He drove straight home and locked up the garage. It had been a long day, he hoped he would sleep well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
All happy families are alike, but each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
(Leo Tolstoy)
LEWIS WAS GETTING better. He got up for a couple of hours just after Morse had arrived back in Oxford, with the aid of the banister made his careful way downstairs, and joined his surprised wife on the sofa in front of the television set. His temperature was normal now, and though he felt weak on his legs and sapped of his usual energy, he knew he would soon be back in harness. Many of the hours in bed he had spent in thinking, thinking about the Taylor case; and that morning he had been suddenly struck by an idea so novel and so exciting that he had persuaded his wife to ring the station immediately. But Morse was out: off to Wales, they said. It puzzled Lewis: the Principality in no way figured in his own new-minted version of events, and he guessed that Morse had followed one of his wayward fancies about Acum, wasted a good many gallons of police petrol, and advanced the investigation not one whit. But that wasn't quite fair. In the hands of the chief inspector things seldom stood still; they might go sideways, or even backwards, and often (Lewis agreed) they went forwards. But they seldom stood still. Yes, Lewis had been deeply disappointed not to catch him. Everything — well, almost everything — fitted so perfectly. It had been that item on his bedside radio at eight o'clock that had started the chain reaction; that item about some big noise being washed up in a reservoir. He knew they had dredged the reservoir behind the Taylors' home; but you could never be sure in such a wide stretch of water as that; and anyway it didn't really matter much whether it was in the reservoir or somewhere else. That was just the starting point. And then there was that old boy at the Belisha crossing, and the basket, and — oh, lots of other things. How he wished he'd caught the chief at the station! The really surprising thing was that Morse hadn't thought of it himself. He usually thought of everything — and more! But later, as the day wore on, he began to think that Morse probably had thought of it. After all, it was Morse himself who had suggested, right out of the blue, that she was carrying a basket.
Laboriously, during the afternoon, Lewis wrote it all down, and when he had finished the initial thrill was already waning, and he was left only with the quiet certainty that it had indeed been, for him, a remarkable brainwave, and that there was a very strong possibility that he might be right. At 9.15 p.m., he rang the station himself, but Morse had still not shown up.
'Probably gone straight home — or to a pub,' said the desk sergeant. Lewis left a message, and prayed that for the morrow the chief had planned no trip to the Western Isles.
Donald Phillipson and his wife sat silently watching the nine o'clock news on BBC television. They had said little all evening, and now that the children were snugly tucked up in bed, the little had dried up to nothing. Once or twice each of them had almost asked a question of the other, and it would have been the same question: is there anything you want to tell me? Or words to that effect. But neither of them had braved it, and at a quarter-past ten Mrs. Phillipson brought in the coffee and announced that she was off to bed.
'You've had your fill tonight, haven't you?'
He mumbled something inaudible, and lumbered along unsteadily, trying with limited success to avoid bumping into her as they walked side by side along the narrow pavement. It was 10.45 p.m. and their home was only two short streets away from the pub.
'Have you ever tried to work out how much you spend a week on beer and fags?'
It hurt him, and it wasn't fair. Christ, it wasn't fair.
'If you want to talk about money, my gal, what about your Bingo. Every bloody night nearly.'
'You just leave my Bingo out of it. It's about the one pleasure I've got in life, and don't you forget it. And some people win at Bingo; you know that, don't you? Don't tell me you're so ignorant you don't know that.'
'Have you won recently?' His tone was softer and he hoped very much that she had.
'I've told you. You keep your nose out of it. I spend my own money, thank you, not yours; and if I win that's my business, isn't it?'
'You were lashing out a bit with your money tonight, weren't you? Bit free with your favours all round, if you ask me.'
'What's that supposed to mean?' Her voice was very nasty.
'Well, you—'
'Look, if I want to treat some of my friends to a drink, that's my lookout, isn't it? It's my money, too!'
'I only meant—'
They were at the front gate now and she turned on him, her eyes flashing. 'And don't you ever dare to say anything again about my favours! Christ! You're a one to talk, aren't you — you—bastard.'
Their holiday together, the first for seven years, was due to begin at the weekend. The omens seemed hardly favourable.
It was half-past eleven when Morse finally laid his head upon the pillows. He shouldn't have had so much beer really, but he felt he'd deserved it. It would mean shuffling along for a pee or two before the night was out. But what the hell! He felt at peace with himself and with the world in general. Beer was probably the cheapest drug on the market, and he only wished that his GP would prescribe it for him on the National Healdi. Ah, this was good! He turned into the pillows. Old Lewis would be in bed, too. He would see Lewis first thing in the morning; and he was quite sure that however groggy his faithful sergeant was feeling he would sit up in his sick bed and blink with a pained, incredulous surprise. For tomorrow morning he would be able to reveal the identity of the murderer of Valerie Taylor and that of the murderer of Reginald Baines, to boot. Or, to be slightly more accurate, just the one identity; for it had been the same hand which had murdered them both, and Morse now knew whose hand it was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
An ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own.
(Shakespeare, As You Like It)
'HOW'RE YOU DOING then, my old friend?'
'Much better, thanks. Should be fit again any day now.'
'Now you're not to rush things, remember that. There's nothing spoiling.'
'Isn't there, sir?' The tone of the voice caught the inspector slightly unawares, and he looked at Lewis curiously.
'What's on your mind?'
'I tried to get hold of you yesterday, sir.' He sat up in bed and reached to the bedside table. 'I thought I had a bright idea. I may be wrong, but. . Well, here it is anyway, for what it's worth.' He handed over several sheets of notepaper, and Morse shelved his own pronouncements and sat down beside the bed. His head ached and he stared reluctandy at his sergeant's carefully written notes.
'You want me to read all this?'
'I just hope it's worth reading, that's all.'
And Morse read; and as he read a wan smile crept across his mouth, and here and there he nodded with rigorous approbation, and Lewis sank back into his pillows with the air of a pupil whose essay is receiving the alpha accolade. When he had finished, Morse took out his pen.