Colin Dexter - The Remorseful Day

Lewis nodded to himself. No wonder Frank Harrison had gone to earth somewhere. Not for long though, surely. He had nowhere to go; nowhere to hide. Airports and seaports had been apprised of his passport number, and photographs would be on their way. Unless it was too late.

It was Morse’s suggestion that the two of them together should interview Roy Holmes and Christine Coverley, with Lewis invited to do most of the talking with the youth. “I detest him, Lewis! And you’re better at those sorts of things than I am.” It was flattering, but it didn’t work. Morse was sadly wrong if he thought he could so easily re-establish some degree of integrity in the eyes of his sergeant.

In midmorning, Lewis left the office without asking Morse if he would like a coffee. He knew that the omission would be noted; he knew that Morse would feel the hurt.

Not so.

When Lewis returned ten minutes later, he found Morse leaning back and beaming happily.

“Fetch me a coffee, will you, Lewis! No sugar — we diabetics, you know... Something to celebrate.” The Times was folded back in quarters in front of him, the crossword grid completely filled in. “Six and a half minutes! I’ve never done it quicker.”

“Shouldn’t that be ‘more quickly’?”

“Good man! You’re learning at last. You see it’s a question, as I’ve told you, of the comparative adjective and the comparative adverb. If you say—”

The phone rang.

Dixon.

For the moment Roy Holmes was not to be found: he wasn’t at home; he wasn’t anywhere. Did Morse want him to keep looking?

“What the hell do you think?” Morse had snapped at him. “You remember the old proverb? If at first you don’t succeed, don’t take up hang gliding.”

The brief telephone conversation pleased Lewis, and for a few seconds he wondered if he was being a little unfair in his judgment on Morse. But only for a few seconds.

“Not the only one we can’t find, sir.”

“Frank Harrison, you mean? Ye-es. I’m a bit puzzled about him. He might be a crook — he is a crook — but he’s not a fool. He’s an experienced, hard-nosed, single-minded, rich banker, and if you’re all those things you don’t suddenly put your fingers in the—”

The phone rang.

Kershaw.

Morse listened, saying nothing; but the eyes that lifted to look across the desk into Lewis’s face, if not wholly surprised, seemed very disappointed and very sad. Much as two hours earlier Lewis’s own eyes had looked.

In midafternoon (Morse was no longer at HQ) the phone rang.

Swiss Helvetia Bank.

“Could we speak to Superintendent Lewis, please?”

“Sergeant Lewis speaking.”

At 5:20 P.M. he was still standing beside his minimal hand luggage a few yards from the Euro-Class counter at Heathrow’s Terminal 4, looking around him with as yet dismissable anxiety, but with gradually increasing impatience. 5:10 P.M. — that was when they’d agreed to meet, giving them ample time, once through the fast-track channel, to have some gentle relaxation together in the British Airways Lounge before boarding the 18:30 Flight 338.

Paris...

A long time ago he and Yvonne had gone to Paris on their honeymoon: lots of love, lots of sex, lots of sightseeing, lots of food and wine. A whole fortnight of it, although he’d known even then that just a week of it would have been rather better. It was not difficult (he already knew it well) to get bored even in the presence of a mistress; and he’d begun to realize on that occasion that it was perfectly possible to grow just a little wearied even in the company of a newly wed wife. There had been one or two incidents, too, when he’d thought Yvonne was experiencing similar thoughts... especially that time one evening when she’d quite obviously been exchanging long looks with a moustachioed Frenchman who looked exactly like Proust. He’d called her “a flirtatious bitch” when they got to their hotel room; and when she’d glared back at him and told him they’d make a “bloody good pair” one way or another...

There would be no trouble like that with Maxine: only two and a half days — just right, that! And she was a real honey, a law professor from Yale, aged forty-two, divorced, a little oversexed, a little overweight, and hugely desirable.

She finally appeared, pulling an inordinately large suitcase on wheels.

“You’re late!” His tone was a combination of anger and relief; and he immediately moved forward ahead of her to the back of the short queue at the first-class counter.

“You didn’t get my message, did you? I tried and tried—”

“Like I told you? On the mobile?”

“It wasn’t working. I think you’d forgotten—”

“Christ!” Harrison took his mobile from an inside pocket, tapped a few digits, then another few; then repeated the blasphemy: “Christ! I’d had enough of the bloody mobile recently and—”

“And you forgot that we’d agreed—”

“Sorry! Say you’ll forgive me!”

He looked down at her squarish, slightly prognathic face, her dark-brown silky hair cut short in a fringe across her broad forehead and above the quietly gentle eyes that were becoming tearful now, perhaps from her hectic rush, perhaps from the undeserved brusqueness of his greeting, but perhaps above all from the knowledge that his love for her homodyned only with the waves of that physical lust which so often excited him. Yet the brief holiday had been her choice, and she knew that she wouldn’t regret having made it. She enjoyed being with him: he was good fun and intelligent and well read and still handsome and still excellent in bed and — yes! — he was rich.

They moved nearer the counter, neither of them too anxious to speak — a phenomenon not uncommon with persons queuing, as if their concentration were required for the transactions ahead. But she volunteered some incidental information:

“Accident there was, near Stokenchurch, and I tried to—”

Gently he ran a hand through her silken hair. “Sweetheart? Forget it!”

“It’s just that we must have been stuck there half an hour and we saw — one of the other passengers pointed it out — a beautiful bird of prey there. A red kite.”

“Tell me later!”

There was now just the one business-suited man in front of them.

“Where have you booked us?”

“The best.”

“And the best air-tickets—?”

“Sh! Nothing but the best for you. Why not? Just think of me! No wife. No blackmailing kids. No problems at work. Nothing to spend money on for a day or two — except on you. I’m a rich man, sweetheart. I thought I’d told you.”

“Tickets, please?”

The smiling young lady scrutinized the perfectly valid tickets.

“Passports, please?”

The young lady scrutinized the perfectly valid passports.

“Smoking?”

“Nonsmoking.”

“Window-center? Center-aisle?”

“Center-aisle.”

“Luggage?”

Frank Harrison lugged the great case on to the trackway beside the desk.

“Only the one?”

“Yes.”

“You know where the club lounge is?”

“Yes.”

“Enjoy your flight, sir, and enjoy your stay in Paris!”

He handed her a glass of champagne, and two glasses clinked. “Here’s to a wonderful little break together. Ritz — here we come!”

He leaned across and kissed her on the soft, unlipsticked mouth — a long, yearning kiss. His eyes closed. Her eyes closed.

“Mr. Harrison?” A tap on the shoulder. “Mr. Frank Harrison?”