Colin Dexter: The Remorseful Day

“Do you think I should get a tap on my phone?”

“Wouldn’t do any harm, if he rings again.”

“When he rings again.”

“Hoaxer! Sure to be.”

“Well-informed hoaxer, then.” Strange pointed to the paper still on the arm of Morse’s chair. “A bit in the know, wouldn’t you say? Someone on the inside, perhaps? You couldn’t have found one or two things referred to there in any of the press reports. Only the police’d know.”

“And the murderer,” added Morse.

“And the murderer,” repeated Strange.

Morse looked down once more at the notes Strange had made in his appropriately outsized, spidery handwriting:

Call One

That Lower Swinstead woman — nickers up and down like a yo-yo — a lot of paying clients and a few non-paying clients like me. Got nowhere much with the case did you — incompetant lot. For starters you wondered if it was one of the locals, didn’t you? Then for the main course you wasted most of your time with the husband. Then you didn’t have any sweet because you’d run out of money. Am I right? Idiots, the lot of you. No! Don’t interrupt! (Line suddenly dead.)

Call Two

Now don’t interrupt this time, see? Don’t say a dickybird! Like I said, that woman had more pricks than a secondhand dart-board, mine included, but it’s not me who had anything to do with it. Want a clue? There’s somebody coming out of the clammer in a fortnight — listen! He’s one of your locals, isn’t he? See what I mean? You cocked it all up before and you’re lucky bastards to have another chance. (Line suddenly dead.)

Morse looked up to find himself the object of Strange’s steady gaze.

“It’s incompetent, sir, with an ‘e’.”

“Thank you very much!”

“And most people put a ‘k’ on ‘knickers.’”

Strange smiled grimly. “And Yvonne Harrison put an embargo on knickers, however you spell ‘em!”

He struggled to his feet. “My office Monday morning — first thing!”

“Eight o’clock?”

“Nine-thirty?”

“Nine-thirty.”

“Now get back to your Schubert — though I’m surprised you weren’t listening to Wagner. Just the job, The Ring , for a long holiday, you know. Especially the Solti recording.”

Morse watched his visitor waddling somewhat unsteadily toward the police car parked confidently in the “Resident’s Only” parking area. (Yes! Morse had mentioned the apostrophe to the Chairman of the Residents’ Welfare Committee.)

He closed the front door and for a few moments stood there motionless, acknowledging with a series of almost imperceptible nods the simple truth about the latest encounter between two men who knew each other well, both for good and ill:

Game, Set, Match, to Strange.

Or was it?

For there was something about what he had just learned, something he had not yet even begun to analyze, that was perplexing him slightly.

The following Sunday was a pleasant summer’s day; and along with three-quarters of the population of Hampshire, Morse decided to go down to Bournemouth. It took him over an hour to park the Jaguar; and it was a further half-hour before he reached the seafront where carloads and busloads of formidable families were negotiating rights to a couple of square meters of Lebensraum. But moving away from the ice-cream emporia, Morse found progressively fewer and fewer day-trippers as he walked toward the further reaches of the shoreline. He’d always told himself he enjoyed the changing moods of Homer’s deep-sounding sea. And he did so now.

Soon, he found himself standing alongside the slowly lapping water, debating with himself whether the tide was just coming in or just going out, and staring down at the glasslike circular configuration of a jellyfish.

“Is it dead?”

Until she spoke, Morse had been unaware of the auburn-haired young woman who now stood beside him, almost wearing a bikini.

“I don’t know. But in the absence of anything better to do, I’m going to stand here till the tide comes in and find out.”

“But the tide’s going out , surely?”

Morse nodded somewhat wistfully. “You may be right.”

“Poor jellyfish!”

“Mm!” Morse looked down again at the apparently doomed, transparent creature at his feet: “How very sad to be a jellyfish!”

He’d sounded a comparatively interesting man, and the woman would have liked to stay there awhile. But she forced herself to forget the intensely blue eyes which momentarily had held her own and walked away without a further word, for she felt a sudden, slight suspicion concerning the sanity of the man who stood there staring at the ground.

It was on Tuesday the 14th, the day before Strange’s visit to Morse, that Lewis had presented himself at the Chief Superintendent’s office in Thames Valley Police HQ, in punctual obedience to the internal phone call.

“Something for you, Lewis. Remember the Lower Swinstead murder?”

“Well, vaguely, yes. And I’ve seen the bits in the paper, you know, about the calls. I was never really on the case myself though. We were on another—”

“Well, you’re on it now — from next Monday morning, that is — once Morse gets back from Bermuda.”

“He hasn’t left Oxford, has he?”

“Joke , Lewis.” Strange beamed with bonhomie, settling his chin into his others.

“The Chief Inspector’s agreed?”

“Not much option, had he? And you enjoy working with the old sod. I know you do.”

“Not always.”

“Well, he always enjoys working with you.”

A strangely gratified Lewis made no reply.

“So?”

“Well, if it’s OK with Morse...”

“Which it is.”

“I’ll give him a ring.”

“No, you won’t. He’s tired, isn’t he? Needs a rest. Give him a bit of time to himself — you know, crosswords, booze...”

“Wagner, sir. Don’t forget his precious Wagner. He’s just bought another recording of that Ring Cycle stuff, so he told me.”

“Which recording’s that?”

“Conductor called ‘Sholty,’ I think.”

“Mm...” Strange pointed to three bulging green box-files stacked on the side of his desk. “Little bit of reading there. All right? Chance for you to get a few moves ahead of Morse.”

Lewis got to his feet, picked up the files, and held them awkwardly in front of him, his chin clamping the top one firm.

“I’ve never been even one move in front of him, sir.”

“No? Don’t you underestimate yourself, Lewis! Let others do it for you.”

Lewis managed a good-natured grin. “Not many people manage to get a move ahead of Morse.”

“Oh, really? Just a minute! Let me hold the door for you... And you’re not quite right about what you just said, you know. There are one or two people who just occasionally manage it.”

“Perhaps you’re right, sir. I’ve just not met one of ‘em, that’s all.”

“You have though,” said Strange quietly.

Lewis’s eyes turned quizzically as he maneuvered his triple burden through the door.

That same evening, Lewis had just finished his eggs and chips, had trawled the last slice of brown bread across the residual HP sauce, and was swallowing the last mouthful of full-cream cold milk, when he heard the call from above:

“Dad? Da — ad?”

Lewis looked down at the (presumably problematical) first sentence of his son’s A-level French Prose Composition: “Another bottle of this excellent wine, waiter!”

“Easy enough, that, isn’t it?”