CHAPTER 29 -Something's French

Part 1

After advising Morse not to dwell on the conundrum of Vera Cooper's crossword puzzle and choice of books but get himself a good night's sleep, it was ironic that it was Jim Strange who was the one to suffer a fitful night. He spent a large part of the night tossing and turning, unable to relax properly and just drift off slowly to sleep as he would normally have no difficulty doing. He put it down to the excitement of his impending date with this friend of Joan's, the exotic-sounding Claudine, mixed with a healthy dose of nerves about how well he would cope with being paired off with a young French girl. He spent ages lying on his back trying to remember some of the French words and phrases he had been taught at school, without much success.

He could recall simple words and expressions such as 'Bonjour', 'Merci beaucoup' and 'Au revoir', all delivered of course in an atrocious accent but anything more complex and helpful than those limited contributions remained stubbornly tucked away in the darkest and most inaccessible corners of his memory. His heart sank as he anticipated making a complete fool of himself in front of the others and he began to pray fervently that Joan hadn't been exaggerating when she claimed that Claudine spoke perfect English otherwise it could turn out to be a very uncomfortable and painful evening ahead. The idea did occur to him, after several hours of fruitless racking of his brains, to see if he might be able to buy a simple French-English phrase book in town the next day and his mood lightened considerably after that thought had occurred to him and he soon dropped off to sleep thereafter.

Upon waking up the next morning, however, Strange was immediately beset with grave doubts and fears all over again and he was in such a state of nervousness and panic that he almost couldn't face breakfast. Almost but not quite. Nothing in life would ever be so bad that couldn't be improved by a nice crispy bacon sandwich to start the day off, he reminded himself. By the time he had sat down and started tucking in, Morse had joined him in the kitchen and made himself a bowl of cereal, some toast and a glass of fresh orange juice.

'Did you crack the puzzle in the end?' he asked Morse indistinctly as he munched greedily on his greasy bacon sandwich. 'Any Eureka moments in the middle of the night?'

Morse pulled a face and shook his head. 'Sadly, no.'

'Never mind,' said Strange sympathetically. 'Something will come to you, you mark my words.'

Morse forced out a wry grin and thanked Strange for his confidence and cheery words of comfort.

'Look, matey,' Strange said with a considerable degree of hesitation before deciding to take the plunge and just ask Morse outright. 'I don't suppose you have a French-English phrase book, by any chance, do you?'

Morse gave Strange a bewildered, puzzled look before answering. 'Um, well, yes, as it happens. I think I have got one tucked away somewhere. Why do you ask?'

Strange didn't want to give Morse all the details of his forthcoming double date and decided he could be economical with the truth without feeling he was completely deceiving his colleague. 'Believe it or not, I've actually got a date tonight.'

Morse stared hard at Strange for a few seconds before responding. 'Oh, right. Well, congratulations. Who's the lucky girl?'

'That's the problem,' said Strange with an embarrassed half smile. 'She's French. Goes by the name of Claudine.'

'Can't see what the problem is, Jim,' replied Morse with a frown. 'Most guys would kill to go out on a date with a French girl. What is it? Doesn't she speak much English?'

'Oh, she speaks English alright. Trouble is, I don't speak any French. Well, not beyond 'Bonjour' and 'Merci', that is.'

The penny suddenly dropped on Morse as the reason for Strange's odd request became crystal clear. 'Oh, I see. Um…well, yes, I'll try and dig it out before I go.'

'Thanks, matey. That would be a great help. And…not a word to anyone else, please. Just in case it doesn't work out. I don't want everyone down at the nick getting to hear about it.'

'Sure,' nodded Morse. 'I won't say a word. You can trust me.'

The two finished their breakfast, mostly in silence and went off to their own rooms to prepare to leave. Morse was as good as his word and handed over to Strange a slim volume, in paperback, of useful French-English phrases and expressions which he had had cause to use once or twice when he had travelled to France on holiday over the past few years. Strange thanked him again before shooting out of the house, leaving Morse to ponder over whether he should call Veronica now to see if she was feeling any better or wait until a little bit later.

