was or where he was supposed to be on both those days... Yes, you do that!”

“All right. But don’t you think we ought to widen the net, sir? Haven’t we got any other suspects?”

“Tom Biffen, perhaps?”

Lewis’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean—?”

“The landlord of the Maiden’s Arms, no less. We’ll go out and interview him together once we get a chance. You’ll be able to buy me a pint.”

“But wasn’t it a Tuesday when Mrs. Harrison was murdered?”

“You’re right, yes.”

“Well, he always goes out fishing on Tuesdays, Biffen — dawn to dusk.”

“Really? How on earth do you know that?”

“Aren’t we supposed to be detectives, sir?”

At 9:30 A.M. the following day, Mrs. Linda Barron stepped back from the threshold, nodding rather wearily as Lewis produced his ID. In the kitchen, he accepted her offer of instant coffee.

She was a brunette of medium height, slightly overweight, with a small, cupid-lipped mouth, wearing a blue-striped kitchen apron over skirt and blouse.

Lewis decided she was coping with life, just about.

The smallish kitchen was cluttered with shelves and cupboards, the floor space additionally limited by the usual appliances: cooker, dishwasher, fridge, microwave, washing machine. Lewis immediately noticed the damp patch of crumbling ceiling over the cooker. Same old story! Husband a plumber, and a tap-washer never gets fixed; husband a builder, and there’s a two-year wait before a bit of replastering gets done... Difficult to say, offhand, whether the Barrons were better or worse off than they appeared.

From experience, Lewis had learned never to try his hand at commiseration or counseling; but when he questioned her, he did so in the kindly fashion that was his wont. He asked her tactfully about the times and places relevant to her husband’s alibis; more tactfully about the family finances; most tactfully about the state of her marriage.

Alibis? On the two key dates she could be of little help. Mondays to Fridays he usually got home about 6 P.M., when she’d have a cooked meal ready for him. Between 8 and 9 P.M. he’d quite often go out for a pint or two, either down at the local or sometimes at a pub in Burford. But he wasn’t a big drinker. She knew he’d rung up Mrs. Harrison on the night of her murder — something about roofing tiles — but he’d not been able to get through. Tried twice — he’d told her so; the police knew all about that, though: it had been important evidence. On the second key date, the Friday, he’d gone off to Thame in the morning, she remembered that. He’d been asked for an estimate on some work there, and he’d gone over to size up the job. She didn’t know — didn’t ask — what he’d done after that; but he was back home at the usual sort of time. He always was on Fridays, because it was eggs-and-chips day — his favorite meal.

Mr. J. Barron, Builder, was going up in Lewis’s esteem.

Money? They were OK. For the past three years or so houses were selling fairly freely again; and mobility in the housing market always meant new owners wanting some renovation or structural changes: conservatories, extensions, garages, loft conversions, patios. Yes, the past few years had been fairly good for them: she knew that better than he did. Her part in the business, for which she took a small official salary, was to look after the books: tax returns, invoices, VAT, expenses, bad debts — everything. If he was ever in the habit of accepting cash instead of the usual check payments, she wasn’t aware of it; and quite certainly neither of them was sufficiently bright in business-finance to be able to exploit any tax loopholes. She knew nothing about any regular payments in cash. (“What payments?”) She’d have known if any envelopes had arrived through the post, because the mail was invariably delivered after he’d set off for work every morning. They had a joint account; and he had a separate private account, with an overdraft facility of £2,000.

Mr. J. Barron, Builder, Lewis decided, was hardly in the Gates or the Soros brackets.

Marriage? It was only here that Linda Barron was less than fluent in her answers.

“Would you say the pair of you had a ‘tight’ marriage?”

“... Perhaps not, no.”

“Was he ever unfaithful?”

“Aren’t most men?”

“Not all of them,” said Lewis quietly.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Was he?”

“... He may have been.”

“Do you think he ever had an affair with Mrs. Harrison?”

“...No.”

“Would you have known?”

She smiled bleakly. “Probably.”

“What about you, Mrs. Barron? Were you ever unfaithful?”

“... Once or twice.”

“With Harry Repp?”

“God, no! I hardly knew him.”

“Tom Biffen?”

“... Once. He called one afternoon about eighteen months ago to bring a leg of lamb Johnnie won in the raffle. And...”

“What happened?”

“Do I have to tell you, Sergeant?”

“No. No, you don’t, Mrs. Barron.”

Wedlock for the Barrons (Lewis agreed with Dixon) did not appear to have been a wholly idyllic affair.

As he left, Lewis noticed on the wall in the hallway a framed photograph of a strong, fine-looking man in military uniform.

“Your husband?”

She nodded; and the rust-flecked hazel eyes were filmed with tears.

If Lewis’s (Morse-initiated) interview had been a task of some fair difficulty, Morse’s own (self-appointed) mission was wholly straightforward — the single problem being that of finding a parking space in a car-cluttered Warwick Street, just off the Iffley Road.

In the outer office of Radio Taxis were seated two young ladies, their telephones, keyboards, and VDUs in front of them, with maps of Oxford, Oxfordshire, and the UK pinned on the walls around. Morse was ushered through into the inner sanctum, where a six-foot, strongly built man of fifty or so, his short, dark hair greying at the temples, introduced himself:

“Jeff Measor, Company Secretary. How can I help?”

“Flynn, Paddy Flynn, he used to work for you — until you sacked him.”

Yes. Measor remembered him well enough. Flynn had worked for the company for just over a year. It was generally agreed that he’d been a competent driver, but he’d never fitted very happily into the team. There’d been several complaints from clients, including the reported “Just help me get these bitches out of here!” request to the doorman at The Randolph, where three giggly and slightly unstable young ladies were attempting to alight. And, yes, a few other complaints about his less-than-sympathetic rejoinders to clients when sometimes (quite inevitably so) traffic jams had caused his cab to be late. But Flynn had been a punctual man himself, invariably clocking in on time — one of those dedicated night drivers who far preferred the 6 P.M.-2:30 A.M. shift. He’d known Oxford City and the surrounding area well — a big factor in taxi work; and there’d been no suspicion of his driving innocent clients on some roundabout route just to jump up the fare.