to. And I'll tell you exactly why I'm not putting that idiot Dixon in
charge. Because I've already put somebody else in charge you and Lewis!
Remember? '
'Lewis maybe, sir, but I can't do it.'
Feeling most uncomfortable during these exchanges, Lewis watched the colour
rise in Strange's cheeks as several times his mouth opened and closed like
that of a stranded goldfish.
'You do realize you've got little say in this matter. Chief Inspector? I am
not pleading with you to undertake an investigation for Thames Valley CID.
What I am doing, as your superior officer, is telling you that you've been
assigned to a particular duty. That's all. And that's enough.'
'No. It's not enough.'
For several minutes the conversation continued in similar vein before Strange
delivered his diktat: 'I see .. . Well, in that case .. . you give me no
option, do you? I shall have to report this interview to the Chief Con-
stable. And you know what that'll mean.'
Morse rose slowly to his feet, signalling Lewis to do the same.
'I
don't think you're going to report this interview to the Chief Constable or
to the Assistant Chief Constable or to anyone else, for that matter, are you,
Superintendent Strange? '
chapter sixteen The vilest deeds like poison weeds Bloom well in prison-air,
It is only what is good in Man That wastes anil withers there: Pale Anguish
keeps the heavy gate, And the warder is Despair (Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of
Reading Gaol) until comparatively recently, Harry Repp had associated the
word 'porridge' chiefly with the tide of the TV comedy series and not with
oatmeal stirred in boiling water. For as long as he could remember, his
breakfasts had consisted of Corn Flakes covered successively '(as his
beer-gut had ballooned) with full, semi-skimmed, and finally the thinly
insipid fully skimmed varieties of milk. It was his common-law wife, Debbie,
who'd insisted: 'you keep pouring booze into your belly every night and it's
low-fat milk for breakfast! Under- stood? '
So there'd been little choice, had there? Until almost a year ago, when he
had come to realize that the TV title was wholly appropriate, with porridge
(occasionally ill-stirred in hike-warm water) providing the basic breakfast
diet for prison inmates.
Normally Repp would have accepted the proffered dollop of porridge; but he
asked only for two sausages and a spoonful of baked beans as he and his
co-prisoners from A Wing stood 69
queuing at the food counter at 8 a. m.
He had read that prisoners in the condemned cell were always given the break-
fast of their choice; but he felt he could himself have eaten little in such
circumstances with the twin spectres of death and terror so very close behind
him. And even now, back in his cell, he managed only one mouthful of beans
before pushing his plate away from him. He felt agitated and apprehensive,
although he found it difficult to account for such emotions. After all, he
wasn't awaiting the Governor and the flunkey from the Home Office and the
Prison Chaplain . . and the Hangman.
Far from it. It was that day, Friday 24 July, that was set for his release
from HM Prison, Bullingdon.
At 8. 35 a. m. ' still in his prison clothing, he heard steps outside the
cell, heard his name called, and was on his feet immediately, picking up the
carrier bag in which he'd already placed his personal belongings: a
battered-looking radio, a few letters still in their grubby envelopes, and a
'sexy-western' paperback that had clearly commanded regular re-reading. '
Let's hope we don't meet again, mate! '
one of the prison officers had volunteered as the double doors were unlocked
and Repp was escorted for the last time from the spur of A Wing.
At 8. 50 a. m. '
