Colin Dexter - The Dead of Jericho

The clues were almost all assembled now, although it was not until four hours and a bottle of Teacher's later that Morse finally solved the first of the two problems that the case of the Jericho killings had presented to him. To be more precise, it was at five minutes past midnight that he discovered the name of the man who had killed Ms. Anne Scott.

Detective Constable Walters had experienced little glamour since his appearance on the stage in the first act of the Jericho killings, and his latest assignment, a hefty burglary in North Oxford, had made no great demands on his ratiocinative skills. An upper window had been left open, and the burglars (two of them, perhaps) had helped themselves to the pickings whilst the owners were celebrating their silver wedding at the Randolph. The only fingerprints that might have been left had disappeared with the articles stolen, a list of which Walters had painstakingly made late the previous evening. No clues at all really, except that one of the intruders had urinated over the lounge carpet-an attendant circumstance which had elicited little enthusiasm when reported to the path boys. In fact, even the suggestion that there were two of them had been entertained only because one of the neighbours thought she may have seen a couple of suspicious youngsters walking up and down the road the day before. No, it was going to be one of those unsolved crimes-until perhaps the culprits were caught red-handed, asking for umpteen other offences to be taken into consideration. It was, therefore, a pleasurable relief for Walters when Lewis walked in on Friday morning.

'You want to see the new super, Sarge?'

'No. Actually, it's Constable Walters I'm after.'

'Your chief a bit sore about the promotion?'

'Sore? Morse? He looked like he'd won the pools when I last saw him.'

'Can we help you?'

'Morse says you looked into Ms. Scott's early marriage, and found where her husband had been living before he was killed.'

'That's right.'

'You spoke to the landlady?'

Walters nodded.

'Tell me all about it,' said Lewis.

'Important, is it?'

'So Morse says.'

By the end of the morning, after a visit to the landlady, after inspecting the medical records in the Radcliffe Infirmary's Accident Department, and after matching his findings with the road accident records in the archives at Police HQ, Lewis knew it all. Yet he felt oddly frustrated about his three hours' research, for Morse-who would never stoop to such fourth-grade clerical stuff himself-had already told him what he'd find: that the other driver involved in the fatal accident with Anne Scott's former husband had been Michael Murdoch .

Back in Morse's office, Lewis began to recount his morning's findings, but his reception was surprisingly cool.

'Cut out the weasel words, Lewis! It was just as I said, wasn't it?'

'Just as you said, sir,' replied Lewis mildly.

'And why didn't that incompetent Walters take the trouble to put the landlady's address in his report?'

'I didn't ask him. He probably didn't think it was important.'

'Didn’t think! What the hell's he got to think with -'

'He’s only a young fellow-'

'And doubtless you , Lewis, with your vast experience, wouldn't have thought it very important either?'

'No, I don't think I would, sir,' replied Lewis, marvelling at his own intrepidity. 'And I know how much you value my own idea of what's important and what isn't.'

'I see.' But there was an icy note in Morse's reply that suddenly alerted Lewis to an imminent gale, force ten.

'I'd always thought, Lewis, that the job of a detective, however feebleminded he may be, was to produce a faithful and accurate report on whatever facts he'd been able to establish-however insignificant those facts might appear.' The voice was monotonous, didactic, with the slow, refined articulation of a schoolmaster explaining the school rules to a particularly stupid boy. 'You see, it's often the small, seemingly insignificant detail that later assumes a newborn magnitude. You would agree with that, would you not?'

Lewis swallowed hard and nodded feebly. He was in for a carpeting, he knew that. But what had gone wrong?

'So your friend Walters was somewhat remiss, was he not? As you say, I respect your own judgement of what may or may not be important; though, to be honest, I'm disappointed that you don't expect a slightly higher standard of accuracy and thoroughness in your colleagues' reports. But let's forget that. Walters doesn't work for me , does he?'

'What have I done wrong, sir?' asked Lewis quietly.

'What have you done wrong? I'll tell you, Lewis. You're bloody careless, that's what! Careless in the way you've been writing your reports-'

'You know my spelling-'

'I'm not talking about your bloody spelling. Listen, man! There are half a dozen things here that are purely, simply, plainly, absolutely bloody wrong . You're getting slack , Lewis. Instead of getting better, you're getting a bloody sight worse . Did you know that?' Lewis looked down at the desk and said nothing. He knew, deep down, that he'd rushed a few things; but he'd tried so hard. Whenever Morse picked up his coat for the night and asked, as he often did, for 'a report in the morning', he could have had little idea of how long and difficult a job it was for his sergeant to get the sentences right in his mind, and then tick-tick away on the typewriter until late into the evening while his chief was sitting with his cronies in the local. No, it wasn't fair at all, and Lewis felt a sense of hurt and injustice.

'Let me just see what you mean, if you don't mind, sir. I know I-'

'There's this for a start. Remember it?' Morse's right forefinger flicked the statement taken by Lewis from Mrs. Celia Richards. 'And with this one, Lewis, if I remember rightly-as you can be bloody sure I do!-I specifically asked you to take care. Specifically. '

Lewis looked down at the statement brusquely thrust across to him and he remembered exactly what Morse had said. He opened his mouth to say something, but Etna was still erupting.

'What the hell's the good of a sergeant who can't even get an address right? A sergeant who can't even copy three figures without getting 'em cock-eyed? And then look at this one here!' Morse had now picked up another sheet and was launching a second front somewhere else-but Lewis was no longer listening. This wasn't just unfair; it was wrong . The address on the statement he held was perfectly correct-he was convinced of that. And so he waited, like a deaf man watching a film of Hitler ranting at a Nuremberg rally; and then, when the reverberations had settled, he spoke four simple words, with the massive authority of the Almighty addressing Moses.

'This address is right.'

Morse's mouth opened-and closed. Reaching across the desk, he retrieved Celia Richards' statement, and then fingered through the other documents in front of him until he found what he was looking for.

'You mean to say, Lewis, that she lives at two-six-one , and that this address here'-he passed across a Xerox copy of the letter which had accompanied the parking-fine-'is also correct?' The last three words were whispered, and Lewis felt a shiver of excitement as he looked at the copy:

Dear Sirs,

Enclosed herewith please find cheque for £6, being the penalty fixed for the traffic offence detailed on the ticket (also enclosed). I apologise for the trouble caused.