Morse had been intending to go straight home, but his car seemed to have other ideas, and he found himself driving around aimlessly for over an hour, before pulling into the car park of a pub not far from Lewis's house. It was just after half twelve, but Morse had been up for most of the night anyway, so it felt like a good time for beer. He went to the bar and waited patiently to be served, ordering a pint of house ale. Leaning against the bar, he took a deep draught of the beer – it was hoppy, with a hint of honey, and a strong, bitter aftertaste. He enjoyed it, feeling the warming effect as he turned his mind to the puzzle of their clever, arrogant murderer. He was deep in thought and deep into his second pint when he was suddenly interrupted.
"Excuse me, sir," said a voice to his right, "would you happen to have the time?"
Morse glanced across at the dark-haired man who had spoken, suddenly shaken out of his train of thought.
"Oh! Yes, of course," he said, checking his watch, "it's just gone one o'clock."
"Thank you," said the man, with a smile, "left my watch at home. I'd forget my own head if it wasn't attached…"
The man turned his back and strode purposefully out of the bar. Morse turned away, irritated at the minor interruption. He was annoyed that the man had broken his chain of thought just as it was getting going, and… the man. His face was familiar. Too familiar. Morse's eyes widened fractionally – it was a very good match to the photo-fit put together with Wingate, the boat keeper… aside from the hair, and hair could be dyed…
Morse abandoned his pint only half-drunk, and dashed out of the bar, in time to see a red Ford Fiesta peal out of the car park at high speed. He jumped into his own car, gunned the engine, stalled it, swore loudly, fired it up again, hauled it out of the car park… and stopped. There was no sign of the Fiesta and he had no idea which direction it had gone in. Morse took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He told himself that he was probably seeing things, and that the man had been an innocent business man asking the time… yet he could not put his mind at rest.
He found himself driving back to Lewis's house. He was irritated with himself, and when he was irritated, he needed a drink and someone to shout at who wouldn't mind too much, and might actually say something that would help – and Morse knew that he would find both of these things at Lewis's house. He parked outside the front door, went up, rang the buzzer, and then felt a small pang of guilt as he remembered that he'd given the sergeant a day off sick, and the younger man had already had a shock that morning. He shrugged off the feeling, turning his collar up against the autumn breeze. Irritably, he pressed the doorbell again, wondering if the sergeant was asleep.
He heard coughing on the other side of the door, and the door opened on a security chain. Lewis recognised him, and quickly opened the door, letting him in, closing it firmly behind him. Morse suddenly felt bad for intruding again, but swallowed the feeling quickly. Truth be told, he was rattled by what had happened at the pub.
"Lewis," he said, "when the parcel was delivered earlier, did you see any cars in the street that you didn't recognise?"
"No, sir," Lewis shook his head, leaning heavily against the wall, "sorry… look, do you mind if we go through and… and sit down, sir… I…"
He broke off, coughing, smothering it with a handkerchief. Morse was appalled at his appearance – the younger man was pale, sweating and shaking, and he did not seem to be able to catch his breath.
"Yes, I think we'd better," he said, following Lewis into the living room, "are you sure you're alright, Lewis?"
"Fine, sir," Lewis dropped heavily onto the settee, trying to suppress a cough, "You've just missed our Val – when I told her what had happened, she packed three bags and went straight off to get the kids from school."
"Good," Morse nodded, as he located the drinks cabinet in the corner, "may I?"
Lewis nodded, wordlessly, leaning back in the chair, pressing one hand to his chest as he coughed into a handkerchief, Morse poured himself a measure of scotch, which he had a feeling Lewis only kept in the house for Morse's occasional visits there. He sat down in an armchair, and recounted to Lewis what had happened at the pub.
"Are you sure it was him?" wheezed Lewis, glancing over at him, a pained look on his face.
"Not entirely," Morse admitted, "but the comment he made about forgetting his own head… it rang a little too close to home…"
Lewis tried to speak, but broke off, coughing. Morse leaned forward in alarm, as the sergeant fought to catch his breath, wheezing horribly. He eventually managed to take a series of quick, shallow breaths, wiping his mouth with the handkerchief held in a shaking hand. Morse stared at him, noting the glassy look on his face, and the blue tint to his lips – cyanosis. Morse had seen enough victims of suffocation and strangulation to recognise that Lewis was not getting enough air into his lungs.
