Jakes strode along the hospital corridor and sat down on a seat next to Thursday.
"Jakes? I thought you were to talk to PC Strange about last night?"
"I'm sorry Sir, but Bright wants to see both of us in his office at 11am. With Morse's statement." Jakes couldn't quite hide the undercurrent of dislike he felt for the Chief Super.
Thursday's eyebrows narrowed, but before he could reply, Morse's doctor appeared holding a clipboard.
"Ah, Inspector Thursday. Normally we can only give patient details to family members, but Morse has given us permission to make an exception. He has concussion, but thankfully no fractures to the skull or neck, and no internal bleeding. He will have a bad headache for a few days so we are going to keep him in for observation for a few days."
"He's going to love that," Jakes muttered under his breath, smirking.
"He did try and escape, but he didn't make it very far before falling over. Now that we've got him in bed, he just seems glad of having a lie down," the Doctor was smiling.
"Can we see him?" Thursday asked. "We won't get him upset or anything, just to see that he's ok. I can tell him to behave himself and stay put too."
"Well hopefully you will have a bit more luck than me. As long as you don't question him I suppose I can give you five minutes. I should warn you though, he is quite grumpy at the moment, so you may get a few snappy remarks," the Doctor explained, showing them to a side room with a curtain pulled round the bed.
"I'm sure I've seen him worse. Thank you Doctor."
Thursday and Jakes slipped through the gap in the curtain to see a sleeping Morse tucked up in the bed. He certainly looked a better colour than he had earlier, but there were still deep dark bags around his eyes.
His eyes flicked open and he glared at them. "What do you want?" he snapped at them.
He immediately looked shocked and embarrassed at his own outburst, and started fumbling out half articulated apologies.
"I'm sorry Sir, it's just I really want to sleep but they keep coming and waking me up again." Morse untucked his arms from the covers and started trying to sit up.
That's ok lad, don't worry yourself. And they're just being careful – another few hours and they'll let you drop off for a proper kip." Thursday sat down next to Morse and gently pushed him back onto the pillows, pulling the covers back up.
Morse glanced at Jakes, guessing why he was there. "I'm sorry Sir, but I can't really remember anything from last night," Morse croaked, his voice dry and raspy.
Without thinking, or having to be asked, Jakes poured a glass of water from the jug next to him. He handed it to Morse, who took a few gentle sips.
"That's ok Morse, wouldn't really expect you to remember anything after a head injury like that," Thursday was determined not to over exert his bagman.
"But Sir, Bright wants my statement?" Morse looked confused, glancing at Jakes again.
"Bright will get your statement when I decide you're ready to give it, and not before," Thursday stated sharply.
"Thanks Sir."
"No problem. In the meantime however, in return for me shielding you from Bright, you can sit tight, behave, and let the Doctors look after you for once. Deal?"
Morse sighed, looked up at the ceiling then nodded unwillingly, whilst secretly thinking that he was glad of an excuse to have a lie down for a few days. His head really did hurt, and every time he tried to get up he felt like he was going to throw up or pass out.
"Right well I think that's us for just now then. I'll pop back in later and see how you're getting on." Thursday and Jakes got up and left the room, and Morse closed his eyes and drifted off again.
Bright didn't like being bested by Thursday, not one little bit. However, even he couldn't argue that Morse was in any fit state to be questioned. Instead, to save face he shouted at Jakes, threatened Thursday then slammed the office door behind them, retreating into a dense cloud of cigarette smoke. The press had had a field day with the evidence room incident, and now they had somehow, inexplicably, got hold of the attack too.
Out of respect for Morse, Frazil at the Oxford Mail had held off the story, instead emblazoning the front page with the very murder Morse had been investigating. However, her competitors at the Oxford Press were more ruthless, the front page of the late edition sporting a picture of the ambulance outside the police station. The only small mercy was that they didn't seem to know the identity of the officer that had been injured. The chief constable had been on the phone to bright first thing that morning, making it clear that the whole sorry saga was to be over by the end of the week else the buck would stop with Bright.