Part 2

George Fancy was enjoying a better morning than he had the previous day when he had been the butt of everyone's jokes. True, the lads down the nick still did occasionally burst into song with the odd whispered rendition of 'Row, row, row your boat' but they were relatively small pickings compared to the avalanche of choruses he had had to endure on Monday. He was able to shrug off these sporadic renditions with commendable equanimity although he was still desperate to find out who had leaked the story of the river collision. He decided that if he got the opportunity, he would seek a private audience with Morse and ask him, in the politest and most diplomatic way possible, if it was he who had spilled the beans, even if it had been unintentionally.

Luck was on his side that morning as, not long after Morse had arrived in the station with DCI Thursday, Fancy grabbed the chance to speak with Morse over by the drinks machine.

'Morse? Can I have a word?'

'You'd better be quick, then,' replied Morse with an impassive glance at his junior colleague. I've got a lot on my plate at the moment, as should you, too.'

'Right,' nodded Fancy, a touch hesitantly and he coughed nervously as he steeled himself to seek a direct answer to an equally direct question.

'It's just that I wanted to know…. well, I mean, I'm sure you didn't and even if you did…. well, perhaps you didn't realise you'd done it or…didn't mean to say anything…'

The young constable was failing miserably at getting straight to the point, so afraid was he that Morse would take offence at his suggestion that a senior colleague had grassed on him to one or more of his mates down at the station.

'What are you on about, Fancy?' Morse demanded angrily and his irritation at Fancy's huffing and puffing and general fannying about was all too plain to see. 'Get to the point, will you? I haven't got time for all this humming and hawing.'

'Sorry, Morse. I just don't want you to take offense at what I'm trying to ask you. The last thing I want to do is upset you.'

'Well, you won't know if it will offend me unless you spit it out, will you? So, get on with it.' Morse's face was a picture of annoyance and impatience, tinged with a hint of bemusement and bewilderment.

'Ok, here goes,' said Fancy, taking a deep breath before he took the plunge and spat out the dreaded question with as much sensitivity and decorum as he could muster. 'Did you mention anything about our little incident on Sunday afternoon to anyone in the station?'

'No, replied Morse instantly, his brow furrowed with curiosity. 'Of course not. Why on earth would I do that? What makes you think I might have done it, Fancy?'

Fancy briefly recounted to Morse the embarrassing moments of mockery he had endured at the hands of his mates in the office the previous day and waited nervously to see what Morse's reaction would be. To his surprise and utter relief, Morse's expression changed from one of considerable annoyance and impatience to one of sympathy and empathy for Fancy's difficult situation.

'Well, I don't know who it was who grassed on you, Fancy but I can assure you it wasn't me. I wouldn't do that.'

'I was sure it wasn't you, Morse but I just needed to check with you. The trouble is, I can't work out who did the dirty on me. I know it wasn't Shirley…I mean WPC Trewlove so.. who could it have been?'

'Well, it wasn't Veronica either, if that what you're wondering. She doesn't know anybody here, other than me.'

'No, I couldn't see how it could have been her. So who the hell was it Morse? I just don't understand it!'

Morse considered this tricky question for a few moments in silence before an idea occurred to him. 'You know, it's possible one of the other lads from the station might have seen what happened. One or two of them are quite keen rowers, you know. It's possible a couple of them might have been out on the river at the time when our punts crashed into each other and they saw the whole thing from the shore or from slightly further down river.'

Fancy's eyes stared wide and big and his mouth dropped open as he mulled over Morse's possible explanation. 'Oh my God, Morse! You could be right. Maybe that's how they all found out about it.'

'It's got to be worth following up, at least,' suggested Morse, pleased to be able to put Fancy's worried mind at rest. 'In your own time, though. Not while you're working, Fancy, do you hear me?'

Fancy nodded furiously, anxious not to get in Morse's bad books again, thanked Morse profusely for his troubles and skipped away back to his work. Morse followed Fancy with his eyes as he disappeared from view and shook his head in amazement. That young lad has an awful lot to learn, he thought. And not just about being a detective, either.

Part 3

Everyone was hard at work on the Fraser murder enquiry that morning. DCI Thursday's case review the previous afternoon had grabbed everyone's attention and his words of encouragement at the conclusion had proved an inspiration, instilling all the officers on the case with a sense of purpose and a feeling of expectation that with a lot of elbow grease, determination and teamwork, they could crack the case with just a small amount of luck and good fortune added to solid police work.

