Forty-three
For coping with even one quarter of that running course known as “Marathon”—for coping without frequent halts for refreshment or periodic bouts of vomiting—a man has to dedicate one half of his youthful years to quite intolerable training and endurance. Such dedication is not for me.
(Diogenes Small, 1797-1805,
The Joys of Occasional Idleness)
After Lewis had turned right at the junction of Sheep Street and High Street and slipped the marked police car into the queue up to the A40 roundabout, Morse pointed peremptorily to the right, to the Cotswold Gateway Hotel.
Seated at a wall-settle in the bar, Morse tasted his pint of cask-conditioned ale and proclaimed it “not so bad.” And Lewis, seated opposite, sipped his iced orange juice and said nothing.
Morse looked sourly out of sorts.
“Just nip and get me a packet of cigarettes, Lewis. Dunhill, if they've got them. I don't seem to …” In time-honored fashion, he patted his trouser pockets with little prospect, as it seemed, of finding any funds therein.
“I thought you'd stopped,” ventured Lewis, as minutes later Morse peeled off the cellophane.
“First today!” said Morse as with obvious gratification he inhaled deeply.
In turn, Lewis took a deep breath himself:
“You mustn't get cross with me if—”
“Certainly not.” Morse pushed his empty glass across the table.
Waiting at the bar, Lewis was rehearsing his carefully formulated sentence; was ready with it once he took his seat again.
“You mustn't be cross with me, sir, but—”
“Someone's been round to Mrs. Barron? You've seen to that?”
“Dixon, yes. With WPC Towle—she's an experienced officer.”
“PC Towle, you mean. They're all PCs now, whatever the sex. Stands for Politically Correct.”
For the umpteenth time in his working life with Morse, Lewis knew that any potentially favorable wind had suddenly stopped blowing for him; and that it would be Morse who would now be sailing serenely on, whatever the state of the weather. As he did now:
“Something worrying you, Lewis?”
“Yes. Something is. We started off with two murders and you said you knew who the murderer was. And now this murderer of yours gets murdered himself and …”
“And there's not all that much point in sitting around in a pub all day just thinking about things. Is that what you're saying?”
“Yes! Why don't we sit back and look at what we've got—look at the evidence?”
“You're talking to me in italics, Lewis.”
“All right! But don't you think it is time—to start again—at the beginning?”
“No,” said Morse (no italics). “Let's start with those red trainers.”
“All right. Good news that. There can't be more than a dozen people in Oxfordshire who've got a pair like that. Give us a few days. We'll find him. Guaranteed!”
“Let's hope you're right. Bit odd, though. Quarter to eight? And still running when Barron fell at ten past ten?”
“We're not all as unfit as you.”
“What? I could have run a marathon in that time. Once.”
Lewis smiled quietly to himself as Morse continued: “You know, what worried me about the murders of Flynn and Repp was how anyone could have got away from that car without people noticing all the blood on his clothes. Then it struck me. Barron could have got away with it easily. His overalls were already covered in red—covered in the maroon paint from Debbie Richardson's outhouse—before the murders. Nobody's going to worry about what he looks like, not in Lower Swinstead anyway. It's not exactly like spilling a bottle of Claret over your white tuxedo on the QE2. Is it now?”
“I wouldn't know, sir.”
“Being too clever, am I?”
“Perhaps.”
“You see, I thought he was clever, Barron. And in spite of what some of these criminologists say, some criminals are clever.”
Lewis agreed. “ Pretty clever of our murderer to knock him off his ladder: no weapon, no fingerprints …”
“Mm.” Morse drained his beer and stood up. “You will be glad to know that the brain is now considerably clearer, although I am still, if it's of interest to you, exceedingly puzzled as to why our murderer should decide to draw almost inevitable attention to himself by wearing such a conspicuous pair of plimsolls and running around Burford for two and a half hours.”
“Truth is, sir, some of ‘em aren't all that clever. We both know that.”
By the time they were back at Kidlington HQ, the strangely disturbing news was already beginning to filter through.
Not that Morse himself was to be in his office that late Monday afternoon, for he had instructed Lewis to drop him off at his flat in North Oxford. He longed for some music: some Mozart (though not Eine Kleine Nachtmusik), some Wagner (though not the Ride of the Valkyries), some Vivaldi even (though not The Four Seasons), or some Vaughan Williams (though not The Lark Ascending).
Most especially not The Lark Ascending, since Morse (as we have seen) had already spent enough of his time with the dawn that day.