Colin Dexter - The Dead of Jericho

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.

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-'

'The Martyrs' Memorial, actually.'

'You-you're not going to deny any of this?'

'No point, is there? It's all true-apart from the fact that I've got a folding bike of my own.'

'Ah well! Even the best of us make little mistakes here and there.'

'Big ones, too, Inspector-like the one I suspect you're about to make. But go on!'

'The plan had worked well, and you decided to repeat it. Charles had agreed to speak to the Oxford Book Association and he took you with him that Friday night. He probably dropped you somewhere near St. Barnabas' Church and arranged to pick you up at about a quarter to ten or so.'

Richards shook his head in quiet remonstration. 'Look, Inspector. If you really-'

'Just a minute! Hear me out! I don't think you meant to murder Jackson. The idea was that you-'

'I can't listen to this! You listen to me a minute! You may be right-you probably are-in saying that Charles meant to go and see Jackson. Knowing Charles as I do, I don't think he could have let a thing like that go. He'd like as not have gone to see Jackson and scared the living daylights out of him-because you mustn't underestimate my brother, Inspector: he's as tough and unscrupulous as they come-believe me! But don't you understand? Something put a whacking great full stop to any ideas that Charles may have had. And you know perfectly well what that something was: Jackson was murdered . And that, from our point of view, was that! We just felt-well, we needn't worry about him any more.'

'So you didn't go to Jackson's house that night?'

'I certainly did not.'

'Where were you that night, sir?' (Had the 'sir' crept in from conditioned reflex? Or was Morse feeling slightly less sure of himself?)

'I don't know,' replied Richards in a hopeless voice. 'I just don't know, Inspector. I don't go out much. I'm not a womaniser like Charles, and if I do go out it's usually only to the local.'

'But you didn't go to the local that night?'

'I may have done, but I can't remember; and it's no good saying I can. If I had gone, it would only have been for an hour or so, though.'

'Perhaps you stayed at home and watched the telly?'

'I haven't got a telly. If I was home that night I'd have been reading, I should think.'

'Anything interesting?'

'I've been reading Gibbon recently-and reading him with infinite pleasure, if I may say so-'

'Which volume are you up to?'

'Just past Alaric and the sacking of Rome. Volume Four.'

'Don't you mean Volume Three?'

'Depends which edition you're reading.'

Morse let it go. 'What was the real reason for your visit to Jackson's house that night?'

Richards smiled patiently. 'You must have a pretty poor opinion of my intelligence, Inspector.'

'Certainly not! Any man who reads Gibbon has got my vote from the start. But I still think no one actually intended murdering Jackson, you see. I think he was after something else.'

'Such as?'

'I think it was a letter-a letter that Jackson had found when he pushed his way through into Anne Scott's kitchen that morning. At first I thought it must have been a letter she'd written for the police-a suicide note-telling the whole story and perhaps telling it a bit too nastily from your brother's point of view. But now I don't think so, somehow. I think the letter Jackson found had probably been received through the post that very morning-a letter from your brother telling Anne Scott that he couldn't and wouldn't help her, and that everything between them was over.'