The dead of Jericho (20 page)

Morse shook his head. It
might
have happened the way Lewis had just outlined things; but it
hadn't.
'You may be right most of the way, Lewis, but you can be absolutely certain about one thing:
it wasn't Charles Richards who murdered Jackson
. And until somebody proves to us that the earth is round or a triangle hasn't got three sides, we'd better bloody face it! He was giving a lecture — with
me
in the audience!'

'Don't you think, perhaps— ?'

'Nonsense! Jackson was in the
pub
at gone eight and the police found his body while Richards was still talking. And he didn't leave that platform for one
second,
Lewis!'

'I'm not saying he did, sir. But he could have got someone else to go and rough Jackson up, couldn't he?'

Morse nodded. 'Carry on!'

'He's got a wife, sir.'

'I can't exactly see her pushing Jackson upstairs, can you? He was no youngster, but he was a tough and wiry little customer, I should think. Though perhaps it might not be a bad idea to find out exactly where she was that night... ' His voice drifted off, and characteristically he married a few stray drops of beer on the table with the little finger of his left hand, his eyes seeming to stare into the middle distance.

'He's got a brother, too,' added Lewis quietly.

Morse's eyes refocused on his colleague immediately and a faint smile formed round his mouth. 'The brother? Yes, indeed! I wondered when you were going to get around to him. I've been giving our Conrad a little bit of thought myself this morning, and I reckon it's time we had a quiet little word with him.'

'We've got some jolly good prints, sir — as good as anything the boys have seen for quite some time. And it wouldn't be much trouble getting Conrad's dabs, would it?'

'No trouble at all.'

'Well' — Lewis looked at Morse rather hesitantly — 'shall we go and see him?'

'Why not? We'll just have another pint and then— '

'No more for me, sir. Do you want—'

'Pint, yes please. You're very kind.'

'I've been, thinking, sir,' began Lewis when he came back from the bar.

'So have I. Listen! We'll nip over there together. There are two calls we'd better make. Conrad Richards for one, and then there's that girl friend Charles Richards told me he was with when— '

'But why see her? You've already— '

'Let's toss up, Lewis. You can drive us out there. Heads you go to see Conrad — tails I do. All right?' Morse took out a 10p piece, flipped it in the air, and then peered cautiously underneath his palm before immediately returning the coin to his pocket. 'Heads it is, Lewis. What was it we agreed? Heads was you to see Conrad, wasn't it? Excellent! I shall have to take it upon myself to visit Mrs Whatsername.'

'Hills, sir.'

'Ah yes.' Morse relaxed and lovingly relished the rest of his beer. Someone had left a copy of the
Daily Mirror on
the next table and he picked it up and turned to the racing page. 'Ever have a flutter these days, Lewis?'

Lewis placed his empty glass in the middle of the plate and laid his knife and fork neatly to the side of it. 'Very seldom, sir. I'm not quite so lucky at gambling as you are.'

As they got up to go, Morse suddenly remembered his bet with the police surgeon. 'Do you think there's
any
way, Lewis, in which Jackson could have been murdered
before
eight o'clock that night?'

'No way at all, sir.'

Morse nodded. 'Perhaps you're right.'

Almost immediately Lewis found himself liking Conrad Richards, the junior partner who worked in an office no smaller than that of his brother's below, though designated by no nameplate on the door. Lewis explained the purpose of his visit, and his reasonable requests met with an amiable cooperation. Conrad had exhibited (as Lewis was later to tell Morse) some surprise, perhaps, when the subject of fingerprints was broached, but he had willingly enough pressed the fingers and thumbs of both hands upon the ink-pad, and thence onto the cards.

'Just a matter of elimination,' Lewis explained.

'Yes, I realize that but...'

'I know, sir. It sort of puts you on the record, doesn't it? Everyone feels the same.'

Conrad now held his hands out awkwardly, like a woman just disturbed at the kitchen sink who is looking around for a towel. 'Do you mind if I just go and wash— '

'It's all right, sir. I'll be off now. There's only one more thing — just for the record again, of course. Can you tell me where you were between 8 and 9 p.m. on the evening of the 19th October?'

