"Not all of them," said Lewis quietly.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Washe?"
'. . . 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 Barrens (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.
242
chapter fifty-two With a generous ol'pal who will pick up the tab It's
always real cool in a nice taxi-cab (J. Willington Spock, Mostly on the
Dole) if lewis's (morse-initiated) interview had been a task of some fair
difficulty. Morse's own (self-appointed) mission was wholly straight-forward
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:
"JeffMeasor, 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.
"Could he have fiddled a few quid here and there?"
"Not so easy these days. Everything's computerized in the cab. But I
suppose ..."
"How?"
"Well, let's say if he's cruising around the City Centre and gets a fare and
doesn't clock it in. Just takes the cash and then goes back to cruising
round as if he's been doing nothing else all the time .
"" Did he do that sort of thing? "
"Not that I know of."
Morse was looking increasingly puzzled.
"He seems to have been a reasonably satisfactory sort of cabbie, then."
"So why did you sack him?"
"Two things, really. As I said, he wasn't a good advertisement for the
company. We always tell our drivers about the importance of friendliness and
courtesy; but he wasn't quite ... he always seemed a bit surly, and I doubt
he ever swapped a few cheerful words with any of his passengers. Man of few
words, Paddy Flynn. Not always though, by all accounts."
"No?"
"No. Seems he used to do the rounds of the pubs and clubs - Oxford, Reading
and so on with a little group. Played the clarinet himself, and introduced
things with a bit of Trish blarney. Quite popular for a while, I think,
'specially in those pubs guaranteeing music being played as loud as possible."
Morse looked pained as Measor continued: "Anyway, he just didn't fit in here.
No one really liked him much. Simple as that!"
"Two things though, you said?" prompted Morse gently.
For the first time the articulately forthright Company Secretary was somewhat
hesitant: "It's a bit difficult to explain but .. . well, he never quite
seemed up to coping with the radio side of the job. Sdll very important, the
radio side is, in spite of all this latest technology You know the sort of
thing: we'll be phoning from the office here and asking one of the drivers if
he's anywhere near Headington or Abingdon Road or wherever . . . Mind you,
Inspector, the radio's not all that easy: distortion, interference, crackle,
feedback, traffic-noise . ..
You've certainly got to have your wits about you and, well, he just couldn't
quite cope with it well enough. "
"It doesn't seem all that much of a reason for sacking him, though."
"It's not exactly like that, Inspector. You see, I don't myself employ
drivers directly. They're contracted out to me. And so if I say to any
owner of a taxi, or a group of taxis,
"Look, there's no more work for you here" - well, that's it. It's like
sub-contracting work on a building site. If I want to sack one of my staff
here though, in the office, I'll have to give one verbal recorded and two
written warnings. "
"No problems with Flynn, then?"
"Oh, no. And glad to see the back of him. Everybody was. One day he was
here . . ."
'. . and the next day he was gone," added Morse slowly, as he thanked the
Company Secretary and felt that long familiar shiver of excitement along his
shoulders.
chapter fifty-three At which period there were gentlemen and there were
seamen in the navy. But the seamen were not gentlemen; and the gentlemen
were not seamen (Macaulay, History of England) for morse, that early evening
followed much the same old pattern: same sort of bundle of ideas abounding in
his brain; same impatience to reach that final, wonderfully satisfying,
penny-dropping moment of insight; same old pessimism about the future of
mankind; same old craving for a dram of Scotch that could make the world, at
least for a while, a kindlier and a happier place; same old chauffeur Lewis.
It was just after 6. 30 p. m. when they were shown up a spiral flight of
rickety stairs to the small office immediately above the bar of the Maiden's
Arms. Around the walls, several framed diplomas paid tribute to the
landlord's expertise and the cleanliness of his kitchen, although the untidy
piles of letters and forms that littered the desk suggested a less than
methodical approach to the hostelry's paperwork.
"Quick snifter. Inspector?"
"Later, perhaps."
"Mind if I, er . ..?" Biffen reached behind him and poured
out a liberal
tot of Captain Morgan.
"You make me feel nervous!" Knocking back the neat rum in a single swallow,
he smacked his lips crudely: "Ahh!"
"Royal or Merchant?" asked Morse.
"Bit o' both." But Biffen seemed disinclined to discuss his earlier years at
sea, and came to the point immediately: "How can I help you, gentlemen?"
So Morse told him: for the moment the village seemed to be at the centre of
almost everything; and the pub was at the centre of village life and gossip;
and the landlord was always going to be at the centre of the pub; so if. For
Lewis, Morse's subsequent interrogation seemed (indeed, was) aimless and
desultory.
But Biffen had little to tell.
Of course the villagers had talked still talked talked all the time except
when that media lot or the police came round. No secret, though, that the
locals knew enough about Mrs His occasional and more than occasional
liaisons; no secret that they listened with prurient interest to the rum ours
the wilder and whackier the better, concerning Mrs His sexual predilections.
It was left to Lewis to cover the crucial questions concerning alibis.
The day of Mrs His murder? Tuesday, that was. And Tuesday was always a
special day a sacrosanct sort of day. (He'd mentioned it earlier. ) His one
day off in the week when he refused to have anything at all to do with
cellerage, bar- tending, pub-meals fuck 'em all! Secretary of the Oxon Pike
Anglers' Association, he was. Had been for the past five years. Labour of
love! And every Tuesday during the fishing season he was out all day, dawn
to dusk. Back late, almost always, though he couldn't say exactly when that
day. No one had questioned him at the time. Why should they? He'd pretty
certainly have met a few of his fellow-anglers but. . . what the hell was
all this about anyway? Was he suddenly on the suspect- list? After all this
time?