Thursday and Jakes were mulling round the duty room, at a complete loss without Morse there to join the dots. Strange had popped in to ask after Morse and sign the report he had given to Jakes. Whilst there he had thought of something else – there had been a lingering smell of unusual aftershave in the corridor. Jakes raised his eyebrows with a disdainful expression, but Thursday wasn't for writing off any potential clues, no matter how remote they were.
When Thursday went to Morse's room during the evening visiting hours, it was to find his bagman propped up against a pile of pillows looking much better, and much happier.
"Evening Morse, you're looking much better," Thursday remarked.
"Yes, thanks Sir, they let me have a proper sleep this afternoon, and the Doc gave me good pills for the headache, I could probably go home soon," Morse said hopefully.
"I think not. Remember the deal we made this afternoon? Well I stuck to my side of it, and Bright is not happy one little bit."
"Thanks Sir."
"Don't mention it. Anyway, I brought you some stuff. There's a bag of some clothes and such from your flat, and Win insisted on making you some soup and sandwiches. She reckons you need more than hospital food to get your strength back up."
Morse opened the holdall Thursday handed him, and very quickly realised that he did not recognise one single item in the bag. All the clothes were brand new – a thick woolly jumper, a pristine white shirt and pinstripe trousers, and a crisp pair of pyjamas. The washbag still had the tag on it and contained a fluffy washcloth, the most wonderful smelling soap, and a razor and shaving soap. Morse felt a lump rise up in his throat, and was momentarily lost for words – he wasn't used to being cared for so thoroughly.
"Thanks Sir – you managed to find all these at my flat?" Morse asked, the tiniest hint of sarcasm creeping into his voice.
Thursday winked at him, and started emptying the contents of another carrier bag onto Morse's tray table. There was a flask, a brown paper bag and a glass bottle of barley water.
Morse was glad to see the provisions – he had pushed away tonight's rubbery scrambled eggs after a few queasy mouthfuls and had begun to regret it. To his embarrassment, his stomach growled approvingly, but Thursday just smiled and poured some of the barley water into his glass.
"So what have we got tonight then?" Thursday asked, picking up the paper bag
"Corned beef," Morse said without any hesitation
"You're surely feeling better then," Thursday remarked, handing Morse a corned beef sandwich on a plate the Nurse had given him. "One of these days you're going to tell me how you know."
Morse smiled secretively, and tucked into the sandwich, while Thursday poured some of the thick chicken soup into a bowl. The food was truly glorious. Morse could feel his energy levels increasing with each mouthful, and Thursday certainly noticed the marked increase of colour to his cheeks. Morse ate until he had his fill, feeling awkward when he noticed he had finished the whole flask.
"Well, you looked like you needed it," Thursday remarked.
Morse sat for a minute, absentmindedly chewing on the last sandwich crust, whilst simultaneously chewing over the evidence running through his now clear and refreshed brain.
"No, absolutely not. I know that face Morse. I don't want you worrying about the case until you are back on your feet," Thursday was stern.
"But Sir… the mustache. There's something not quite right about it."
Thursday knew it was fruitless to try and snap Morse out of his reverie, so decided to humour Morse and sit it out. Morse was sifting through his thoughts, the missing piece just out of his grasp. It then suddenly clicked into place, and he gasped, sitting upright.
"Sir the mustache, there was no adhesive on it."
Thursday just looked at him.
"How did he attack it to his face? He would have needed some form of fixative, whether cosmetic glue or an adhesive tape."
"Nothing is ever simple with you, is it Morse? Maybe the glue just wore off after it came off his face."
"There still would have been some trace, of anything sticky enough to keep it on skin. No, the moustache was planted as a red herring. The killer placed it there on purpose, trying to lead us off track. That means our killer probably has a mustache –that way we wouldn't suspect, as we would be looking for someone without a mustache, thinking they would have used it to disguise their appearance."
"Why would the killer bother breaking in to steal evidence he planted?"
"The lock of hair, Sir. That's what got left behind by accident, what the killer is after."
Thursday sighed, but knew there was no point in arguing with Morse. Instead, he stayed long enough to make sure Morse succumbed to the effect of the sleeping pill the Nurse brought him, then headed back to the station. He went straight for his filing cabinet, pouring out the contents of the envelope in front of a startled looking Jakes.
"By Jove, he's right," Thursday murmured, the unused mustache in his hand.