Fifty-six

In nowise was Lewis surprised to meet Dixon in the police canteen.

“Busy day?”

“Well, yes and no really. Morse rang me up early—”

“He what?” spluttered Lewis.

“Well, early for me. Wanted me to check out on a few things, didn't he?”

“Such as?”

“Well, names of those going to lipreading classes these last few years.”

“Simon Harrison, you mean?”

“Didn't say, did he? No problem, though. Just got the lists photocopied, didn't I?”

“What else?”

“Well, funny really. He wanted me to find out who Flynn's dentist was—”

“He what?”

“Well, easy that. Then to find out something about that Mrs. Holmes—you know, before she was married… before she had her accident.”

Yes, Lewis could understand that.

“Then to ring that SOCO chap Andrews, the one who was out at Sutton Courtenay. Ask him to get a bit of a move on—you know, give him a kick up the arse, like, about the fingerprints. Morse got him to take Barron's, you knew that, didn't you?”

“Of course I knew that!” lied Lewis, euphoria fading fast.

“Well, there we are then. I suppose old Morse was just hoping, you know …”

Yes, Lewis knew exactly what Morse had been hoping.

“Has Andrews found anything?”

“Well, still working on it, isn't he? Messy old job, he said. Soon as he had any news though … Anyway I called round and stuck the stuff through the door. He was there, I reckon. The telly was on—”

“What?”

“ Yeah, pretty certain of it. But he didn't come to the door. Odd sort of chap, isn't he?”

But the introductory “Well”s and the inquisitorial clausulae, (hallmarks of every Dixon sentence) had become too tiresome; and Lewis was glad when the canteen intercom cut across the conversation:

Where are you, Dixon, in the hierarchy here? I'll tell you, mate. Nowhere—no bloody where—that's where!

Yet Lewis left such ungracious thoughts unspoken, jumping to his feet and leaving Dixon where he was, cheeks now jammed once more with a doughnut.

Two minutes later Lewis was through to an exultant Andrews, who wasted no time in breaking the dramatic news: there was a “hit—”yippee!—a match of fingerprints! In the car. Two sets—definite, distinct. The prints of J. Barron, Builder, of Lower Swinstead!

As he walked back to the canteen (Morse's phone still engaged), Lewis reflected on his brief exchange of views with Andrews. Morse had asked for any news to be communicated to him direct, and if necessary at his home number, though as both men knew there'd been little chance of that. Yet the situation was now perfectly clear; and Lewis freely conceded that Morse's early conviction that Barron had been involved in the murders seemed wholly vindicated. No room for more than three people in the cluttered stolen car, surely? And since neither Flynn nor Repp had stepped out of that car alive, the discovery of that third set of prints, Barron's, was of momentous significance: Barron himself had been in the car. The logic sounded pretty childish when it was put like that but…

Andrews's guess had been that Morse had suddenly fallen into some deep slumber after—well, after whatever; and Dixon's guess that he'd been watching TV with the volume too high. But the latter explanation seemed unlikely. Morse could (Lewis succumbed to his second unworthy thought that day) could have purchased some pornographic video; but would he have been able to master the operating instructions? Doubtful—especially having no children (better still, grandchildren) to explain things to him. Morse seldom watched TV anyway, or so he claimed. Just the news. Just occasionally.

Lewis finished his coffee, slowly coming to terms with the extraordinary news he'd just received: that Barron was a murderer—the second thing in the whole tragic business that now seemed wholly incontrovertible.

He rang Morse once again. If the call wasn't answered, he would drive down and see the situation for himself because he was getting a little worried.

The phone was ringing.

The call was answered.