The Dead of Jericho

'It was very irregular, they said, and Saturday morning's hardly the best time to make inquiries, is it?'

'But you found out?'

Lewis nodded. 'You're not going to like this much, sir, but the Scotts' baby was adopted by a couple in North London: a Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins. They christened the boy "Joseph", and the poor little fellow died just before his third birthday-meningitis.'

Morse looked utterly blank and his eyes seemed to stare down into some vast abyss. 'You're quite sure about this?'

'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 front-door 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.'

Chapter Thirty-Five

Sir: (n.) a word of respect (or disapprobation) used in addressing a man.

– Chambers's Twentieth-Century Dictionary

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.'