Colin Dexter - The Dead of Jericho

Unfortunately, however, his right shin collided with the dustbin standing just beside the coalhouse, and he suppressed a yowl of pain as the lid fell clangingly onto the concrete and rolled round like an expiring spinning-top. It was more than sufficient warning, and Morse had the feeling that his quarry had probably been alerted in any case by the opening of the window upstairs. A quick glimpse of a man disappearing over the low wall that separated number 10 from the bank of the canal, and that was all. The garden was suddenly still again in the gathering darkness. If Lewis had been there, Morse would have felt more stomach for the chase. But, alone, he felt useless, and just a little scared.

The hut was a junk-house. Fishing gear crowded every square inch that was not already taken up by gardening tools, and it seemed impossible to take out anything without either moving everything else or sending precariously balanced items clattering to the floor. Against the left-hand wall Morse noticed seven fishing rods, the nearest one a shiny and sophisticated affair-doubtless the latest acquisition from the tackle shop. But his attention was not held by the rods, for it was perfectly clear to see where the intruder had been concentrating his search. The large wickerwork fisherman's basket lay open on the top of a bag of compost, its contents scattered around: hooks, tins of bait, floats, weights, pliers, reels, lengths of line, knives… Morse looked around him helplessly. Who was it who had been so anxious to search the basket, and why? It was seldom that Morse had no inkling whatsoever of the answers to the questions that he posed himself, but such was the case now.

Before leaving Canal Reach, he walked across to number 9, unlocked the door, and turned on the wall switch immediately to his left. But clearly the electricity had been disconnected, and he decided that his nerves were in no fit state to look around the empty, darkened house. On the mat he saw a cheap brown envelope, with the name and address of Anne Scott typed behind the cellophane window. A bill, no doubt, that probably wouldn't be settled for a few months yet-if at all. Morse picked it up and put it in his jacket pocket.

He drove along Canal Street and found himself facing the green gates of Lucy's Iron Works, where he turned right and followed Juxon Street up to the top. As he waited to turn left into the main thoroughfare of Walton Street, his eyes casually noticed the signs and plaques on the new buildings there: The Residents' Welfare Club; The Jericho Testing Laboratories; Welsh & Cohen, Dentists… Yet still nothing clicked in his mind.

Lewis was already back from Abingdon. He had seen Celia Richards alone at the house, and Morse glanced cursorily through her statement.

'Get it typed, Lewis. There are three "r"s in "corroborate", and it's an "e" in the middle of "desperate". And make sure you've got the address right.'

Lewis said nothing. Spelling, as he knew, was not his strongest suit.

'How much exactly did that new rod of Jackson's cost?' asked Morse suddenly.

'I didn't ask, sir. These modern ones are very light, sort of hollow-but they're very strong, I think.'

'I asked you how much it cost-not what a bloody miracle it was!'

Lewis had often seen Morse in this mood before-snappy and irritable. It usually meant the chief was cross with himself about something; usually, too, it meant that it wasn't going to be long before his mind leaped prodigiously into the dark and hit, as often as not, upon some strange and startling truth.

Later that same evening Conrad Richards drove his brother Charles to Gatwick Airport. The plane was subject to no delay, either technical or operational, and at 9.30 p.m. Charles Richards took his seat in a British Airways DC 10-bound for Madrid.

The next morning, two box files, the one red and the other green, lay on the desk at Kidlington, marked 'Anne Scott' and 'George Jackson' respectively. They remained unopened as Morse sat contemplating the task before him. He felt it most unlikely that he was going to discover many more significant pieces to the puzzle posed by the deaths of two persons separated only by a few yards in a mean little street in Jericho. That the two deaths were connected, however, he had no doubt at all; and the fact that the precise connection was still eluding him augured ill for the cheerful Lewis who entered the office at 8.45 a.m.

'What's the programme today, then, sir?'

Morse pointed to the box files. 'It'll probably not do us any harm to find out what sort of a cock-up Bell and his boys made of things.'

Lewis nodded, and sat down opposite the chief. 'Which one do we start with?'

Morse appeared to ponder the simple question earnestly as he stared out at the fleet of police vehicles in the yard. 'Pardon?'

'I said, which one do we start with, sir?'

'How the bloody hell do I know, man? Use a bit of initiative, for Christ's sake!'

Lewis pulled the red file towards him, and began his slow and industrious survey of the documents in the Scott case. Morse, too, after what seemed an inordinately prolonged survey of the Fords and BMWs, reluctantly reached for the green file and dumped the meagre pile of papers on to his blotting-pad.

For half an hour neither of them spoke.

'Why do you think she killed herself?' asked Morse suddenly.

'Expecting a baby, wasn't she.'

'Bit thin, don't you reckon? It's not difficult to get rid of babies these days. Like shelling peas.'

'It'd still upset a lot of people.'

'Do you think she knew she was pregnant?'

'She'd have a jolly good idea-between ten to twelve weeks gone, it says here.'

'Mm.'

'Well, I know my missus did, sir.'

'Did she?'

'She wasn't exactly sure, of course, until she went to the, you know, the ante-natal clinic.'

'What do they do there?'

'I'm not sure, really. They take a urine specimen or something, and then the laboratory boys sort of squirt something-'

But Morse was listening no longer. His face was alight with an inner glow, and he whistled softly before jumping to his feet and shaking Lewis vigorously by the shoulders.

'You-are-a-bloody-genius, my son!'

'Really?' replied an uncomprehending Lewis.

'Find it! It's there somewhere. That plastic envelope with a couple of bits of burnt paper in it!'

Lewis looked at the evidence, the 'ICH' and the 'RAT', and he wondered what cosmic discovery he had inadvertently stumbled upon.

'I passed the place yesterday, Lewis! Yesterday! And still I behave like a moron with a vacuum between the ears! Don't you see? It's part of a letterheading: the JerICHo Testing LaboRATories! Ring 'em up quick, Lewis, and offer to take 'em a specimen in!'

'I don't quite see-'

'They tested her , don't you understand? And then they wrote and-'

'But we knew she was having a baby. And so did she, like as not.'

'Ye-es.' For a few seconds Morse's excitement seemed on the wane, and he sat down once again. 'But if they wrote to her the day before she- Lewis! Ring up the Post Office and ask 'em what time they deliver the mail in Jericho. You see, if-'

'It'll be about quarter to eight-eightish.'

'You think?' asked More, rather weakly.

'I'll ring if you want, sir, but-'

'Ten to twelve weeks! How long has Charles Richards been in Abingdon?'

'I don't think there's anything about that here-'

'Three months, Lewis! I'm sure of it. Just ring him up, will you, and ask-'