I just did a search through my blogs for "Morse" and sure enough he pops up quite a few times. Not that surprising really given that I'd decided in 2011 (as mentioned in this blog) that I was going to read all of the Morse books from start to finish. In fact it was particularly interesting to look back at this post, as I mention the fact that I was reading the series of books as a way of building up towards the dreaded "Remorseful Day" which I still haven't read yet. Well, we are nearly there now, as I have finished the penultimate book, "Death is now my neighbour", and will have to face it fairly soon.
It was interesting to revisit my observations made at the end of book one - how Morse and Lewis had just started to work together, and how there was a reminder at the end of book one that Morse hadn't yet revealed his first name to the world (something which he has just done in a postcard to Lewis at the end of this book).
As the books have gone on, whilst the crimes and the twists and turns of solving them are a hugely important part, for me it is the relationship between Morse and Lewis that is the heart of the stories (and therefore probably one of the reasons why picking up the last of them isn't a prospect I relish).
I made the same point at the end of my comments about "The Daughters of Cain" when Morse explained how he would miss Lewis if he retired from the force, and in the same way as I did in that post, there are a couple of brief passages from this book that I would like to share.
The first comes mid way through the book. Morse has been admitted to hospital, having just been diagnosed with diabetes, and is told that for the time being, he won't be able to have any visitors, not even if they are close relatives.
"I haven't got any close relatives," said Morse.
Matthews now stood at the foot of his bed. "You've already had somebody wanting to see you, though. Fellow called Lewis."
After Matthews had gone, Morse lay back and thought of his colleague. And for several minutes he felt very low, unmanned as he was with a strangely poignant gratitude.
The second excerpt comes right at the end of the book. Morse has gone for a weekend away, and his companion persuades him to send a postcard to Lewis. It arrives, and Lewis reads it just as his wife is making his usual tea.
Then, turning over the card, he read Morse's small, neat handwriting on the back. What he read moved him deeply; and when Mrs Lewis shouted through from the kitchen that the eggs were ready, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and pretended he was wiping his nose.