The dead of Jericho (25 page)

'Quite sure, sir. You were right about Michael Murdoch being adopted, though. Same society. But his parents were both killed in a road accident just outside— '

But Morse was no longer listening, for if what Lewis had just told him was true...

Yet Morse had not been so very far from the truth, and if only he had known it, the final clue in the Anne Scott case lay even now inside his jacket pocket, in the shape of the unopened letter he had so recently picked up from the frontdoor mat of 9 Canal Reach.

'Does this mean that we're back to the drawing-board, sir?'

'Certainly not!' said Morse.

'Will you want me tomorrow?'

'Sunday? Sunday's a day of rest, Lewis — and I've got to catch up with the omnibus edition of
The Archers.'

The up-swung door of the wide double garage revealed the incongruous collocation of the Rolls and the Mini as Morse walked across the crunching gravel and rang the bell. Clearly number 261 was in a different class from Conrad's house. It was Celia who answered the door.

'Come in, Inspector.'

'Plane on time, Mrs Richards?’

'A few minutes early, in fact. You know my husband, of course.'

Morse watched them carefully as they stood there, fingers intertwined as though some dramatic reconciliation had recently been enacted — or, at least, as though they wished to give
him
that impression. He nodded rather curtly.

'Afternoon, sir. I'd hoped that we could have a quiet little chat on our own — if, er, your wife— '

'I was just going, Inspector — don't worry. Why don't you go through into the lounge, Charles? You can let me know when you've finished — well, finished whatever you've got to discuss.' She sounded remarkably happy, and there was a spring in her step as she walked away.

'She's obviously glad to have you back, sir,' said Morse, as the two men sat opposite each other in the lounge.

'I think she is, yes.'

'Bit surprising, perhaps?'

'We're not here to talk about my personal affairs, I hope?'

'I’m afraid your personal affairs are very much involved, sir.'

'But not my private relations with my wife.'

'No. Perhaps not, sir.'

'And I wish you'd stop calling me "sir"!'

'My sergeant calls me "sir" all the time. It's just a sort of social formality, Mr Richards.' Morse slowly took out a cigarette, as if he were anxious to impose some leisurely tempo on the interview. 'Mind if I smoke?'

'Not a bit.' Richards took an ashtray from the mantelpiece and placed it on the arm of Morse's chair.

Morse offered the packet across but Richards shook his head with a show of impatience. 'Not for the minute, thanks. It's about Anne Scott, isn't it?'

'Amongst other things.'

'Well, can we get on with it?'

'Do you know where your brother Conrad is?’

'No. Not the faintest.'

‘Did he ring you — while you were in Spain?'

'Yes. He told me one of your men had taken his fingerprints.'

'He didn't object.'

'Why should he, Inspector?'

'Why, indeed?'

'Why
did
you take them?'

'I thought he might have murdered Jackson.'

'What,
Conrad!
Oh dear! You must be hard up for suspects.'

'Yes. I'm — I'm afraid we are.’

'Do you want
my
fingerprints?'

'No, I don't think so. You see you've got a pretty good alibi for that night. Me!'

'I thought the police were always breaking alibis, though. In detective stories it's usually the person with the cast-iron alibi who commits the murder, isn't it?'

Morse nodded. 'Not in this case, though. You see, I happen to know exactly who killed Jackson — and it wasn't
you.'

'Well, that's something to be grateful for, I suppose.'

'Did Conrad also tell you that we found the blackmail note in your desk?'

'No. But Celia did. I was a bit daft to keep it, I suppose.'

'But I'm very glad you did. It was the biggest clue in the ease.'

'Really?'

'And Jackson didn't write it!'

'
What
?'

'No. Jackson couldn't have written that letter because— '

'But he rang, Inspector! It must have been Jackson.'

'Do you remember exactly what he said when he rang?'

'Well — no, not really, but— '

'Please try to think back if you can. It's very important.'

'Well — he seemed to know that er — well, he seemed to know all about me and Anne.'

'Did he actually
mention
the letter?'

'Do you know — I don't think he did, no.' Richards frowned and sat forward in his chair. 'So you think, perhaps, that — that the person who rang me... But it
was
Jackson, Inspector! I know it was.'

'Do you mind telling me how you can be so sure?' asked Morse quietly.

'You probably know, don't you?' To Morse, Richards' eyes suddenly seemed to show a deeply shrewd intelligence.

'I don't really know anything yet.'

'Well, when Jackson rang, I decided to change things. You know, change the time and the place and all that. I thought it would give me a chance— '

'To follow him?'

'Yes.'

'How much money did you take with you?'

'?250.'

'And where did you arrange to meet him?'

'Woodstock Road. I left the money behind a telephone box there — near Fieldside — Fieldhouse Road, or some such name. I can show you if— '

'Then you waited, and followed him?’

'That's right.'

'In the car?'

Richards nodded. 'It wasn't easy, of course, but—'

'Did you take Conrad with you?'

'Take Conrad? What — what on earth— ?'

'How did Conrad follow Jackson? On his bike?'

'What the hell are you talking about? I followed Jackson — in the
car.
I just— '

'There's a folding bicycle in your garage. I just happened to er notice it as I came up the drive. Did he use that?'

'I just
told
you, Inspector. I don't know where you're getting all these cock-eyed notions from but— '

'Did you put the bike in the back seat or in the boot?'

'I
told
you— '

'Look, sir! There can be no suspicion whatever that either you or your brother, Conrad, murdered George Jackson. None! But I'm still faced with a murder, and you've got to tell me the
truth,
if only because then I'll be able to eliminate certain lines of inquiry — and stop myself wasting my bloody time! You've got to understand that! If I can get it quite clear in my own mind exactly what happened that night, I shall be on the right track — I'm certain of that. And I'm certain of something else, and that is that
you
involved Conrad in some way or other. It might not have been on a bike— '

'Yes, it was,' said Richards quietly. 'We put it in the back of the Rolls, and when I parked just off the main road, Conrad got it out. He'd dressed up in a gown and had a few books with him. We thought it would sort of merge into the background somehow.'