"I think we'd better get you to a doctor," he said, firmly, "come on, I'll drive you there…"
He watched as Lewis carefully stood up, and then, when the Sergeant stumbled, Morse grabbed his arm, supporting him as they crossed over to Morse's car. Lewis climbed into the passenger side, coughing weakly, slumped in the seat. Morse got into the driver's seat, and inserted the key into the ignition. He jumped, when the door behind him opened, and someone else jumped into the car.
"Don't make a sound, don't make a move," said a low voice, "I have a gun aimed at your back, Inspector. Now… do exactly as I tell you…"
~*~
Morse drove, going further out into the countryside. Eventually, the man made him pull over next to a field. He then got out of the car, keeping the gun trained on Morse at all times. He tied Morse's wrists with a cable tie, and then tied them to the steering wheel. He then dragged Lewis out of the car, and half-carried him off into a field. Morse's mind began to play through horrific scenarios as to what was going to happen to them. All too soon, the man came back, severed the cable tie binding Morse to the wheel, and pulled him out of the car.
"Where are we going?" Morse asked, unable to resist the pressure of the gun in his ribs.
The man did not reply as Morse was roughly pushed over a fence, onto a canal tow path. His heart sank, when he saw the boat moored nearby. Sure enough, he was ushered awkwardly aboard, and shoved down into the interior, his hands still bound. He stumbled, fell, and went sprawling across the floor. Moments later, he felt a vibration run through the boat as the engine started up, and Morse felt the movement as the boat pulled away from the side and began a slow journey down the canal.
Morse managed to push himself to his hands and knees, and heard a muffled noise. He glanced up, and gaped in surprise. He found himself staring straight into the terrified eyes of Dr Russell. She was bound and gagged, curled up on the floor. Morse quickly crossed over to her, and carefully pulled the cloth gag from her mouth.
"Morse! Thank God you're here," she gasped, "what's going on?"
"I was going to ask you the same question, but I think the answer is all too obvious…" Morse replied, glancing around at the interior of the boat, noting the copious amounts of plastic sheeting on the floor.
He managed to get to his feet, and saw a pair of wire cutters on the kitchen unit. He awkwardly managed to pick them up, and took them across to Dr Russell. He managed to cut through the ties that bound her wrists behind her back. She then took them off him, and cut the ties around her ankles and the one around his wrists. They both managed to get up, and Morse took a look around as Dr Russell knelt beside the bench-seat on which Lewis was slumped, apparently unconscious.
Morse investigated the portholes and the door at the end of the boat. The door was locked tight, and the portholes had been painted out with white paint. They, too, were locked. He turned back, the reality of the situation starting to sink in.
"How did you end up here?" Morse asked, keeping his voice low.
"He grabbed me as I was leaving Lewis's house – put me in the boot of my own car, can you believe it?" Russell sounded as if she didn't know whether to be afraid or affronted, "I've been here for some time, I'm afraid…"
She turned to look at Lewis, and Morse frowned. He seemed to be unconscious, and Morse could hear him struggling to breathe. Russell gently rested her hand on his forehead, and then rested her head on his chest, listening carefully for a few minutes. Lewis suddenly stirred, coughed, groaned, and mumbled something, feverishly incoherent.
"It's not a cold, is it, doctor?" Morse said, quietly, matter-of-factly.
"No," Russell shook her head, "I'd say – and this is a guess – bacterial pneumonia, from the canal water, I should think. He should be in hospital."
She straightened up and glanced around, retrieving a cushion from the opposite bench, using it as a pillow, and finding a blanket in a storage box under the seat, shook it out and draped it over the semi-conscious Lewis.
"Is there anything we can do?" Morse asked, quietly, feeling somewhat helpless.
"Not much," Russell admitted, her voice tight with worry, "he needs antibiotics – and probably oxygen treatment. I can try to keep the fever down, but I'm afraid he's somewhat more alive than my usual patients…"
She crossed over to the kitchen, and found a tea-towel. She ran it under the cold tap, wrung it out, folded it up, and gently mopped Lewis's face with it, and then draped it over his forehead, murmuring to him under her breath as she did so. Morse made another tour of the boat, but could not find any way out, and nothing that could helpfully be used as a weapon.
"Maybe we could overpower him," Russell suggested, though she did not sound confident.
"Maybe," Morse agreed, non-committal, "where's he taking us, anyway – and why us?"
"Some remote spot, I imagine," Russell shuddered, "he's, ah… already made his intentions clear as far as I'm concerned…"
"Let's not think about that just yet," Morse cut in, recalling finding several bin bags and cable ties in the otherwise empty kitchen drawers, mentally shying away from the thought.
Russell gave a shiver that had little to do with the chill in the air; "We may not have that luxury for long…"
~*~