Conrad looked vague and shook his head. 'I can't, I'm afraid. I can try to find out for you — or try to remember, but I — I don't know. Probably at home reading, I should think, but...' Again he shook his head, his voice level and seemingly unconcerned.

'You live alone, sir?’

'Confirmed bachelor.'

'Well, if you can have a think and let me know.'

'I will. I expect I'll be able to come up with something, but I've got an awful feeling I'm not going to produce any convincing alibi.'

'Few people do, sir. We don't expect it.'

'Well, that's good news.'

Lewis got up to go. 'There
is
just one more thing. I'd like to have a quick word with your brother. Is he— '

'He's in Spain, officer. He's there on business for a week or so.'

'Oh! Well, never mind! We shall have to try to see him when he gets back.'

For five minutes after Lewis had gone, Conrad Richards sat silently at his desk, his features betraying no sign of emotion or anxiety. Then he reached for the phone.

Morse, too, sat waiting, depressed, impatient, and irritated, on a low wooden bench beside the church in Radley. He had told himself (with a modicum of honesty) that he
was
still vaguely worried about Charles Richards' whereabouts on the day of Anne Scott's death; but he could only half convince himself on the point. Perhaps the simple truth was that he liked interviewing women whose voices over the phone promised a cloud nine of memorable mouths and leggy elegance. But whichever way it was, his visit had been fruitless. The house was locked firmly front and back, the shrill bell echoing through an ominously vacant property. Pity! A lovely female firmly sunk in fathoms of leisure — and just at this moment she had to be out! A bit more than out, too, according to the neighbours. Away. Abroad.

Morse was still staring glumly at the ground when the white police car finally drew alongside.

'Any luck?' asked Lewis, as Morse got in beside him.

'Interesting!' Morse feigned a vague indifference and fastened his seat-belt.

'Nice looker, sir?' ventured Lewis after a couple of miles.

'I didn't bloody see her, did I?' growled Morse. 'She's in Spain.'

'Spain?' Lewis whistled loudly. 'Well, well, well! The birds seem to be flying from their nests, don't they?' He recounted the details of his own eminently more successful mission and the impression he'd formed of Conrad Richards; and Morse listened in silence. Lewis had often noticed it before: over a beer table it was usually difficult to get the chief to shut up at all, but in a car he was invariably a taciturn companion.

'What d'you think, then, Lewis?'

'Well, we can get those prints checked straight away — and I've got the feeling we may just about be there, sir. As I see it, Charles Richards must have brought his brother along with him when he came to give his talk; then dropped him somewhere in Jericho and told him to go and scare the living daylights out of Jackson.'

'He must have taken him completely into his confidence, you mean?'

Lewis nodded as he turned on to the A34 and headed north. 'Charles Richards must have traced Jackson — he probably followed him after leaving the money somewhere — and then, as I say, he must have asked Conrad to help him. Quite neat, really. Charles is completely in the clear and nobody's going to think Conrad had anything to do with it. Anyway, things must have gone wrong, mustn't they? I doubt whether Conrad ever actually meant to kill Jackson — I reckon he'd have been far more careful about leaving any prints if he had. In fact, I doubt if he knew what to do, poor chap. Jackson's bleeding like mad, and Conrad just panics up there in the bedroom. He gets out quick and rings the police. Perhaps his one big worry was to save the old fellow.'

'Mm.' The monosyllable sounded sceptical.

'How else, sir?'

'I dunno,' said Morse. It might have happened the way Lewis had suggested, but he doubted it. From the look of the dead Jackson's face, it seemed quite clear that someone had definitely meant business: something more than mere gentle persuasion followed by an accidental bang against a bed-post. The man had been clouted and punched about the head by someone made of much sterner stuff than Conrad Richards, surely, for (from the little Morse had learned of him) Conrad was considered by all to be one of the mildest and most amenable of men. Everyone, as Morse supposed, was just about capable of murder, but why should Conrad be put forward as the likeliest perpetrator of such uncharacteristic malice? He ought to see Conrad, though: ought to have seen him that afternoon instead of—

'Turn the car round!'

