The dead of Jericho (16 page)

Mr Parkes felt happy that Sunday afternoon. One of the social workers from the Ferry Centre had brought a cake for him, and there were tears of gratitude in his old eyes as he asked the young lady inside and poured two glasses of dry sherry. It had been several years since anyone had remembered his birthday. After his visitor had left, he poured himself a second glass and savoured his little happiness. How had she known it was his birthday? And suddenly something clicked — birthdays! That's what they'd been talking about when Gwendola had laid on her little treat with the sherry. Talk of the Bridge Club's anniversary must have led on to birthdays, he was sure of it now — although it seemed a trivial remembrance. Yet the police had asked him to let them know if he could recall anything about that night, and he rang up St Aldates immediately.

'Ah, I see,' said Bell. 'Yes, that's very interesting. Birthdays, eh?'

The old man elaborated as far as he could, and Bell thanked him with a fair show of simulated gratitude. It was good of the old boy to ring up, really. Birthdays! He made a note of the call and put the sheet of paper in his tray: Walters could stick it with the rest of the stuff.

In fact, the note just written was to be the final contribution of Chief Inspector Bell to the riddle of the Jericho Killings.

Morse had been a little surprised when earlier in the week, after seeking an interview with his Assistant Chief Commissioner, he learned that the ACC, in turn, would welcome a little chat with Morse, and that 'a cup of tea up at my little place up at Beckley' would make a pleasant rendezvous. At four-thirty, therefore, on that sunny October afternoon, the two men sat on a weedless lawn overlooking the broad, green sweep of Otmoor, and Morse recounted to his senior officer the irregularities and improprieties of his own investigations, over the previous fortnight. The ACC was silent for a long time, and the answer, when it finally came from those rather bloated lips, was unexpected.

'I want you to take over the case, Morse. You're quite good at that sort of thing; Bell isn't.'

'But I didn't come to ask— '

'It's what you've got.'

'Well, I'm sorry, sir, but I can't accept the case. It's just not fair to belittle Bell— '

'Belittle?' The ACC smiled curiously, and Morse knew he'd missed a point somewhere. 'Don't worry about Bell! I'll ring him and put things straight myself.'

'But I just— '

'Shut your mouth a minute, Morse, will you?' (That maddening smile again!) 'You see, you've done me a good turn in a way. I know you didn't apply for the vacant super's post, but I was er thinking of recommending you, actually. On second thoughts, though, I don't think I shall bother. The job's going to involve an awful lot of public relations — very important these days, Morse! — and er I just don't think you're cut out for that sort of thing. Do you?'

'Well, I don't know, really.'

'Anyway, Bell applied — and he's senior to you anyway, isn't he?'

'Only just,' mumbled Morse.

'He's a good man. Not the greatest intellect in the Force — but neither are you, Morse. So I can work things very sweetly for you, can't I? I can let Bell know he's got promotion and tell him to drop this Jericho business straight away.'

'I'd rather think things over, sir, if you don't mind.'

'No sense, old chap. We made the appointment yesterday, actually.'

'Oh.' Morse felt a twinge of envy and regret; but all that public relations stuff would have bored him to death, he knew that.

The ACC interrupted his thoughts. 'You know, Morse, you don't go about things in the right way, do you? With your ability you could have been sitting in my chair, and earning a sight more— '

'I've got a private income, sir — and a private harem.'

'I thought your father was a taxi driver?'

Morse stood up. 'That's right, sir. He used to drive the Aga Khan.'

'You got any of your private harem to spare?'

'Sorry, sir. I need 'em all.'

'You'll need Lewis, too, I suppose?'

For the first time that afternoon Morse looked happy.

