Inspector Morse smiled, and he even chuckled a bit. He wasn't heartless, after all, and Lewis' kid was cute: a bright little nipper who had his father's smile—which looked much more appropriate on a child than on a sergeant in the police force, but Morse supposed that was only his opinion—and who laughed merrily when Morse caught his cricket ball. The boy's happiness was contagious, and Morse tossed the ball up in the air and caught it, but not too high else he risk dropping it and looking a fool in front of the lad and Lewis alike. He'd already been more athletic in the past few seconds then he had in decades, and he didn't think he could keep it up.
He stood, tossing the ball back and somehow expecting the lad to catch it even though he was still holding his cricket bat. Instead, in a move Morse should have been able to predict, the boy swung at the ball just like his dad had been teaching him. Before Morse could react to this new development, the ball smacked against his chest and he instinctively reached up, grabbing it once again. He dropped his empty teacup in the process, and it bounced away down the slight decline to the edge of Lewis' garden.
The lad burst into laughter, and Morse blinked at him, a little confused about what had just happened and a little relieved he hadn't been clobbered in the face by a child in front of his sergeant. He looked back over to Lewis, and threw him the ball instead, unwilling to risk challenging his reflexes a third time. Lewis caught it, and went to retrieve the teacup which had rolled into the bushes, seemingly unbothered about it being broken. Morse felt he should apologize, but supposed more things than that teacup were bound to be broken in a house with a young boy in it.
Despite his slight embarrassment over the cup, Morse was still smiling because the boy was laughing with pure delight. Not even he was made of stone, and it had been a long time since someone had laughed at him without him being the target of the joke. As Morse began to walk away, the lad dropped his bat and ran up to him. Morse couldn't move away fast enough, and the nipper smacked into his leg, wrapping his arms around him and laughing all the while. Morse looked down at him, and he suddenly didn't know what to do with his hands and whether they should be patting the boy's shoulder or hanging in the air at the level of his chest.
"No, no, no, Mark," Lewis called, jogging up to them. "We don't hug Mr. Morse without asking." He grabbed his child and lifted him all the way up to one shoulder in a feat of strength Morse didn't know the sergeant had in him, else the child was much lighter than he guessed. Or perhaps becoming a father gave a man a great deal of hidden strength? Morse wouldn't know.
"Why don't you say goodbye with words?" Lewis asked his son, unaware of the way Morse was gazing at him with a strange kind of questioning look.
"Goodbye," the boy said, and even though he'd just been glued to Morse's leg he suddenly kept his chin down like he was shy. Morse thought it was odd for just a moment until he realized the boy was likely upset his father had chastised him. Morse almost felt sorry, but he very much agreed with the sentiment of 'we don't hug Mr. Morse,' and wasn't about to correct Lewis on that point. Besides, wasn't he supposed to never undermine a parent when they were speaking to their child, anyway? That was what his sister had said when Marilyn was a toddler. So, he didn't say that he didn't mind the hug, though he did think he'd have a bruise on his leg from the little nipper's head bouncing off his femur. Really, he was lucky children are a bit elastic, else he may be dealing with a frantic Lewis worrying about brain injury.
Morse was stuck with an idea to make the boy feel better, then, and he straightened himself up and looked very official, hoping the boy would realize he had authority even though he was wearing a suit and not a uniform. "Mr. Lewis," he said, holding his hand out.
The boy finally smiled again, reaching out quickly and shaking Morse's hand with an exaggerated little yank.
"Well, I'll be going," Morse said, dropping his hand and covertly flexing his fingers; the child's grip had been stronger than he thought possible for someone so young.
"Dad too!" Mark cried.
For a moment Morse felt slightly guilty; he hadn't thought the boy was old enough to work out that their conversation meant his dad was going to have to leave during the week he was supposed to be home, but then he saw Lewis was holding his hand out and he realized Mark wanted him to shake Lewis' hand goodbye, too. That was the way of children, he remembered: everything had to be fair. Mark wasn't old enough yet to realize nothing in life would ever be fair, and far be it from Morse to be the one to teach it to him. Besides, if he learned young that shaking hands was how people say goodbye, that wouldn't do him any harm at all, except perhaps at Christmastime when all his female relatives would inevitably want to hug and kiss all over him. So, Morse reached out and shook his sergeant's hand, suddenly realizing he didn't do so often.
