As best he could remember it, that was the gist of the letter that Edward had read before hastily replacing it as he heard Anne climbing the stairs; and that was the gist of what he'd told his brother Michael the same evening. Not in any fraternal, conspiratorial sort of way. Just the opposite, in fact; because Michael had frequently boasted about making love to Anne, and-yes!-he, Edward, had been angry and jealous about it. But Michael had laughed it off; after all it wasn't much good her appealing to him for any money, was it? He couldn't even afford a decent fix every now and again. Then Anne had died; and soon after hearing of her death, Michael had asked Edward whether he could remember the name and address of the man Anne had written to. And that's how it started. Just a joke, really-that's what they'd thought, anyway. There was a chance of some money, perhaps, and money for Michael was becoming an urgent necessity, because (as Edward knew) he'd been on drugs for almost a year. So, almost in a schoolboyish manner, they had concocted a note together-and, well, that was all. The next day Michael had been rushed off to hospital, and Edward himself had felt frightened. Was still frightened-and agonisedly sorry about the cheap thing he'd done and all the trouble he'd caused. He'd never rung up Charles Richards, and he'd never been down to the willow trees to see if anything had been left there.
Whilst Lewis was laboriously scrawling the last few sentences, Morse wandered off and walked into the ward where Michael lay, a large white dressing over his right eye, his left eye, bruised and swollen, staring up at the ceiling. 'Your brother just told me that between you you wrote a letter to Charles Richards. Is that right, Michael?'
'If Ted says so. I forget.' He seemed nonchalant and unconcerned.
'You don't forget other things, perhaps?'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'You'd always remember getting into bed with Ms. Scott, surely?'
To Morse the look that leaped into the single eye of Michael Murdoch seemed distastefully crude and triumphant but the boy made no direct reply.
'Real honey, wasn't she?'
'Phew! You can say that again.'
'She-er-she took her clothes off, you mean?'
'You kidding? Beautiful body that woman had!'
Morse shrugged his shoulders. 'I wouldn't go so far as that myself. I only saw her after she-after she was dead, but, you can't really say she had a beautiful body, can you? With that great birthmark on her side? Come off it, lad. You can't have seen many.'
'You don't notice that sort of thing too much, though, do you, when-?'
'You must have noticed it sometimes, though.'
'Well, yes, of course, but-'
'What a cheap and sordid little liar you are, Murdoch!' The anger in Morse's voice was taut and dangerous. 'She had no birthmark anywhere, that woman! She had one big fault and only one; and that was that she was kind and helpful to such a spineless specimen as you, lad-because you're so full of wind and piss there's room for nothing else!'
The eye was suddenly dull and ashamed, and Morse turned away and walked out. In the corridor he stood at the window for a few minutes breathing heavily until his anger subsided. Perhaps he was a cheap and sordid liar himself, too, for he had seen Anne Scott once-and once only. At a party. Fully dressed. And, as it seemed to him now, such a long, long time ago.
Whilst Morse and Lewis were still at the Eye Hospital, passengers arriving on a British Airways scheduled flight from Madrid were passing through the customs hall at Gatwick, where onlookers might have seen two plainclothes men walk up on either side of a middle-aged, broad-shouldered man, his dark hair greying at the temples. There was no struggle, no animated conversation: just a wan, helpless sort of half-smile on the face of the man who had just been arrested. Indeed, the exchanges were so quietly spoken, so decorous almost, that even the bearded customs man a few yards away had been able to hear only a little of what was said.
The broad-shouldered man had nodded, unemotionally.
'It is my duty as a police officer to arrest you on a charge of murder: the murder of Mr. George Jackson of 9 Canal Reach, Jericho…'
The customs man frowned, his chalk poised in mid-air over the next piece of luggage. Arrests in the hall were commonplace, of course; but Jericho, as it seemed to him, sounded such a long, long way away.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky
– Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol
Morse had heard of the arrest the previous evening after returning to Kidlington HQ at about 9.45 p.m. He had been pleasurably surprised that things had developed so quickly, and he had promptly despatched a telex of thanks to Interpol. His decision had been a simple one. The HQ building was non-operational as far as cells were concerned, and he had ordered the police car to drive direct to St. Aldates, where a night's solitary confinement might well, in Morse's view, prove beneficial for the prisoner's soul.
The next morning, Morse took his time; and when Lewis drove into the crowded St. Aldates' yard it was already 9.45 a.m.
'I’ll see him alone first,' said Morse.
'I understand, sir.' Lewis appeared cheerfully indifferent. 'I’ll nip along and get a cup of coffee.'
Richards was seated on a narrow bed reading the Daily Express when the cell-door was closed behind Morse with a thumping twang.
'Good morning, sir. We haven't met before, have we? I've met your brother several times, of course-but never you. I'm Morse-Detective Chief Inspector Morse.'
'Charles has told me about you, Inspector.'
'Do sit down, please. We've er we've got quite a lot to talk about, haven't we? I told the people here that you were perfectly free, of course, to call your lawyer. They told you that, I hope?'
'I don't need a lawyer, Inspector. And when you let me go-which won't be long, believe me!-I promise I shan't even complain about being cooped up for the night in this wretched cell.'
'I do hope they've treated you reasonably well?'
'Quite well, yes. And it's good to get back to some English food, I must say. Perhaps a prisoner's life isn't too bad-'
'It's pretty grim, I'm afraid.'
'Well, I think you've got a bit of explaining to do, Inspector.'
'Really? I was hoping you were going to do all that.'
'I've been accused of murdering a man, I understand?'
'That's it.'
'Don't you think you owe me just a little explanation?'
'All right. Your brother Charles told you about the blackmail note he received, and asked you for your co-operation. You've always been a kindly and good-hearted fellow, and you said you'd do what you could. Then your brother had a phone call about the note-or at least a call he thought was about the note-and he arranged to meet the blackmailer, Jackson. He drove his Rolls into Oxford, and he took you with him. When you got near the rendezvous that night, you crouched down in the back seat, and Charles carefully kept the car away from the lighted road whilst you quietly got out, taking Mrs. Richards' folding bicycle with you. Then you waited-and you followed the man you'd seen take the money. Luckily he was on a bicycle as well, and you tailed him down to Jericho, where you saw him go in his house. And that was the night's work successfully completed. Charles was waiting for you at some prearranged spot and-'