minutes later Lewis was through to an exultant Andrews, who wasted no
time in breaking the dramatic news: there was a 'hit' - yip pee - a match of
fingerprints! In the car.
Two sets definite, distinct. The prints of J. Barren, Builder of Lower
Swinstead!
As he walked back to the canteen (Morse's phone still
engaged) Lewis
reflected on his brief exchange of views with Andrews.
Morse had asked for any news to be communicated to him direct, and if
necessary at his home number, though as both men knew there'd been little
chance of that. Yet the situation was now perfectly clear; and Lewis freely
conceded that Morse's early conviction that Barren had been involved in the
murders seemed wholly vindicated. No room for more than three people in the
cluttered stolen car, surely? And since neither Flynn nor Repp had stepped
out of that car alive, the discovery of that third set of prints, Barron's,
was of momentous significance: Barron himself had been in the car. The logic
sounded pretty childish when it was put like that but. .
Andrews's guess had been that Morse had suddenly fallen into some deep
slumber after well, after whatever; and Dixon's guess that he'd been watching
TV with the volume too high. But the latter explanation seemed unlikely.
Morse could (Lewis succumbed to his second unworthy thought that day) could
have purchased some pornographic video; but would he have been able to master
the operating instructions? Doubtful -especially having no children (better
still, grandchildren) to explain things to him. Morse seldom watched TV
anyway, or so he claimed. Just the news. Just occasionally.
Lewis finished his coffee, slowly coming to terms with the extraordinary news
he'd just received: that Barron was a murderer the second thing in the whole
tragic business that now seemed wholly incontrovertible.
He rang Morse once again. If the call wasn't answered, he would drive down
and see the situation for himself because he was getting a little worried.
The phone was ringing.
The call was answered.
262
chapter fifty-seven Ah, could thy grave, at Carthage, be!
Care not for that, and lay me where I fall!
Everywhere heard will be the judgement-call: But at God's altar, oh!
remember me (Matthew Arnold) morse opened the front door.
'And there's me hoping for a rest day, like they tell me they have in the
middle of test matches.'
But, in truth, he had not tried over hard to have much of a rest day. Early
that morning (as we have seen) he had rung Sergeant Dixon and given him a
list of duties.
At 10 a. m. he had received a middle-aged, palely intelligent gentleman
from Lloyds Bank, a guru on (inter alia) Wills, Dispositions, Codicils, and
Covenants.
'From what you tell me, Mr Morse, you're not exactly going to bequeath a
large fortune, are you? And with no relatives, no immediate depend ants no
unmanageable debts well, you might just as well write down a few things on
half a page of A4. Save yourself money that way. Do it now, if you like.
Just write a few simple sentences ' I leave the house to blank, the bank
balance to blank, the books and records to blank, the residual estate to
blank. '
That'll cover things for now and you say you do want things covered? Just
sign it, I'll witness it,
and I'll see it's carried through, in case, you
know . Then we can flesh it out a bit later. '
'No problems really then?'
'No. We shall, as a bank, charge a small commission of course. But you
expected that.'
'Oh yes, Mr Daniel. I'd expected that,' said Morse.
At 11. 15 a. m. he had taken the 2A bus down the Banbury Road as far as
Keble Road, where he alighted and walked across the Woodstock Road to the
Radcliffe Infirmary, where he was directed up to an office on the first floor.
'Yes? How can I help you?' The woman behind the desk seemed to be a fairly