Even if, in his boyhood, Sergeant Lewis's parents had been twinly blessed with privilege and wealth, it seems unlikely that their son would have won a scholarship to Winchester. As it was — after leaving school at fifteen — Lewis had worked his way up through a series of day-release courses and demanding sessions at night schools to a fair level of competence in several technical skills. At the age of twenty he had joined the police force and had never really regretted his decision. Promoted to the rank of sergeant ten years ago, he was as sensibly aware of his potential as of his limitations. It was six years ago that he had first come within Morse's orbit, and in retrospect he felt honoured to have been associated with that great man. In retrospect, let it be repeated. During the many, many hours he had spent in Morse's company on the several murder cases that had fallen within their sphere of duty, there had been frequent occasions when Lewis had wished him in hell. But there were infinitely worthwhile compensations — were there not? — in being linked with a man of Morse's almost mythical methodology. For all his superior's irascibility, crudity, and self-indulgence, Lewis had taken enormous pride — yes,
pride —
in his friendship with the man whom almost all the other members of the Thames Valley Constabulary had now come to regard as a towering, if somewhat eccentric, genius. And in the minds of many the phenomenon of Morse was directly associated with
himself —
yes, with
Lewis.
They spoke of Morse and Lewis almost in the same vein as they spoke of Gilbert and Sullivan, or Moody and Sanky, or Lennon and McCartney. Thus far, however, in the case of the Jericho killings, Lewis's sole contribution had been to drive his chief down to the Clarendon Institute car park about a fortnight ago. And why, oh why (as Lewis had then wondered) hadn't the idle beggar taken a bus? Surely that would have been far, far quicker.

It was, therefore, with a lovely amalgam of treasured reminiscence and of personal satisfaction that Lewis listened to Morse's voice on the phone at 7.30 a.m. the following morning. 'Yes, sir?'

'I want your help, Lewis.'

'How do you mean, sir? I can't help much today. I'm running this road-safety campaign in the schools and— '

'Forget it! I've had a word with Strange. As I say, I need your help.'

Suddenly the uplands of Lewis's life were burnished with the autumn sun.
He
was needed.

'I'll be glad, sir — you know that. When do you want me?'

'I'm in my office. Just get your bloody slippers off and get the car out!'

For the first time for many months, Lewis felt preternaturally happy; and his Welsh wife, cooking the eggs and bacon, could sense it all.

'I know 'oo that was — I can see it from your face, boy. Inspector Morse. Am I right?'

Lewis said nothing, but his face was settled and content, and his wife was happy for him. He was a good man, and his own happiness was a source of hers, too. She was almost glad to see him bolt his breakfast down and go: he had that look about him.

Lewis saw the stubs of filter-tipped cigarettes in the ash-tray when he knocked and entered the office at ten past eight. He knew that it was Morse's habit either to smoke at an extravagantly compulsive rate or not at all, and mentally he calculated that the chief must have been sitting there since about six thirty. Morse himself, showing no sign of pleasure or gratitude that Lewis had effected such an early appearance, got down to business immediately.

'Listen, Lewis. If I left my car on a double yellow line in North Oxford and a traffic warden copped me, what'd happen?'

'You'd get a ticket.'

'Oh, for Christ's sake, man! I know that. What's the
procedure!'

'Well, as I say, you'd get a ticket under your wipers, and then after finishing work the warden would have to put the duplicates— '

'The what?'

'The duplicates, sir. The warden sticks the top copy on the windscreen, but there are two carbons as well. The first goes to the Fixed Penalty Office, and the second goes to the Magistrates' Clerk.'

'How do you come to know all this?'

'I’m surprised
you
don't, sir.'

Morse nodded vaguely. 'What if I wanted to pay the fine straight away? Could I take the money — or sign a cheque — and, well, just pay it?'

'Oh, yes. Not at the Penalty Office, though. You'd have to take it to the Magistrates' Office.'

'But if the warden hadn't taken the carbon in— '

'Wouldn't matter. You'd take your ticket in, pay your fine — and then things would get matched up later.'

'They'd have a record of all that, would they? I mean, what the fine was for, who paid it, and so on?'

'Of course they would. On the ticket there'd be the details of the date, the time, the street, the registration number, as well as the actual offence — double yellows or whatever it was.

'And there'd be a record of who paid the fine, and when it was paid.'

