The Remorseful Day Read Free Page B

like trying to remember a name: the more you think about it the more the bloody thing sinks below the horizon. But once you forget about it, once you come to it a second time, fresh—”
    “I've never come to it a
first
time, apart from those early couple of days—you know that. I was on another case! And not particularly in the pink either, was I? Not all that long out of hospital myself.”
    “Morse! I've
got
to reopen this case. You know why.”
    “Try someone else!”
    “I want you to think about it.”
    “Look.” A note of exasperation had crept into Morse's voice. “I'm on furlough—I'm tired—I'm sleeping badly—I drink too much—I'm beholden to noone—I've no relatives left—I can't see all that much purpose in life—”
    “You'll have me in tears in a minute.”
    “I'm only trying to say one thing, sir. Count me out!”
    “You won't even
think
about it?”
    “No.”
    “You do realize that I don't
need
to plead with you about this? I don't want to pull rank on you, Morse, but just remember that I
can.
All right?”
    “Try someone else, sir, as I say.”
    “OK. Forget what I just said. Let's put it this way. It's a favor I'm asking, Morse—a personal favor.”
    “What makes you think I'll still be here?”
    “What's that supposed to mean?”
    But Morse, it appeared, was barely listening as he stared out of the window on to his little patch of greenery where a small bird with a grey crown and darkish-brown bars across its back had settled beneath the diminishing column of peanuts.
    “Look!” (He handed the binoculars to Strange.) “Few nuts—and some of these rare species decide to take up special residence. I shall have to check up on the plumage but…”
    Strange had already focused the binoculars with, as it seemed to Morse, a practiced familiarity.
    “Know anything about bird-watching, sir?”
    “More than you, I shouldn't wonder.”
    “Beautiful little fellow, isn't he?”
    “She!”
    “Pardon?”
    “Immature female of the species.”
    “What
species?”
    “Passer domesticus
, Morse. Can't you recognize a bloody house sparrow when you see one?”
    For the fourteenth time Morse found himself reappraising the quirkily contradictory character that was Chief Superintendent Strange.
    “And you'll at least
think
about things? You can promise me that, surely?”
    Morse nodded weakly.
    And Strange smiled comfortably. “I'm glad about that. And you'll be pleased about one thing. You'll have Sergeant Lewis along with you. I… did have a word with him, just before I came here, and he's—”
    “You mean you've already …”
    Strange flicked a stubby finger against his empty, expensive, cut-glass tumbler: “A little celebration, perhaps?”

Chapter Four
    He and the sombre, silent Spirit met
—
They knew each other both for good and ill;
Such was their power, that neither could forget
His former friend and future foe; but still
There was a high, immortal, proud regret
In either's eye, as if ‘twere less their will
Than destiny to make the eternal years
Their date of war, and their “Champ Clos” the spheres.
    (Byron,
The Vision of Judgment
, XXXII)
    It is possible for persons to be friendly toward each other without being friends. It is also possible for persons to be friends without being friendly toward each other. The relationship between Morse and Strange had always been in the latter category.
    “Read through this as well!” Strange's tone was semiperemptory as he thrust a folded sheet of ruled A4 across at Morse, in the process knocking 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