The Dead of Jericho

'Really? Well, fire away. No time like the present.'

'I’d rather see you about things, if you don't mind, sir. Never quite the same over the phone, is it?'

'I don't see why not.'

Nor did Morse. 'One or two rather-delicate matters, sir. Better if we meet, I think.'

'As you wish.' Richards' voice sounded indifferent.

'Tomorrow?'

'Why not?'

'About ten o'clock?'

'Fine.'

'Any parking space outside your office?' Morse asked the question innocently enough, it seemed.

'I’ll make sure there's a space, Inspector. Damned difficult parking a car these days, isn't it?' His voice sounded equally innocent.

***

Outside the inn the legend was printed 'Tarry ye at Jericho until your beards be grown'. Inside the inn, Joe Morley hoisted his vast-bellied frame on to the high stool at the corner of the public bar, and the landlord was already pulling a pint of draught Guinness.

'Evenin', Joe.'

'Evenin'.'

'Bit of excitement, we hear, down your criminal neck of the woods.'

Joe wiped the creamy froth from his thick lips. 'Poor old George, you mean?'

'You knew him pretty well, didn't you?'

'Nobody knew George very well. He were a loner, were George. Bloody good fisherman, though.'

'Bird watcher as well, wasn't he?'

'Was he?'

The landlord polished another glass and leaned forward. 'Used to watch the birds, Joe-and not just the feathered variety. Used to watch that woman opposite as killed herself-with a pair of bloody binoculars!'

''Ow do you know?'

'Mrs. Purvis was tellin' old Len-you know old Len as comes in sometimes. No curtains in the bedroom, either!'

'Very nice, too, I should think.'

The landlord leaned forward again. 'Do you want to know summat else? George weren't doin' too badly with all the odd jobs he used to do, neither. Two hundred and fifty quid he put in the post office last Thursday-some OAP bonds or something.'

''Ow do you know?'

'You know old Alf as comes in. Well, his missus was talkin' to, you know, that woman, whatsername, who works in the post office and-'

A group of youths came in, and the landlord reached up for two sets of darts and handed them over. 'The usual, lads?'

The middle-aged man who had been sitting silently at one of the tables moved over to allow the dartboard area to be cleared. He was beginning to feel very hungry indeed, for Morse had insisted (when he'd divided the Jericho pubs into two lists) that the early evening was the best time for pub gossip. 'Just listen, if you like,' Morse had said. 'I'll bet most of 'em there will be talking about Jackson.'

And Lewis's hearing was good.

Morse himself, however, had heard nothing whatsoever about Jackson: it seemed that darts, football, and the price of beer had resumed their customary conversational priorities. Life went on as before-except for Anne Scott and George Jackson.

When, considerably over-beered, Morse looked back in his office at 9 p.m., he found an interesting report awaiting him. He had insisted that the fingerprint men should go and have another look round 10 Canal Reach; and they had found something new. Two prints-two fairly clear ones, too. And they weren't Jackson's. Morse felt he'd had a pretty good day.

Chapter Twenty-Three

And he made him a coat of many colours.

– Genesis, xxxvii, 3

Morse allowed himself half an hour along the A34 from Kidlington; and it was ample, for he spotted White Swan Lane as soon as he approached the town centre. Richards Brothers, Publishing & Printing, marked only by a brass plate to the right of the front door, was a converted nineteenth- century red-brick house, set back about ten yards from the street, with four parking lots marked out in white paint on the recently tarmacadamed front. One of the spaces was vacant, and as Morse pulled the Lancia into it he was aware that someone standing by the first-floor window had been observing his arrival. A notice inside the open front door directed him up the wide, elegant staircase where the frosted-glass panel in the door to his right repeated the information on the plate downstairs, with the addendum Please Walk In.

A woman looked up from behind a desk littered with papers. A very attractive woman, too, thought Morse- though considerably older than she'd sounded on the phone.

'Inspector Morse, isn't it?' she asked without enthusiasm, 'Mr. Richards is expecting you.'

She walked across to a door (Charles Richards, Manager, in white plastic capitals), knocked quietly, and ushered Morse past her into the carpeted office, where he heard the door click firmly to behind him.

Richards himself got up from his swivel-chair, shook hands, and beckoned Morse to take the seat opposite him.

'Good to see you again, Inspector.'

But Morse ignored the pleasantry. 'You lied to me, sir, about your visit to Jericho on Wednesday, 3^rd October, and I want to know why.'

Richards looked across the desk with what seemed genuine surprise. 'But I didn't lie to you. As I told you-'

'So if your car picked up a parking ticket that afternoon, someone else must have taken it to Oxford-is that right?'

'I-I suppose so, yes. But-'

'And if you paid the fine a couple of days later, someone must have pinched your chequebook and forged your signature? Is that it, sir?'

'You mean-you mean the cheque…' Richard's voice trailed off rather miserably, and Morse pounced again.

'Of course, I fully realise that it must have been someone else, because you yourself, sir, were not in Oxford that afternoon-I checked that. The young lady-'

Richards leaned over the desk in some agitation, and waved his right hand from side to side as though wiping the last three words from a blackboard with some invisible rubber. 'Could we forget that, please?' He said earnestly. 'I-I don't want to get anyone else involved in this mess.'

'I'm afraid someone else already is involved, sir. As far as I'm concerned, you've got a water-tight alibi yourself-and all I want to know is who it was who drove your car to Jericho that afternoon.'

'Inspector!' Richards sighed deeply and contemplated the carpet. 'I should have had more sense than to lie to