Morse was impressed. 'You know, Lewis, I never realized how many bits and pieces a traffic warden had in that little bag of hers.'

'A lot of them are men.'

'Don't treat me like an idiot, Lewis!'

'Well, you don't seem to know much about...' But Morse wasn't listening: he needed just a little confirmation, that was all, and again he nodded to himself — this time more firmly. 'Lewis, I've got your first little job all lined up.'

In fact Lewis's 'first little job' took rather longer than expected, and it was just before noon when he returned and handed Morse a written statement of his findings:

'Well, well, well!' Morse beamed hugely, wondered whether the last word was misspelt, reached for the phone, and announcing himself rather proudly by his full official title asked if he could speak to Mr Charles Richards. But the attractive-sounding voice (secretary, no doubt) informed him that Mr Richards had just gone off to lunch. Could Morse perhaps try again — in the morning?

'The morning?' squeaked Morse. 'Doesn't he work in the afternoons?'

'Mr Richards works very hard, Inspector' (the voice was somewhat sourer) 'and I think er I think he has a meeting this afternoon.’

'Oh, I see,' said Morse. 'Well, that's obviously much more important than co-operating with the police, isn't it?'

'I could
try
to get hold of him.'

'Yes, you could — and I rather hope you
will,'
said Morse quietly. He gave the girl his telephone number and said a sweet 'goodbye'.

The phone rang ten minutes later.

'Inspector Morse? Charles Richards here. Sorry I wasn't in when you called. Can I help you?'

'Yes, you can, sir. There are one or two things I'd like to talk to you about.'

'Really? Well, fire away. No time like the present.'

'I’d rather
see
you about things, if you don't mind, sir. Never quite the same over the phone, is it?’

'I don't see why not.'

Nor did Morse. 'One or two rather — delicate matters, sir. Better if we meet, I think.'

'As you wish.' Richards' voice sounded indifferent.

'Tomorrow?'

'Why not?'

'About ten o'clock?'

'Fine.'

'Any parking space outside your office?' Morse asked the question innocently enough, it seemed.

'I’ll make sure there's a space, Inspector. Damned difficult parking a car these days, isn't it?' His voice sounded equally innocent.

Outside the inn the legend was printed 'Tarry ye at Jericho until your beards be grown'. Inside the inn, Joe Morley hoisted his vast-bellied frame on to the high stool at the corner of the public bar, and the landlord was already pulling a pint of draught Guinness.

'Evenin', Joe.'

'Evenin’.'

'Bit of excitement, we hear, down your criminal neck of the woods.'

Joe wiped the creamy froth from his thick lips. 'Poor old George, you mean?'

'You knew him pretty well, didn't you?'

'Nobody knew George very well. He were a loner, were George. Bloody good fisherman, though.'

'Bird watcher as well, wasn't he?'

'Was he?'

The landlord polished another glass and leaned forward. 'Used to watch the birds, Joe — and not just the feathered variety. Used to watch that woman opposite as killed herself — with a pair of bloody binoculars!'

‘Ow do you know?'

'Mrs Purvis was tellin' old Len — you know old Len as comes in sometimes. No curtains in the bedroom, either!'

'Very nice, too, I should think.'

The landlord leaned forward again. 'Do you want to know summat else? George weren't doin' too badly with all the odd jobs he used to do, neither. Two hundred and fifty quid he put in the post office last Thursday — some OAP bonds or something.'

' `Ow do you know?'

'You know old Alf as comes in. Well, his missus was talkin' to, you know, that woman, whatsername, who works in the post office and— '

A group of youths came in, and the landlord reached up for two sets of darts and handed them over. 'The usual, lads?'

The middle-aged man who had been sitting silently at one of the tables moved over to allow the dartboard area to be cleared. He was beginning to feel very hungry indeed, for Morse had insisted (when he'd divided the Jericho pubs into two lists) that the early evening was the best time for pub gossip. 'Just
listen,
if you like,' Morse had said. 'I'll bet most of 'em there will be talking about Jackson.'