Late on Thursday evening, Morse was walking home from the Cotswold House after a generous measure of Irish whiskey when a car slowed down beside him, the front passenger window electronically lowered.
“Can I give you a lift anywhere?”
“Hello! No, thank you. I only live...” Morse gestured vaguely up toward the A40 roundabout.
“Everything okay with you?”
“Will be — if you’d like to come along and inspect my penthouse suite.”
“I thought you said it was a flat.”
Though clearly surprised to find Morse in his office over the Friday lunch period, Strange refrained from his usual raillery.
“Can you nip in to see me a bit later this afternoon about these retirement forms?”
“Let’s do it now, sir.”
“What’s the rush?”
“I’m off this afternoon.”
“Official, is that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Strange eyed Morse shrewdly. “Why are you looking so bloody cheerful?”
“Well, another case solved...?”
“Mm. Where’s Lewis, by the way?”
“There’s still an awful lot of work to do.”
“Why aren’t you helping him then?”
“Like I say, sir, I’m off for the weekend.”
“You’re lucky, matey. The wife’s booked me for the lawn mower.”
“I’ve just got the window box myself.”
“Anything in it?”
Morse shook his head, perhaps a little sadly.
“You, er, going anywhere special?” asked Chief Superintendent Strange.
Chapter sixty-eight
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
For several seconds after she opened her eyes, Janet McQueen had no idea whatsoever about where she was or what she’d been doing. Then, as she lay there in the green sheets, gradually it flooded back...
“Ah! Can I perhaps begin to guess our destination?” she’d asked, as the car turned left at Junction 18 and headed south along A46. “B&B in Bath — is that what it’s going to be?”
“You’ll see.”
As she had seen, for soon the Jaguar turned onto the Circus, onto Brock Street, and finally straight across a cobbled road, where it stopped beside a large magnolia tree. She looked at the hotel, and her green eyes widened as she brought her ringless, manicured fingers together in a semblance of prayer.
“Beautiful!”
Morse had turned toward her then, as she sat beside him in her navy pin-striped suit; sat beside him in her V-necked emerald-silk blouse.
“You’re beautiful, too, Janet,” he said simply, and quietly.
“You’ve booked rooms for us here?”
Morse nodded. “Bit over the top, I know — but, yes, I’ve booked the Sarah Siddons suite for myself.”
“What have you booked for me?”
“That’s also called the Sarah Siddons suite.”
She was smiling contentedly as the Concierge opened the passenger-seat door.
“Welcome to the Royal Crescent Hotel, madam!”
She’d felt important then.
And she’d loved it.
Morse was already up — dressed, washed, shaved — and sitting only a few feet from her, reading The Times.
“Hello!” she said, softly.
He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “Headache?”
“Bit of one!”
“You know your trouble? You drink too much champagne.”
She smiled (she would always be smiling that weekend) as she recalled the happiness of their night together. And throwing back the duvet, she got out of bed and stood beside him for several seconds, her cheek resting on the top of his head.
“Shan’t be long. Must have a shower.”
“No rush.”
“Why don’t you see if you can finish the crossword before I’m dressed? Let’s make it a race!”
But Morse said nothing — for he had already finished the crossword, and was thinking of the Philip Larkin line that for so many years had been a kind of mantra for him:
Waiting for breakfast while she brushed her hair.
It was late morning, as they were walking arm-in-arm down to the city center, following the signs to the Roman Baths, that she asked him the question:
“Shall I just keep calling you ‘Morse’?”
“I’d prefer that, yes.”
“Whatever you say, sir!”
“You sound like Lewis. He always calls me ‘sir.’ ”
“What do you call him?”
“ ‘Lewis.’ ”
“Does he know your Christian name?”
“No.”
“How come you got lumbered with it?”
Morse was silent awhile before answering:
“They both had to leave school early, my parents — and they never had much of a chance in life themselves. That’s partly the reason, I suppose. They used to keep on to me all the time about trying as hard as I could in life. They wanted me to do that. They expected me to do that. Sort of emotional blackmail, really — when you come to think of it.”
“Did you love them?”
Morse nodded. “Especially my father. He drank and gambled far too much... but I loved him, yes. He knew nothing really — except two things: He could recite all of Macaulay’s Lays of Ancient Rome by heart; and he’d read everything ever written about his greatest hero in life, Captain Cook — ‘Captain James Cook, 1728 to 1779,’ as he always used to call him.”
“And your mother?”
“She was a gentle soul. She was a Quaker.”
“It all adds up then, really?” said Janet slowly.
“I suppose so,” said Morse.
“Do you want to go straight to the Roman Baths?”
“What are you thinking of?”
“Would you like a pint of beer first?”
“I’m a diabetic, you know.”
“I’ll give you your injection,” she promised. “But only if you do me one big favor... I shan’t be a minute.”
Morse watched her as she disappeared into a souvenir shop alongside; watched the shapely straight legs above the high-heeled shoes, and the dark, wavy hair piled high at the back of her head. He thought he could grant her almost any favor that was asked of him.
She produced the postcard as Morse returned from the bar. “What’s that for?” he asked.
“Who’s that for, you mean. That’s for Sergeant Lewis... He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”
“What? Lewis? Nonsense!”
“He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?” she repeated.
Morse averted his eyes from her penetrating, knowing gaze; looked down at the frothy head on his beer; and nodded.
“Christ knows why!”
“I want you to send him this card.”
“What for? We’re back at work together on Monday!”