Thomas Biffen's eyes had hardened; and looking across at the brawny tattooed
arms, the ex-boxer Sergeant Lewis found himself none too anxious ever to
confront the landlord in a cul-de-sac.
Biffen was a family man? Well, yes and no, really. He'd been married -
still was, in the legal sense. But his missus had gone off four years since,
taking their two children with her: Joanna, aged three at the time, and
Daniel, aged two. He still regularly gave her some financial support; always
sent his kids something for their birthdays and Christmas. But that side of
things had never been much of a problem. She was living with this fellow in
"Weston-super-Mare fellow she'd known a long time the same fellow in fact
she'd buggered off with when they'd broken up.
"Whose fault was that?" asked Morse quietly.
Biffen shrugged.
"Bit o' both, usually, in nit
"She'd been seeing someone else?"
Biffen nodded.
"Had you been seeing someone else?"
Biffen nodded.
"Someone local."
"What's that got to do with it?"
It was Morse's turn to shrug.
"Well . .. Chap's got to get his oats occasionally. Inspector."
"Mrs Harrison?"
Biffen shook his head.
"Wouldna minded, though!"
"Mrs Barron?"
"Linda? Huh! Not much chance there with him around? SAS man, he was.
Probably slice your prick off if he copped you mucking around with his
missus."
Lewis found himself recalling the photograph of the confident-looking young
militiaman.
"Debbie Richardson?" suggested Morse.
"Most people've had a bit on the side with her."
"You called yourself occasionally? While Harry was inside?"
"Once or twice."
"Including the day after he was murdered."
"Only to take a bottle I told you that."
"You fancied her?"
"Who wouldn't? Once she's got the hots on . . ."
Morse appeared to have lost his way, and it was Lewis who completed the
questioning: "Where were you earlier on the Friday when Flynn and Repp were
murdered?"
"In the morning? Went into Oxford shopping. Not much luck, though.
Tried to get a couple of birthday presents. You'd hardly credit it, but both
o' my kids were born the same day 3rd o' September. "
"Real coincidence."
"Depends which way you look at it, Sergeant. Others'd call it precision
screwing, wouldn't they?"
It was a crude remark, and Morse's face was a study in distaste as Biffen
continued: "Couldn't find anything in the shops though, could I? So I sent
their mum a cheque instead."
Downstairs, it was far too early for any brisk activity; but three of the
regulars were already forgathered there, to each of whom Biffen proffered a
customary greeting.
"Evening, Mr Bagshaw! Evening, Mr Blewitt!"
One of the warring partners allowed himself a perfunctory nod, but the other
was happily intoning a favourite passage from the cribbage litany:
"Fifteen-two; fifteen-four; two's six; three's nine; and three's twelve!"
With an
"Evening, Mr Thomas!" the landlord had completed his salutations.
In response, the youth pressed the start-button yet again, his eyes keenly
registering the latest alignment of the symbols on the fruit machine.
"Now! What's it to be, gentlemen? On the house, of course."
"Pint of bitter," said Morse, 'and an orange juice. Want some ice in it,
Lewis? "
A bored-looking barmaid folded up the Mirror, and pulled the hand-pump on the
Burton Ale.
chapter fifty-four The time you won your town the race We chaired you
through the market-place; Man and boy stood cheering by, And home we brought
you shoulder-high.
To-day, the road all runners come, Shoulder-high we bring you home, And set
you at your threshoU down, Townsman of a stiller town (A. E. Housman, A
Shropshire Lad, XIX) it was just after 7. 30 p. m. that same evening in
the car park of the Maiden's Arms that Morse, after admitting to a very
strange lapse of memory in missing The Archers, suddenly decided on a new
line of enquiry that seemed to Lewis (if possible) even stranger: "Drive me
round to Holmes's place in Burford."
"Why ?" began a weary Lewis.
"Get orawith it!"
The ensuing conversation was brief.
"What did you make of Biffen, sir?"
"He decided to enlist in the ranks of the liars, like the rest of'em."
"Well, yes . .. if Mrs Barren was telling me the truth."
"Probably not important anyway."
Lewis waited a while.
"What is important, sir?"
"Barren! That's what's important. I'm still not absolutely sure I was on
the wrong track but. . ."
'. . . but it looks as if you were. "
Morse nodded.
"What did you make of?"
"Concentrate on the driving, Lewis! They're not used to Formula-One fanatics
round here."
A blurred shape slowly formed through the frosted glass of the front door,
its green paint peeling or already peeled, which was finally opened by a
pale-faced, wispily haired woman of some fifty-plus summers.
Lewis paraded his ID.
"Mrs Holmes?"
With hardly a glance at the documentation, the woman neatly reversed her
wheelchair and led her visitors through the narrow, bare-floored, virtually
bare-walled passageway for indeed there was just the one framed memento of
something on the wall to the left.
I suppose it's about Roy? " She spoke with the dispirited nasal whine of a
Birmingham City supporter whose team has just been defeated.
In the living room, in a much-frayed armchair, sat a youth smoking a
cigarette, drinking directly from a can of Bass, a pair of black-stringed
amplifiers stuck in his ears.
He vaguely reminded Morse of someone; but that was insufficient to stop him