health of the mind (G. K. Chesterton) at 9. 20 a. m. on Monday, 27 July,
as he sat in the out- patients' lounge at the Oxford Diabetes Centre at the
Radcliffe Infirmary, Morse reflected on the uncoordinated hectic enquiries
which had occupied many of his colleagues for the whole of the previous day.
He had himself made no contribution whatsoever to the accumulating data thus
garnered, suffering as he was from one long horrendous hangover. Because of
this, he had most solemnly abjured all alcohol for the rest of his life; and
indeed had made a splendid start to such long- term abstinence until early
evening, when his brain told him that he was never going to cope with the
present case without recourse, in moderate quantities, to his faithful
Glenfiddich.
Several key facts now seemed reasonably settled. Paddy Flynn had been knifed
to death at around noon the previous Friday; Harry Repp had died in very
similar fashion about two or three hours later. Flynn had probably died
instantaneously. Repp had met a slower end, almost certainly dying from the
outpouring of blood that so copiously had covered the earlier blood in the
back of the car, and quite certainly had been dead when someone, somewhere,
had lugged the messy corpse into the boot of the same car. No sign of any
weapon; only 163
blood blood blood. And, of course, prints galore far too
many of them sub imposed imposed, and superimposed everywhere. The vehicle's
owner had allowed his second wife and his three step-children regular access
to his latest super- charged model, and fingerprint elimination was going to
be a lengthy business. Even lengthier perhaps would be the analysis by
boffins back at Forensics of the hairs and threads collected on the sticky
strips the SO COs had taped over every square centimetre of the vehicle's
upholstery.
Yet in spite of so many potential leads. Morse felt dubious (as did Dr
Hobson) about their actual value. Too many cooks could spoil the broth, and
too many crooks could easily spoil an investigation. For the moment, it was
a question of waiting.
As Morse was waiting in the waiting room now . . .
On the day before, the Sunday, Morse had woken up, literally and
metaphorically, to the fact that he should have been keeping an accurate
record of his blood-sugar levels for the previous month.
Thus it was that he had taken four such readings that day: 12. 2; 9. 9; 22.
6; 16. 4. Although realizing that he could never hope for an average
anywhere near the 4 5 range normal for non-diabetic people, he was
nevertheless somewhat disturbed by his findings, and immediately halved that
very high third reading to 11. 3. Then he'd extrapolated backwards as
intelligently as he could for the previous six days, with the result that a
reasonably satisfactory set of readings, neatly tabulated in his small
handwriting, was now folded inside his blue appointment-card.
He was ready.
He had finally managed to produce a 'specimen', although inaccuracy of aim
had resulted in a puddle on the unisex-loo's floor; and the dreaded
weighing-in was over.
And so was the waiting.
'Mr Morse?'
The white-coated, slimly attractive brunette led the way to a consulting
room, her name, black lettering on a white card, on the door: dr sarah
harrison.
'You knew my mother a bit, I believe,' she said as she opened a buff- coloured
folder.
Morse nodded, but made no comment.
A quarter of an hour later the medical side of matters was over.
Morse had not attempted to be overly clever. Just short and reasonably
honest in his replies.
'These readings are they genuine?'
'Partly, yes.'
'You could lose a stone or two, you know.'
'I agree.'
'But you won't.'
'Probably not.'
'How's the drink going?'
'Rather too quickly.'
'It's your liver, you know.'
'Yes. '
'Any problems with sex?'
