couldn't have been with Harry Repp . . . Yet she may well have been
tempted, this flaunting, raunchy woman who now dried her face and turned back
to Morse; could certainly have been tempted if one of her admirers had called
that evening for whatever reason and if she had already known that Harry Repp
was dead.
Morse watched her almost disinterestedly as she returned to the table.
'Shall I pour you that drink now?' he asked.
'Only if you'll join me.'
Quite extraordinarily. Morse gave the impression that he was quite
extraordinarily sober; and he poured their drinks gin (hers), whisky (his) -
with only a carefully camouflaged shake of the right hand.
Quietly, as gently as he could, he told her almost as much as he knew of what
had happened that day; and of the help that immediately awaited her should
she so need it: advice, comfort, counselling . . .
But she shook her head. She'd be better off with sleepin' pills than with
all that stuff. She needed nothin' of that. She'd be copin' OK, given a
chance. Independent, see? Never wanted to share any worryin' with anyone.
Loner most of her life, she'd been; ever since she'd been a teenager . . .
A tear ran hurriedly down her right cheek, and Morse handed her a
handkerchief he'd washed and ironed himself.
'We ought to ring your GP: it's the usual thing.'
She blew her nose noisily and wiped the moisture from her eyes. You go now.
I'll be fine. '
'We'll need a statement from you soon.'
'Course.'
'You'll stay here .. .?'
Before she could reply the phone rang, and she moved into the hallway to
answer it.
'Hello?' 'You've got the wrong number.'
'You've got the -wrong number.'
Had she replaced the receiver with needless haste? Morse didn't know.
'Not one of those obscene calls?'
'No.'
'Best to be on the safe side, though.' Giving her no chance to obstruct his
sudden move. Morse picked up the receiver, dialled 1471, and duly noted the
number given.
She had said nothing during this brief interlude, but now proceeded to give
her views on one of the most recent developments in telephonic technology:
'It'll soon be a tricky of thing conductin' some illicit liaison over the
phone.'
Morse smiled, feeling delight and surprise in such elegant vocabulary.
'As I was saying, you'll stay here?'
She looked at him unblinking, eye to eye.
'You could always call occasionally to make sure. Inspector.'
For some little while they stood together on the inner side of the front door.
'You know ... It doesn't hit you for a start, does it? You just don't take
it in. But it's true, isn't it? He's dead. Harry's dead.'
Morse nodded.
'You'll be all right, though. Like you said, you can cope. You're a tough
girl.'
'Oh God! He kept talkin' and talkin' about getting' in bed with me again.
Been a long time for him and for me.'
'I understand.'
'You really think you do?'
Her cheeks were dry now, un furrowed by a single tear. Yet Morse knew that
she probably understood as much as he did about those Virgilian 'tears of
things'. And for that moment he felt a deep compassion, as with the gentlest
touch he laid his right hand briefly on her shoulder, before walking slowly
161
along that amateurishly concreted path that led towards the road.
Once in the car. Morse turned to Sergeant Dixon: 'Well?'
'Light went off upstairs soon as you rung the bell, sir.'
'Sure of that?'
'Gospel.'
'Anyone leave, do you think?'
'Must a' been out the back if they did.'
'What about the cars parked here?'
'I took a list, like you said. Mostly local residents. I've checked with
HQ.'
'Mostly?'
'There was an old Dreg Volvo parked at the far end there. Not there any
longer though.'
'Andr Dixon grinned as happily as if he were contemplating a plate of
doughnuts.
'Car owned by someone from Lower Swinstead. You'll never guess who.
Landlord o' the Maiden's Arms!'
Morse, appearing to assimilate this new intelligence without undue surprise,
handed over the telephone number of the (hitherto) un traced caller who had
just rung Debbie Richard- son; and could hear each end of the conversation
perfectly clearly as Dixon spoke with HQ once more.
The call had been made from Lower Swinstead.
From the Maiden's Arms.
162
FR1;chapter thirty-five The trouble about always trying to preserve the
health of the body is that it is so difficult to do without destroying the