Had he even greeted Lewis with a handshake when they'd first begun to work together? He didn't think so, though he did remember issuing a vague warning that he wasn't going to be easy to work with. He hadn't been very happy with Lewis back then, hadn't gotten a good first impression. Lewis had shown himself to be solid in the areas where it really counted, though, and had proven he was dedicated and knew how to think for himself. He had been misguided and mismanaged, certainly, but mismanagement wasn't his fault necessarily, and there had been just enough good beneath the surface for Morse to agree to take a chance on him. He had figured early on that Lewis was just bright enough that he could be brilliant one day if he was patient enough to learn, and so far he had been coming along nicely. He was even willing to come back during his week off just like Morse had known he would. Besides, all this leave wasn't good for Lewis, not if he wanted to get on in the force, and Morse still wasn't sure he hadn't been tricked into signing off on it.
"Let's hope your father is as good a bat as you are, Mr Lewis," Morse addressed the young Mark before finally leaving, waving a bit once he got to his car because the child was chattering on excitedly about something and Morse thought maybe he was saying goodbye but couldn't be sure.
'Mr. Morse,' he mused as he slid into the driver's seat of his Jaguar. Was that what he was called around the Lewis household? Did Valerie Lewis tell the children, 'now you must be good when Mr. Morse comes over and picks up your father,' or 'Mr. Morse will be here to talk to your father and you must not go into the kitchen and interrupt them'? For some reason he didn't like the idea of that. He didn't like the idea of her calling him other things even less. Did she ever call him 'your boss' to Lewis? Did she nag him about 'your boss kept you working past midnight again,' or 'when will that boss of yours recommend you to take your inspector's exams?'
No, he decided. 'Mr. Morse' was probably something Lewis had just said to set a good example of politeness for his young son. Valerie Lewis had always been warm and welcoming to him, and after he'd said 'it's Morse. Just Morse,' that was what she had called him. But he didn't actually come around often, did he? Not unless it was to pick Lewis up and drive him to some crime scene or to ask him a favor like today. He hadn't come round for a social visit in ages, not since he'd popped in to check on Lewis the first time—to Morse's knowledge, anyway, maybe it wasn't the first time— that the sergeant had witnessed someone die in his arms while he was helpless to save them. Morse knew the unique kind of pain that was, and Lewis had seemed grateful he was empathetic. Lewis had got through that case alright, and Morse was confident he'd get through the next one when things got hard, too.
Morse hoped Lewis wouldn't get too bitter as the time went on. His little Newcastle boy lost in the big city routine was good for putting suspects at ease: the innocent ones liked him all the more and the guilty ones admitted things to him they wouldn't otherwise, and all the time he was hearing more in their words than he was letting on. It wasn't too hard for him to act overly friendly, of course, for it wasn't too far from his real self. That was why it worked so well. Morse wondered if he should tell him, one of these days, that he thought he should keep that friendly routine someday even if he no longer felt friendly at all. Because it was good for putting suspects at ease, of course. That was why he should tell him, not because the idea of Lewis growing old and bitter and being unfriendly was almost too much to consider even though it was practically inevitable.
The Lewis children, Morse mused, would be old enough to despise him soon for always taking their father away, and soon after that they'd be old enough not to care. And then, even later, they'd be old enough to appreciate their father for doing what he did, for taking on the worst of the world so they didn't have to. Morse tried to imagine the adorable little Mark as a sulking teenager telling his dad to get off his back about his grades and no, he was wrong about his girlfriend. Morse wouldn't envy Lewis, then, during the teenage years. But still, seeing the laughing little boy was enough to make Morse wonder what it would be like if he'd ever had one of his own. He wasn't very good with children, no, but he might have been once, with practice.
Children… Antony Donn had children. What would become of them now their father was gone and their mother was in shambles? What would become of Lewis' children if Lewis was ever killed? That thought jarred him, and he shook it away, unsure of where it had even come from. He knew his thoughts were often morbid, but not that morbid. There'd been enough death already, and it was his job to ensure there wasn't anymore if he could at all help it. He had a bad feeling about this case, though, a very bad feeling that by the end of it there'd be more than Antony Donn six feet under and that he himself would be very unhappy. He got that, sometimes: an instinct that somehow everything was wrong and no one at all was telling him the truth. But still, even if everything was against him it was his job to set everything right, to expose the truth no matter how badly it hurt to do so. He would this time, too. He'd get justice for Antony no matter if it implicated old friends, no matter if it endangered Lewis. Not even the sound of one hand clapping would be a mystery able to stump him.