'I don't think so, somehow.'
'Morse! Have you got any ideas about this whole business?'
Morse sat silently for a while, and then decided to tell Bell everything he knew, starting with the evening when he'd met Anne Scott, and finishing with his telephone call to Jennifer Hills. He even told Bell about the illicit fiver handed over to the Jericho locksmith. And, in fact (could the two men but have realised it) several of the colours in the pattern were already painted in, although the general picture seemed obstinately determined not to reveal itself.
'If you can help me in any way,' said Bell quietly, 'I'll be grateful-you know that, don't you.'
'Yes, I know that, my old friend,' said Morse. 'And I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll try to think a bit more. Because there's something, somewhere, that we're all missing. God knows what it is, though-I don't.'
Chapter Twenty-One
I have already chose my officer.
– Othello Act I, scene i
Sunday-working was nothing particularly unusual for Bell, but as he sat in his office the following afternoon he knew that he would have been more gainfully employed if he had stayed at home to rake the autumn leaves from his neglected lawn. Reports were still filtering through to him, but there seemed little prospect of any immediate break in the case. After the initial spurt of blood and splurge of publicity, the murder of George Jackson was stirring no ripples of any cosmic concern. Apart from a few far-flung cousins, the man had left behind him neither any immediate family nor any traceable wake of affection. To those who had known him vaguely, he had been a mean and unloved little man, and to the police the manner of his death had hardly risen to the heights of inglorious wickedness. Yet several facts were fairly clear to Bell. Someone had managed to get into number 10 between half-past eight and nine that Friday evening, had probably argued with Jackson in a comparatively pacific way, then threatened and physically intimidated the man, and finally-accidentally or deliberately-cracked his thinly boned skull against the bedpost in his bedroom. The evidence strongly suggested, too, that Jackson's visitor had been looking for something specific, since the contents of all the drawers and cupboards in the house had been methodically and neatly examined; only in the bedroom were there the signs of frenetic haste and agitation. But of the identity of this visitor, or of the object of his quest, the police as yet had no real ideas at all. No one in the Reach or in the neighbouring streets appeared either to have seen or heard anything or anyone suspicious, and the truth was that only the sudden and disastrous blowing of a TV valve would have caused the majority of Jackson's fellow-citizens to look out into the darkened streets that night: for from 8.30 to 10.30 p.m. that evening, viewing all over Britain was monopolised by the Miss World Competition. Poor Jackson, alas, had missed the final adjudication, and faced instead the final judgement.
Walters called in at the office in mid-afternoon, after yet another fruitless search for the smallest nugget of gold. He was fairly sure in his own mind that they were trying to drive a motorway through a cul-de-sac, and that the solution to Jackson's murder was never going to be discovered in isolation from the death of Ms. Scott. He told Bell so, too, but the answer he received was callous and unkind.
'You don't need to be a bloody genius to come to that conclusion, lad.'
Bell was weary and dejected, Walters could see that, and there seemed little point in staying. But there was one further point he thought he might mention: 'Did you know, sir, that there wasn't a single book in Jackson's house?'
'Wasn't there?' said Bell absently.
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.'