The Dead of Jericho

bloody-mindedness of those truculent adolescents to whom all notions of integrity, scholarship, or even the meanest of the middle-class virtues were equally foreign and repugnant. Well, she'd stuck it out for four terms; and looking back she wished she'd stuck it longer. The boys and girls in her own form had clubbed together generously to buy her an utterly hideous set of wine glasses; and those glasses were the most precious present she'd ever had! She'd cried when they made the presentation-all of them staying behind after final assembly, with one of the boys making a stupidly incompetent, facetious, wonderful little speech. Most of the girls had cried a bit, too, and even one or two of the inveterate exposers had been reduced to words of awkward farewell that were sad, and mildly grateful, and quite unbearably moving. Oh dear! Then? Well, she'd tried one or two other things and, finally-two years ago that is-she'd come back to Oxford, advertised for private pupils, got rather more offers than she could cope with, bought a small house-and well, there she was! There she was at the party.

She'd missed something out though-the man knew that. He remembered, albeit vaguely, how Mrs. Murdoch had introduced her to him; remembered clearly the third finger on her left hand as she'd wiped the inside of her wineglass. Had she missed out a few other facts as well? But he said nothing. Just sat there, half bemused and more than half besotted.

It was just after midnight. The Murdoch boys had gone to bed and several of the guests had already taken their leave. Most of those who remained were drinking their second or third cups of coffee, but no one came up to interrupt the oddly assorted pair who still sat amidst the wreckage of the trifles and the flans.

'What about you?' she asked. 'You've managed to get me to do all the talking.'

'I'm not half as interesting as you are. I'm not! I just want to keep sitting here-next to you, that's all.'

He'd drunk a prodigious amount of wine, and his voice (as she noticed) was at last becoming slurred. 'Nesht to you, thas aw,' would be the more accurate phonetic equivalents of his last few words; and yet the woman felt a curiously compelling attraction towards this mellowing drunkard, whose hand now sought her own once more and who lightly traced his fingertips across her palm.

The phone rang at twenty minutes past one.

Mrs. Murdoch placed her hand tactfully on his shoulder and spoke very quietly. 'Call for you.' Her keen eyes had noticed everything, of course; and she was amused and-yes!-quite pleased that things were turning out so sweetly for the pair of them. Pity to interrupt. But, after all, he'd mentioned to her that he might be called away.

He picked up the receiver in the hallway. 'What?… Lewis? What the hell do you have to…? Oh!… Oh!… All right.' He looked at his wristwatch. 'Yes! Yes! I said so, didn't I?' He banged down the receiver and walked back into the lounge.

She sat just as he had left her, her eyes questioning him as he stood there. 'Anything wrong?'

'No, not really. It's just that I've got to be off, I'm afraid. I’m sorry-'

'But you've got time to see me home, haven't you? Please!'

'I'm sorry, I can't. You see, I'm on er on call tonight and-'

'Are you a doctor or something?'

'Policeman.'

'Oh, God!'

'I'm sorry-'

'You keep saying that!'

'Don't let's finish up like this,' he said quietly.

'No. That would be silly, wouldn't it? I'm sorry, too-for getting cross, I mean. It's just that…' She looked up at him, her eyes now dull with disappointment. 'Perhaps the fates-'

'Nonsense! There's no such bloody thing!'

'Don't you believe in-?'

'Can we meet again?'

She took a diary from her handbag, tore out a page from the back, and quickly wrote: 9 Canal Reach.

'The car's here,' said Mrs. Murdoch.

The man nodded and turned as if to go. But he had to ask it. 'You're married, aren't you?'

'Yes, but-'

'One of the brothers in the company?'

Was it surprise? Or was it suspicion that flashed momentarily in her eyes before she answered him. 'No, it wasn't. I was married long before that. In fact, I was silly enough to get married when I was nineteen, but-'

A rather thickset man walked into the lounge and came diffidently over to them. 'Ready, sir?'

'Yes.' He turned to look at her for the last time, wanting to tell her something, but unable to find the words.

'You've got my address?' she whispered.

He nodded. 'I don't know your name, though.'

'Anne. Anne Scott.'

He smiled-almost happily.

'What's your name?'

'They call me Morse,' said the policeman.

***

Morse fastened his safety-belt as the police car crossed the Banbury Road roundabout and accelerated down the hill towards Kidlington. 'Where do you say you're dragging me to, Lewis?'

'Woodstock Crescent, sir. Chap's knifed his missus in one of the houses there. No trouble, though. He came into the station a few minutes after he'd killed her.'

'Doesn't surprise you, Lewis, does it? In the great majority of murder cases the identity of the accused is apparent virtually from the start. You realise that? In about 40 per cent of such cases he's arrested, almost immediately, at or very near the scene of the crime-usually, and mercifully for the likes of you, Lewis, because he hasn't made the slightest effort to escape. Now-let me get it right-in about 50 per cent of cases the victim and the accused have had some prior relationship with each other, often a very close relationship.'

'Interesting, sir,' said Lewis as he turned off left just opposite the Thames Valley Police HQ. 'You been giving another one of your lectures?'

'It was all in the paper this morning,' said Morse, surprised to find how soberly he'd spoken.

The car made its way through a maze of darkened side streets until Morse saw the flashing blue lights of an ambulance outside a mean-looking house in Woodstock Crescent. He slowly unfastened his seatbelt and climbed out. 'By the way, Lewis, do you know where Canal Reach is?'

'I think so, yes, sir. It's down in Oxford. Down in Jericho.'

BOOK ONE

Chapter One

A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho.

– Luke x, 30

Oxford's main tourist attractions are reasonably proximate to one another and there are guidebooks aplenty, translated into many languages. Thus it is that the day visitor may climb back into his luxury coach after viewing the fine University buildings clustered between the High and the Radcliffe Camera with the gratifying feeling that it has all been a compact, interesting visit to yet another of England's most beautiful cities. It is all very splendid: it is all a