Strange had made several routine enquiries and after one or two additional telephone calls gathering basic information, he had managed to track down Ronald Fraser's GP and had now headed off to speak to him at his surgery. Fancy had started to dig as deep as he could into the land development bribery and corruption allegations made against Carmichael from the planning department at the town hall and had rang up to fix an appointment with someone else at the Town Hall who might be able to give him some useful information. Thursday didn't want Fancy or anyone else to cross swords with Carmichael again until they had more than just suspicions to go on.

Morse had decided to put to one side the riddle of Vera Cooper's books and crossword clues until another time. He needed to look at them again with fresh eyes and a clear mind which required him to create some space and distance. Trying to make sense of them so soon after he had stared at them for hours the previous evening was not a good idea, he told himself. Leave it a while and look afresh in a day or two. He decided he would try to dig a little further into the suicide of Fraser's wife and to that end he took himself off to the library to trawl through back copies of the local newspapers and search for all the information he could find on the unexplained death.

Much later on, towards the end of the morning, DCI Thursday decided he and Morse should take themselves off to the Randolph Hotel where Vera Cooper had been staying while she was in Oxford, just in case there was anything significant to be found in her hotel room. They swiftly carried out a fingertip search of her room, looking in all the drawers, cupboards and wardrobes, lifting up every item of clothing, going through all the pockets of her trousers, jumpers and jackets in the vain hope that she had absent-mindedly left a vital clue for them to find. But nothing of even the remotest interest came to light. Morse sat down at the dressing table and went through all the drawers and examined every item found inside and everything lying on top of the table but to no avail.

Thursday examined the en suite bathroom in detail but all he could see was the usual impressive array of complimentary toiletries provided for their guests by the hotel management, together with some items obviously belonging to Ms Cooper as they were of Canadian origin. He opened up all the containers and looked inside but there was nothing even vaguely resembling drugs, pills or illegal substances of any kind. Not that he was expecting to come across any. Vera Cooper hadn't seemed to him like a woman with a drug habit, either now or way back in the past. If she had been desperate to keep something shady and shameful concealed from the police or the wider public, he was confident that drugs were not at the heart of it.

Morse went over to the bed, stripped it completely and looked under the mattress, inside the pillows and under the bed but yet again there was nothing to be found. Having turned the room upside down without any success, the two detectives went back downstairs and enquired at the reception desk if Ms Cooper had left any valuables in a safety deposit box and were pleasantly surprised to be told that she had. They demanded of the man on reception, an upright, distinguished, middle-aged gentleman of around fifty, with greying temples and a military bearing, that he immediately open the safety deposit box and hand them the contents which he did without complaint or protest. Flashing your police warrant card, which Thursday and Morse had done as soon as they arrived at reception, opens a great many doors that would have otherwise been denied to an ordinary, nosey and inquisitive member of the public. The secure box was swiftly opened by the concierge using his pass key and the contents handed over to Morse and Thursday for them to have a good rummage through.

It didn't take them long to come across something of immediate interest to their case - a letter contained inside an envelope addressed to Vera Cooper at the University in Canada where she lectured. With bated breath Thursday put on the forensic gloves he always carried around with him and, with Morse watching eagerly in close attendance, took the letter out of the envelope and opened it out carefully with his fingertips and began to read it out loud.

''V

Don't think I have forgotten the part you played in all this. It may have been my father's decision in the end, but I know you put him up to it. He was wavering, he wasn't sure he was making the right choice, but you saw to it that he went through with it. You are as much to blame for what happened to us as he was, and I will make sure you are held to account for that one day.

I intend to track my father down and confront him with the truth and see what he has to say for himself. I want to ruffle his feathers and rattle his cage. I want to look into his eyes and see regret, remorse and contrition. I don't know if that will be enough, but it would at least be a start. If you know what's good for you, you'll stay out of it. You owe me the chance to confront my father after all these years and to hear his excuses. Don't even attempt to warn him or interfere. It won't do you any good.

C.''

Morse looked up at Thursday and asked the obvious question. 'C for Carla, do you suppose?'

'Looks like it, doesn't it?' replied Thursday. 'Well, this letter is pretty conclusive proof that Vera Cooper knew all about that three year old child in the photo and whose child she was.'

'And not telling us almost got her killed,' added Morse gloomily as he took the letter out of Thursday's hands and read it for himself.

