crowned, as it had been, with yet another significant triumph in the Yvonne
Harrison murder case.
For his part. Strange had spoken reasonably wittily and blessedly briefly,
and had included a personal tribute to Chief Inspector Morse: 'I don't think
we're going to see his like again in a hurry, and people of lesser intellect
like me should be grateful for that. And it's good to have with us here his
faithful friend and, er, drinking-companion' (muted amusement) ' Sergeant
Lewis' (Hear-Hear!
all round).
'Morse had no funeral service and no memorial service, just as he wished; but
I make no apology for remembering him here this evening because, quite
simply, he had the most brilliant mind I ever encountered in the whole of my
police career . .. Well now. All that remains for me is to thank you for
coming along to see me off; to say thank you for
the lawn-mower and the book' (he held aloft a copy of Sir David Attenbo
rough's The Life of Birds) 'and to remind you there's a splendid buffet next
door, including a special plate of doughnuts for one of our number. ' (Much
laughter, and much subsequent applause.) Lewis had clapped as much as the
rest of them, but he had no wish to stay too long amid the back-slapping and
the reminiscences; and soon made his way upstairs to the deserted canteen
where he sat in a corner drinking an orange juice, wishing to be alone with
his thoughts for a while . . .
The conclusion to the Harrison case had proved pretty much, though far from
exactly, as Morse had predicted. Two hours after her father had been taken
to HQ for questioning, Sarah Harrison (refusing to see her father) had
presented herself voluntarily and made a full confession to the murder of her
mother, making absolutely no apology for anything except for causing her
father (she knew it! ) all that pain and agony of spirit. What would happen
to her now, she said, would not really amount to imprisonment at all; but, in
a curious sort of way, to a kind of liberation.
And perhaps it had been much the same, albeit rather later, for Frank
Harrison himself, who (less eloquently than his daughter) had by degrees
unburdened himself of his manifold sins and wickednesses, including the
subsequent murder of his wife's lover, John Barren . .
His actions, after receiving his daughter's frantic, frenetic phone call on
the night of Yvonne murder, had been straight- forward. Train to Oxford;
then taxi to Lower Swinstead, whence Barren had long since fled; and where
Repp, though still around, remained unseen. Harrison had paid off Flynn,
expecting him to drive away forthwith; thereafter very quickly dispatching
his distraught daughter home. Coolly and ruthlessly he'd taken over.
Confusion! - that was the only hope; 367
and the only plan. Yvonne was
already handcuffed, presumably for some bizarre bondage session, and what a
blessing that had been! He'd tied a gag lightly around her mouth; gone on to
the patio and smashed in the glass of the french window from the outside
before unlocking it; he'd turned the lights on, every one of them, and yanked
out the TV and the telephone leads, both upstairs and down; and finally, with
illogical desperation; he'd decided to activate the burglar alarm, since even
if no one heard it, it would be recorded (so he believed).
He'd done enough. Almost enough. Just the police now. He had to ring the
police, immediately; and suddenly he realized he couldn't ring them he'd just
made sure of that himself. But there was his mobile, the mobile on which
he'd already rung Sarah several times from the train and once from Flynn's
taxi. He could always lose it though: and the longer he waited to ring for
