For the first few days, Morse forced round the prison, a whirlwind of vengeful fury. He felt sure that it wouldn't take too long for someone to sort out the mess, and work out that he hadn't even been in the vicinity of the murder for which he had been arrested. However, hours turned into days, days to weeks with no sign of any let up, and no news from the outside. Morse refused to let himself think the worst – the only thing that got him up in the morning was the vague shred of hope, that somehow someone would work a miracle.
At the start, Morse's head was a web of memories, each a still shot frame, flicking round in a never ending film reel. Thursday and Morse confirming 'until the end'; Thursday by the door, gun extended; a shot, Thursday falling to the floor; Deare's arrogant, sneering face; Thursday, pale and lank, being loaded onto an ambulance; being bundled into the back of a police car. After that, all Morse remembered was a blur of unknown county faces, paper forms, prison admittance procedures then the inside of his cell. The only words that had left his mouth since his arrest were questions about Thursday, no one had told him anything. He had learned to compartmentalise his thoughts – all thoughts relating to Thursday had been firmly packed into the locked drawer. He couldn't think the worst, he had to believe that Thursday had pulled through, and would start working to spring him.
The prison wardens had wasted no time in letting all the inmates know who Morse was, and where he came from. There had been a heart stopping moment when a burly gang had cornered him in the laundry, but a well-timed fire alarm had saved Morse from a good beating.
The door to Morse's cell banged open, bringing in the grim faced warden and a tall, well-built prisoner that Morse vaguely recognised from the canteen. The man put down his meagre belongings on the top bunk, and threw out a hand to Morse.
"Brown, Mike Brown."
"Morse," Morse said, hesitantly taking the man's hand. He had worked out fairly soon that it was better not to bite the hand punched. He also had the growing feeling that he had met Brown before, but he couldn't quite put his finger on where.
"I'm sorry Mr Brown, but I feel like I know you from somewhere?"
Brown snorted. "First person in here to call me Mr. First person to acknowledge me as a person, we're just case numbers to the rest of them. They said you murdered a police officer. It wasn't you though, was it?"
"Wha… how do you know?" Morse looked up at him, astonished.
"I can just tell these things," Brown gave a wry smile. "It wasn't me that done mine either. Some county cop shopped me as a wife beater, and the sleazy bastard lawyer tore me to shreds in court."
"County…" Morse was sifting through his memories, the one he needed still elusively out of his grasp.
"Yeah Witney, back in February. The Brown murder, Stape wood. You were on the front desk."
It all clicked into place in Morse's head. DI Church had deliberately kept him out of the investigation, but he had picked up on the main details. A woman had been found dead in a local wood, killed by a blow to the head. The murder weapon, a socket wrench, had been found in the husband's toolbox. Open and shut case. Morse had tried to point out that a wrench was more likely to be used by a mechanic than a carpenter, but Church had thrown him from his office and slammed the door in his face.
"I… I'm really sorry Mr Brown. I tried to help you, but I wasn't allowed."
"Not your fault mate. Anyways, I've got my fingers in a few pies if you get my drift. Done a few odd jobs here and there, earned a few favours. They leave me alone now; they know I'm the one who fixes things. Stick by me and you'll do fine."
"Thank you for your concern Mr Brown, but I don't need protecting."
Brown barked out a laugh at this, a sarcastic grimace twisting his face. "So what was that cosy little gathering in the laundry the other day then? Knitting club?"
"How did you know about that?"
Browns wide smile was genuine this time.
"Who do you think set the fire alarm off?"