Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

his glass on to the parquet flooring.  Where it broke into many pieces.

"Ah!  Sorry about that!"

Morse rose reluctantly to fetch brush and pan from the kitchen.

"Could have been worse, though," continued Strange.  "Could have been full,

eh?"

As Morse carefully swept up the slivers of the cut-glass tumbler originally

one of a set of six (now three) which his

mother had left him he experienced an irrational anger and hatred wholly

disproportionate to the small accident which had occurred.  But he counted up

to twenty; and was gradually feeling better, even as Strange extolled the

bargain he'd seen in the Covered Market recently: glasses for only 50p apiece.

"Better not have any more Scotch, I suppose."

"Not if you're driving, sir."

"Which I'm bloody not.  I'm being driven.  And if I may say so, it's a bit

rich expecting me to take lessons in drink-driving from you!  But you're

right, we've had enough."

A further count, though this time only to ten, prolonged Morse's invariably

slow reading of the two handwritten para- graphs, and he said nothing as he

finally put the sheet aside.

It was Strange who spoke: "Perhaps, you know, on second thoughts, we might,

er .  .  .  anither wee dram?"

"Not for me, sir."

"That was meant to be the " royal we".  Morse."

Morse decided that a U-turn was merely a rational readjustment of a

previously mistaken course, and he obliged accordingly - for both of them,

with Strange's measure poured into one of the cheap-looking wine glasses he'd

bought a few weeks earlier from the Covered Market, for only 50p apiece.

"Is this' (Morse pointed to the paper) 'what our dutiful duty sergeant

transcribed from the phone calls?"

"Well, not quite, no."  (Strange seemed curiously hesitant.  ) "That's what 7

wrote down, as far as I - we could fix the exact words.  Very difficult

business when you get things second- hand, garbled--' Morse interrupted.

"No problem, surely?  We do record every- thing that comes into HQ."

"Not so easy as that.  Some of these recordings are poor-quality reception;

and when, you know, when somebody's speaking quietly, muffled sort of voice .

.  ."

Morse smiled thinly as he looked directly across at his 21

 superior officer.

"What you're telling me is that the recording equipment packed up, and

there's no trace."

"Anything mechanical packs up occasionally."

"Both occasions?"

"Both occasions."

"So all you've got to rely on is the duty-sergeant."

"Right."

"Atkinson, was that?"

"Er, yes."

"Isn't he the one who's been taken off active duties?"

"Er, yes."

"Because he's become half-deaf, I heard."

"It's not a.  joke.  Morse!  Terrible affliction, deafness."

"Would you like me to have a word with him myself?"  For some reason Morse's

smile was broader now.

"I've already, er ..  ."

"Were you at home, sir, when this anonymous caller rang you

Strange shifted uncomfortably in the chair, finally nodding slowly.

"I thought you were ex-directory, sir."

"You thought right."

"How did he know your number then?"

' 'ow the 'ell do I know!  "

"The only people who'd know would be your close friends, family .  .  .

"" And people at HQ/ added Strange.

"What are you suggesting?"

"Well, for starters ... have you got my telephone number?"

Morse walked out into the entrance hall and returned with a white-plastic

telephone index, on which he pressed the letter "S', then pushed the list of

names and numbers there under the half-lenses now perched on Strange's nose.

"Not changed, has it?"

'dot an extra "five" in front of it.  But you'd know that,

wouldn't you?  " The eyes over the top of the lenses looked shrewdly and

steadily up at Morse.

"Yes.  It's just the same with my number."

"Do you think I should get a tap on my phone?"

"Wouldn't do any harm, if he rings again."

"When he rings again."

"Hoaxer!  Sure to be."

"Well-informed hoaxer, then."  Strange pointed to the paper still on the arm

of Morse's chair.

"A bit in the know, wouldn't you say?

Someone on the inside, perhaps?  You couldn't have found one or two things

referred to there in any of the press reports.  Only the police'd know.  "

"And the murderer," added Morse.

"And the murderer," repeated Strange.

Morse looked down once more at the notes Strange had made in his

appropriately outsized, spidery handwriting: Call One That Lower Swinstead

woman nickers up and down like a yo-yo - a lot of paying clients and a few

non-paying clients like me.  Got nowhere much with the case did you

incompetant lot.  For starters you wondered if it was one of the locals,

didn't you?  Then for the main course you wasted most of your time with the

husband.  Then you didn't have any sweet because you'd run out of money.  Am

I right?  Idiots, the lot of you.  No!  Don't interrupt!  (Line suddenly

dead.  ) Call Two Now don't interrupt this time, see?  Don't say a

dicky-bird!  Like I said, that woman had more pricks than a second-hand

dart-board, mine included, but it's not me who had anything to do with it.

Want a clue?  There's somebody coming out of the clammer in a fortnight

listen!  He's one of your locals, 23

 isn't he?  See what I mean?  You