'Well, you said so yourself early on: we often get people who do copy-cat things, don't we? And whoever stole the knife---well, it might not have anything to do with the mur-der at all. Somebody just read that bit in the Oxford Mail 'Yees. To tell you the truth, I've been thinking the same.'
'It could just be a coincidence.'
'Yes, it could. Perhaps it was.'
'I mean, you've often said coincidences happen all the time; just that some of us don't spot 'em.'
'Yes, I've often thought that.'
'So them may be no causal connection after all--?'
'Stop sounding like a philosopher, Lewis, and go and get us some coffee.'
Morse, too, was finding this period of inactivity frustrating.
And a time of considerable stress, since for three whole days now he had not smoked a single cigarette, and had ar-rived at that crucial point where his self-mastery had al-ready been demonstrated, his victory over nicotine finally won. So? So it was no longer a question of relapsing, of m-indulging.
If he wished to re-start, though.., for, in truth, the fourth day was proving even harder than the third.
The earlier wave of euphoria was ebbing still further on the fifth day, when it was his own turn to have a medical check-up, and when ten minutes before his appointment time he checked in at the Outpatients reception at the JR2 and sat down in the appropriate area to await his call, scheduled for 9:20 ^.m. By some minor coincidence (yes!) this was the same time that Mr. Edward Brooks had been expected for his own designated brand of Outpatient care--an appointment which had not been kept eight days earlier... and which was unkept still.
After undergoing a fairly thorough examination; after skillfully parrying the questions put to him about avoirdu- pois and alcohol; after politely declining a suggested con-sultation with a dietitian; after going along the corridor to have three further blood-samples taken--Morse was out again; out into the morning sunshine, with a new date (six whole weeks away!) written into his little blue card, and with the look of a man who feels fresh confidence in life. What was it that the doc had said?
'You know, I'm not quite sure why, but you're over things pretty well. You don't deserve to be, Mr. Morse; but, well, you seem surprisingly fit to me.'
Walking along to the southern car park and savouring still the happy tidings, Morse caught sight of a young woman standing at the bus-stop there. By some minor co incidence (yes!) they had earlier been presem together in the same waiting-room at the Summertown Health Centre, where neither had known the other. And now, here they were together again, on the same morning, at the same time, at the same hospital, both of them (as it appeared) on their way back home.
'Good morning, Miss Smith!' said the cheerful Chief In-spector, taking care to articulate a clear 'Miss,' and not (as he always saw it) the ugly, pretentious, fuzzy 'Ms.'
Little that morning could have dampened Morse's spirits, for the gods were surely smiling on him. Even had she ig-nored his greeting, he would have walked serenely past, with little sense of personal slight. Yet perhaps he would have felt a touch of disappointment, too; for he had seen the sadness in her face, and knew that for a little while he wanted to be with her.
Chapter Forty-six
I once knew a person who spoke in dialect with an accent (IRv IN COBB)
'°There's no need really,' she said, manoeuvring herself into the passenger seat. 'I'm not short o' money, you know.'
'How long have you been waiting?'
'Long enough! Mind if I smoke T' she asked, as Morse turned left into Headley Way. 'Go ahead.'
'You want one?'
'Er, no thanks--not for me.'
'You do smoke, though. Else your wife does. Ashtray's full, innit? Think I'd make a good detective?'
'Which way's best?' asked Morse. 'Left at the White Horse.'
'Or in the White Horse, perhaps?'
'Er, no thanks--not for me,' she mimicked.
'Why's that?'
'They're not bloody open yet, that's why.' It was meant to be humorous, no doubt, but her voice was strained; and glancing sideways, Morse guessed that something was sorely wrong with her.
'Want to tell me about it?'
'Why the 'ell should I tell you?'
Morse breathed in deeply as she stubbed out her cigarette with venom. 'I think you've been in hospital overnight. I could see a bit of a white nightie peeping out of the hold-all.
The last time we met you told me you were expecting a baby, and the JR1 is where they look after babies, isn't it?
They wouldn't normally take a mum who's had a miscar-riage, though--that'd be the Churchill. But if you had a threatened miscarriage, with some internal bleeding, per-haps, then they might well get you into the JR1 for obser-vation.
That's the sort of thing a policeman gets to know, over the years. And please remember,' he added gently, 'I only asked if you wanted to tell me about it.'