'Still might have done,' said Thursday with a heavy sigh. 'She's still very much touch and go.'

Morse had a puzzled expression on his face as he read the short letter several times in succession. Thursday stared at Morse who seemed transfixed by the contents of the letter and Thursday sensed that something was up. He could tell that Morse had found something that wasn't quite right. He knew how Morse's mind worked, it functioned on a different level from everyone else's. He instinctively knew that Morse had spotted something that had eluded Thursday or even passed way over his head when he read it.

'What is it, Morse? You spotted something?'

'I'm not sure,' said Morse, hesitantly, not wishing to build Thursday's hopes up too much.

'Come on, lad,' Thursday tried to encourage his junior colleague. 'Out with it. You've obviously picked something up from the letter.'

'There's something in this letter that strikes me as odd. There's something in it that rings a bell, but I can't put my finger on it.'

'You don't think it's a fake, do you?'

Morse shook his head vigorously. 'No, I'm certain it's genuine. This was written by Fraser's secret illegitimate child, I'm sure of it. This was his daughter Carla, announcing her intention to find her father and confront him about abandoning her twenty-odd years ago.'

'So you agree that she must have killed him?' That was the obvious conclusion, thought Thursday but he wasn't convinced that Morse was as sold on the idea as he now was.'

'Maybe,' said Morse, glancing back at the letter. 'Although…' he hesitated again as if not quite one hundred per cent sure of himself any more. 'She doesn't specifically say she intends to kill him, does she? She wants remorse, she wants contrition, but she isn't threatening to kill him if he tells her he has no regrets.'

'Well, what else was she going to do, Morse? She's had years of rejection and harbouring feelings of abandonment. Who knows what suffering she and her mother went through after Fraser turned his back on them?'

'But why confront him now? Why wait all these years? She could have tracked him down and killed him years ago? What was so special about this moment in time? It doesn't make sense.'

'A lot of things don't make sense in murder, Morse. It doesn't make them all any the less true.'

Morse stared up at Thursday and slowly nodded his head. Perhaps Thursday was right. They might never find out all the answers to all the questions but that didn't make it any the less likely that the now fully grown-up Carla, who would be in her mid to late twenties by now, had killed her father in an act of revenge for him having abandoned her so cruelly when she was a child.

'Come on, let's grab some lunch, shall we?' suggested Thursday with a friendly tug at Morse's jacket. 'We need some time to think things through. I dare say a pint or two of best won't exactly do any harm in that respect, will it?' Thursday gave Morse a wry grin and his eyes seemed to sparkle a little. He knew mention of beer would put even the hint of a smile on Morse's face and he was dead right. Morse grinned a little sheepishly and followed Thursday out of the hotel, already licking his lips at the imminent prospect of an enjoyable liquid lunch. Veronica was still in bed with her cold, so he had carte blanche to have lunch with the boys at their usual watering-hole.

Part 4

When Morse and Thursday walked into the pub, DS Strange was already there sitting alone at their usual table, pint glass in one hand while his eyes were poring over a book that looked very familiar to Morse. The two coppers called over to Strange to ask him if he wanted another pint, but he shook his head and returned his attention to his book.

'Jim Strange reading a book at lunchtime!' said Thursday, momentarily taken aback. 'Whatever next?'

Morse couldn't help letting the ghost of a smile slip through his lips and that was all the encouragement Thursday needed to pounce. 'You know something, Morse, don't you?' he asked. 'Come on, out with it before we join him. What's he reading that's more important than a pint?'

'I think you'll find he's brushing up on his schoolboy French vocabulary, Sir,' said Morse, deliberately not looking over towards Strange.

'What on earth for?' asked Thursday, looking suitably gobsmacked. 'He's not thinking of running away and joining the Foreign Legion, is he?'

Morse sniggered at the bizarre image conjured up by DCI Thursday before shaking his head. 'No, Sir. He's got a date tonight. With a French woman, apparently. His French is a bit rusty to put it mildly, so I lent him an old phrase book of mine for him to do some homework before this evening.'

Thursday let out a huge belly laugh causing Morse to whirl round in a momentary panic that Strange might have heard them but breathed a sigh of relief to see Strange still with his nose deep in his French-English phrase book.