'Pardon, sir?'

'We're going back there — and put your foot down!'

But Conrad Richards was no longer in his upper-storey office. According to the young receptionist, he had brought two suitcases with him that morning, and he had gone off in a taxi about ten minutes ago. He had mentioned something about a business trip, but had given no indication of where he was going or when he would be returning.

Morse was angry with himself and his displeasure was taken out on the receptionist, she appearing to be the only other person on the premises. After impressively invoking the awful majesty of the law, and magisterially demanding whatever keys were available, he stood with Lewis in Charles Richards' office and looked around: bills in the in-trays, ash in the ash-trays, and the same serried ranks of box files on the shelves he had seen before. It seemed a daunting prospect, and leaving Lewis to 'get on with it' he himself climbed the stairs to Conrad Richards' office.

One way and another, however, it wasn't to be Morse's day. In the (unlocked) drawers of Conrad's desk he found nothing that could raise a twitch from a hyper-suspicious eyebrow: invoices, statements, contracts, costings — it all seemed so futile and tedious. The man had hidden nothing; and might that not be because he had nothing to hide? There were box files galore here, too, but Morse sat back in Conrad's chair and gave up the unequal struggle. On the walls of the office were two pictures only: one a coloured reproduction of a delicate wall-painting from Pompeii; the other a large black-and-white aerial photograph of the medieval walled city of Carcassone. And what the hell were
they
supposed to tell him?

It was Lewis who found it — underneath a sheaf of papers in the bottom (locked) drawer of Charles Richards' desk; and as he climbed the stairs he sought to mask the beam of triumph on his face. Putting his nose round the door, he saw Morse seated at the desk, scowling fecklessly around him. 'Any luck, sir?'

'Er, not for the minute, no. What about you?' Lewis entered the office and sat down opposite his chief. 'Almost all of it business stuff, sir. But I did find
this.'

Morse took the folded letter and began to read:

As they walked out of the office below, Morse spoke to the receptionist once more.

'You weren't here when I called on Tuesday, were you?'

'Pardon, sir?' The young girl seemed very flustered and a red flush spread round her throat.

'You took the day off, didn't you? Why was that?'

'Mr Richards told me I needn't— '

'Which Mr Richards was that?'

'Mr Charles, sir. He said— '

But Morse dismissed her explanation with a curt wave of his hand, and walked down to the street.

'Bit short with her, weren't you, sir?'

'They're all a load of liars, Lewis! Her, too, I shouldn't wonder. Let's get back!'

Morse said nothing on the return drive. The letter that Lewis had found lay on his lap the whole time, and occasionally he looked down to read it yet again. It perplexed him sorely, and by the time the police car pulled into the HQ yard at Kidlington, whatever look of irritation had earlier marked his face had changed to one of utter puzzlement.

'D'you know, Lewis,' he said as they walked into the building together, 'I'm beginning to think we're on the wrong track completely!'

'Pardon, sir?'

'Is everybody going bloody deaf all of a sudden?'

Lewis said no more, and the two men called into the canteen for a cup of tea.

'I'll just be off and see about these prints, sir. Keep your fingers crossed for me. What's the betting?'

'I thought you weren't a gambling man, Lewis? And if you were, I shouldn't put more than a coupla bob on it.’

Lewis shrugged his shoulders, and left his chief staring glumly down at the muddy-brown tea — as yet untouched. He'd frequently seen Morse in this sort of mood, and it worried him no more. Just because one of the chief's fanciful notions took a hefty knock now and then! A bit of bread-and-butter investigation was worth a good deal more than some of that top-of-the-head stuff, and the truth was that they'd found —
he'd
found! — the blackmail letter. Morse might be a brilliant fellow but... Well, it hardly called for much brilliance, this case, did it? With the prints confirmed, everything would be all tied up, and Lewis was already thinking of a nationwide alert at the airports, because Conrad Richards couldn't have got very far yet, surely. Luton? Heathrow? Gatwick? Wherever it was, there'd be plenty of time.