Eighteen

Lewis knew what he must do as soon as he saw Morse's maroon Jaguar parked in its wonted place.

“Still feeling better, sir?”

“Better than what?”

“Can you spare a minute?”

“Si’ down!”

Seated opposite, in his own wonted place, Lewis said his piece.

“You're in a bit of a mess,” said Morse, at the end of the sorry story.

“That's not much help, is it?”

“Remember the Sherlock Holmes story, Case of Identity? A fellow gets in one side of a hansom cab and gets out through the opposite side.”

“Doors on buses are always on the same side.”

“Really?”

“You never go on a bus.”

“But you weren't watching either side. You were queuing for coffee.”

“Buying a paper.”

“Listen!” Morse looked and sounded strained and weary. “I thought you were asking for my advice. Do you want to hear it?”

There was a brief silence before Morse continued: “It's not really a question of your own competence or incompetence—probably the latter, I'm afraid. The main concern is what's happened to your man, Repp. Agreed?”

Lewis nodded joylessly.

“Well, the situation's fairly simple. You just lost contact with him in the middle of things, that's all. No great shakes, is it? He's fine, believe me! Absolutely fine. At this very second he's probably got his bottom on the top sheet with that common-law missus of his. She picked him up somewhere—that's for certain. Most of these people released from the nick have somebody to pick ‘em up.”

“Except she doesn't drive a car.”

“All right. She arranged for somebody else to pick him up.”

“Why did he ask for a travel warrant, then?”

Morse looked less than happy. “He got on the bus at Bicester and while he was sitting there somebody saw him and tapped on the window and offered him a lift to Oxford or wherever he was going—and we know where that is, don't we? Home. Which is exactly where he is now, you can put your bank balance on that! It's a racing certainty. And if you don't believe me, go and see for yourself!”

Lewis considered what he had just heard. “It must have been somebody unexpected, sir. Like I say, he'd asked for a warrant.”

“You're right, yes. Well, partly right. Either unexpected—or not really expected … Perhaps not really welcome, either,” added Morse slowly, a weak smile playing on his lips as though for the first time that morning his brain was possibly engaged in some serious thinking.

“You reckon that's what happened?”

“Lewis! Something happened, didn't it? If you think your man decided to dematerialize, you've been watching too many space videos.”

“I don't watch—”

“Look! Remember what I've always told you when we've been on a case together—unlike this one! There's always, without exception, some wholly explicable, wholly logical causation for any chain of events, in any situation. In this case, you've just got to ask yourself where the link broke, then how it broke, then why it broke—and nothing in that sequence of events is going to be anything but simple and commonplace.”

Lewis looked the troubled man he was. “I just can't see how…”

Morse's question was quietly spoken. “You remember that car, the one you said somehow squeezed in between you and the bus from Bullingdon?”

Lewis looked across the desk in pained surprise. “You don't think …”

“What do you remember about it?”

“Dark color—black, I think—pretty recent Reg—one person in it—man, I think—pretty sure it was a man.”

“Not very observant—”

“I was looking at the bus all the time, for God's sake!”

“—and not much help, if you want the truth.”

No, it wasn't, Lewis knew that. “What do I tell the Super, though?”

“If I were you? I certainly wouldn't tell him the truth. Not a very wise thing, you know, going through life telling nothing but the truth. So in this case, I'd tell him I'd followed the bus to Bicester, then followed the bus to Oxford, then seen Repp get off outside The Randolph, get picked up there in a car, and get driven off in the general direction of Chaucer Lane, Burford. Easy!”

Uneasy, however, was Lewis's minimal nod.

“But I'm not you, Lewis, am I? I'm a very accomplished liar myself, but I've never rated you too highly in that department.”

A puzzled look suddenly came over Lewis's brow. “How come you know where Repp lives?”

“Great man, Chaucer, born in 1343, it's thought—”

“You're not answering my question!”

“I know a lot of things, Lewis—far more than you think.”

“You've still not told me what I'm supposed to say to the Super.”

“Cut your losses and tell him the truth.”

“He'll tear me apart.”

“You may well be surprised.”

But, as he rose to his feet, Lewis appeared far from convinced.

“Well, I suppose I'd better—”

“Hold your horses!” (Morse looked at his wrist-watch.) “It may just be that I can help you.”

Lewis's eyebrows lifted a little as Morse continued:

“ You promise to buy me a couple of drinks, and I'll promise to give you a big, fat juicy clue.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“Off we go then.”

“What's this big, fat—?”

“I'll give you the Registration Number of the car that you followed from Bullingdon to Bicester! Bargain, is it?”

Lewis's eyebrows lifted a lot. “No kidding?”

Morse rechecked his wristwatch. “First things first, though. They've already been open five minutes.”