'What? Ou est la plume de ma tante? Excusez-moi, ou se trouve la gare? Is that what you mean?' Thursday was almost doubled up in silent mirth as he imagined Strange whipping out his vocab book at regular intervals during the evening to ask the poor girl in the best French accent he could muster if she knew the way to the beach or what time the last bus left the town centre.

'Look, you didn't hear this from me, right?' Morse glared at Thursday and put his fingers to his lips to plead with his DCI not to give the game away. 'He's very…nervous about the evening and he won't thank us for making it worse for him by pulling his leg.'

'No, you're right, Morse. We'll keep this between ourselves. No need for anyone else to know, certainly not back at the station. They'd have an absolute field day with that. The poor chap would never live it down.'

'Exactly,' nodded Morse in agreement and the two coppers said no more on the subject as they went over to join their studious colleague who, at the first sign of them approaching, quickly shoved the slim book deep into his coat pocket and turned an innocent face towards them in greeting.

'Morning, Sir. Morse.'

'Morning, Sergeant,' Thursday said in cheery response. 'No lunch today? Not like you.'

Strange hesitated somewhat and tried to hide his blushes. He had decided to go without his usual cooked pub fare that day, planning on grabbing a sandwich on the way back to the station, as he had wanted to spend some time learning some basic French phrases and expressions. But he didn't want to tell the DCI that, so he was forced to make up a story about trying to cut down on daily lunches in an effort to lose a tiny bit of weight. After he had blurted out this latter version of events, he was left wondering which of the two accounts would have actually sounded the more ridiculous.

'Good for you, Strange,' nodded Thursday approvingly. 'A girl doesn't like to see a bloke carrying around too much ballast. It never hurts to lose a few pounds. I remember my Win was as pleased as punch when I lost a bit of weight recently.'

Morse was becoming a touch agitated at the direction the topic of conversation was going, noting Jim was becoming visibly uncomfortable and so he swiftly changed the conversation to their discovery of the letter at The Randolph that morning.

'So we have a breakthrough at last!' cried Strange, relieved that the conversation had moved on from girls, food and weight.

'Yes, but it doesn't get us any nearer finding out who Carla is, though,' said Morse with a rueful grimace.'

'Unless Morse can crack these clues we've been left,' said Thursday, trying to sound a bit more positive.

'Oh, the books and the crossword, you mean?' asked Strange. 'Well, I couldn't make any sense of them. But there again, I'm not Morse with his eye for a riddle and a puzzle.'

'And there's something about this letter that doesn't sit quite right, isn't there, Morse?' Thursday turned to look quizzically at Morse as he began to open up his sandwiches.

'Well, I think so,' said Morse, 'but I just can't put my finger on it right now. I'm sure it'll come to me eventually.' He stared absent-mindedly into space for a few seconds before coming back to the real world and the reality of the present moment. 'Tuesday, isn't it? Cheese and pickle, then,' he remarked confidently and awaited Thursday's sigh of exasperation which would testify to the accuracy of his prediction yet again.

'I'm going have to start making these sandwiches myself, you know, just to make it more difficult for you,' said Thursday with a forced grin on his face, before biting into the first cheese and pickle sandwich.

Jim Strange finished off his pint and made his excuses and left, his hand firmly placed on his jacket pocket to ensure that the phrasebook wasn't going to fall out onto the floor on his leaving and be visible to all and sundry. He had a little bit of time before his lunch break was over to swot up on some English translations of some common French dishes in case the four of them ended up at some posh French restaurant where the menu was all in French.

'You know, I've a bit of a fancy for going back to the Oxford Mail this afternoon and having another crack at that Catherine Jarvis woman.'

'Because of the photo of Carla as a three year old, you mean?' Morse looked across at Thursday with raised eyebrows. He had thought they both viewed her as an unlikely suspect.

'Well, even Strange reckoned the photo was a dead ringer for how she looks now, remember?'

Morse did indeed remember Strange's reaction in the team meeting to seeing the photo of Carla as a toddler and in fact the general reaction around the whole room to the two pictures put side by side. Fair enough, he thought, and he nodded his agreement to Thursday's immediate plan for after lunch. He had hoped to spend a bit more time thinking about the books, the crossword clues and now, in addition, this letter written by Carla to Vera Cooper but that would presumably have to wait until the evening when he would be alone in his room with just Wagner and half a bottle of Scotch for company.