'And then Conrad followed him?'

'He followed him to Canal Reach, yes — last house on the right.'

'So?'

'So nothing, Inspector. We knew where he lived and we — well, it was me, actually — I found out his name.'

'Go on!'

'That's the finish, Inspector.'

'You didn't drive Conrad into Oxford the night Jackson was killed? The night you spoke at the Book Association?'

'I swear I didn't!'

'Where
was
Conrad that night?'

'I honestly don't know. I
did
ask him — after we'd heard about this Jackson business. But he said he just couldn't remember. Probably at home all night but— '

'He's got no alibi, you mean?'

'I'm afraid not.'

'Well, I shouldn't worry about that, sir — Mr Richards, I mean. I'd take it as a good sign rather than a bad one that your brother's a bit hazy about that night.'

'I see, yes. You know, it's not all that easy, is it, remembering where you were a week or so ago?'

'You'd
surely have no trouble, though? About that night, I mean.'

'No, I haven't. I forget exactly when the meeting finished, but I know I drove straight home, Inspector. I must have been home by — oh, half-past ten, I should think.'

'Would your wife remember?'

'Why don't you ask her?'

'Hardly worth it, is it? You've probably got it all worked out, anyway.'

'I
resent
that, Inspector! All right, my brother and I probably acted like a pair of idiots, I realize that. I should have told the police about the letter and so on straight away. All right! But please don't drag
Celia
into things! I've treated the poor woman shabbily enough without her having to— '

'I'm sorry! I shouldn't have said that; and it doesn't really matter
when
you got home that night. Why should it?'

'But it's rather nice when someone can confirm what you say, isn't it? And I'm quite sure that Celia— '

'Forget it, please! I think I've got the general picture, and I'm very grateful to you.' Morse stood up to go 'We shall have to have a statement, of course. But I can send Sergeant Lewis along at some time that's convenient for you.'

'Can't we get it done now, Inspector? I've got a pretty hectic programme these next few days.’

'Not off to Spain again, I hope?'

'No. I'm off to Newcastle first thing in the morning, and I expect to be there a couple of days. Then I'm going on— '

'Don't worry about that. There's no rush. As I say, it's not really important. But you know all this bureaucratic business of getting things down on paper: getting people to sign things, and all that. And to be truthful, Mr Richards, we sometimes find that people change their evidence a bit when it actually comes down to having to sign it. Funny, isn't it? And, of course, the memory plays some odd tricks on all of us. Sometimes we find that we suddenly remember a particular detail that we thought we'd quite forgotten.'

'I'm not sure I like what I think you're trying to say,' said Richards, his voice a degree harsher now.

'No? All I'm saying is that it won't do any harm for you to think things over at your leisure. That's all.'

'Shall I write it all out, and post it to you?'

'No, we can't do that, I'm afraid. We shall need you to sign the statement in front of a police officer.'

'All right.' Richards seemed suddenly relaxed again and rose from his chair. 'Let's arrange something, shall we?'

'I should think the best thing is for you to give Sergeant Lewis a ring at the Kidlington HQ when you've finished your business trips. One day early next week, shall we say?'

'Monday? Will that be all right?'

'Certainly. Well, I'll be off now. I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time.'

'Would you like a cup of tea?'

'Tea? Er, no thank you — I must be getting back. Please give my regards to Mrs Richards.'

The two men walked to the front door, and Morse asked if he could have a quick look at the Rolls.

'Beautiful!' was his verdict.

'And here's the famous bike,' said Richards ruefully.

Morse nodded. 'I've always had pretty sharp eyes, they tell me.'

They shook hands and Morse walked down to the road where Lewis sat waiting with his usual placid patience.

'Well?’ said Morse.

'It was just as you said, sir.'

Morse sat back contentedly as they drove past the last few houses in Oxford Avenue. 'Well, I've thrown in the bait, Lewis. We just sit back now, and wait for the fish to bite.'

'Think he will?'

'Oh, yes! You should have heard me, Lewis. A bloody genius, I was!'

'Really, sir?'

'Why do you call me "sir" all the time?'

'Well, it's just a sort of convention in the Force, isn't it? Just a mark of respect, I suppose.'

'Do you think I deserve some respect?'

'I wouldn't go so far as that, but it's a sort of habit by now and I don't think I could change in a hurry — sir!'

Morse sat back happily, for things were going extraordinarily well. At least on one front.

As instructed, the sister had telephoned Kidlington HQ when the time seemed to her most opportune; and the following evening at 8 p.m. Morse and Lewis sat waiting in a small ante-room just off Dyne Ward in the Eye Hospital at the Radcliffe Infirmary in Walton Street, whither Michael Murdoch had now been transferred. Edward Murdoch, after just leaving his brother's bedside, looked surprised and somewhat flustered as he was ushered into this room and told to sit down. There were no formalities.

'Can you spell "believe"?' asked Morse.

The boy swallowed hard and seemed about to answer when Morse, thrusting the blackmail note across the table, answered the question for him.

'Of course you can. You're a well-educated lad, we know that — No! Please don't touch it, Edward! Fingerprints all over it, you see — but whoever wrote that letter couldn't spell "believe", could he? Just have a look at it.'

The boy shifted awkwardly in his chair, his eyes narrowing over the writing in the long, uncomfortable silence that followed.

'Did you write it?' asked Morse slowly. 'Or was it your brother?'