The dead of Jericho (8 page)

'They've always had women at Brasenose, haven't they?' said the brunette slowly.

But Walters missed the second joke of the day, and drove down to Squitchey Lane, where he received from Mrs Raven an inordinately long and totally unhelpful account of the bridge evening; and thence to Woodstock Road, where he received from Mr Parkes an extremely brief but also totally unhelpful account of the same proceedings. So that was that.

As it happened Walters had been unusually unlucky that day. But life can sometimes be a cussed business, and even a policeman with a considerably greater endowment of nous than Walters possessed must hope for a few lucky breaks here and there. And, indeed, Walters was no one's fool. As he lay beside his young wife in Kidlington that night, there were several points that now appeared clear to him. Bell was quite right — there was no doubt about it: the Scott woman had hanged herself, albeit for reasons as yet unapparent. But there were several fishy (fishy?) aspects about the affair. The bridge evening (evening?) had finally finished at about 2.45 a.m., and almost certainly Anne Scott had gone home shortly after that.
How,
though? Got a lift with someone? In a taxi? On a bicycle? (He'd forgotten to put the point to the garish Gwendola.) And then something had gone sadly wrong. Time of death could not be firmly established, but the medical report suggested she had been dead at least ten hours before the police arrived, and that meant... But Walters wasn't quite sure what it meant. Then again there was the business of the front door being left open. Why? Had she forgotten to lock it? Unlikely, surely. Had someone else unlocked it, then? If so, the key on the inside must first have been removed. Wasn't that much more likely, though? He himself always took the key out of his own front door and placed it by the telephone on the hall table. Come to think of it, he wasn't quite sure why he did it. Just habit, perhaps. Three keys... three keys... and
one
of them must have opened that door. And if it wasn't Anne Scott herself and if it wasn't Mrs Purvis... Jackson! What if Jackson had gone in, unlocking the door with his own key, called out for Ms Scott, heard no reply, and so walked through — into the kitchen! Jackson would know all about that sticking door because he'd been through it at least twice on each of the two previous days. And what if... what if he'd... Yes! The chair must have been in the way and he would almost certainly have knocked it over as he pushed the door inwards... would probably have picked it up and placed it by the kitchen table before turning round and — Phew! That would explain it all, wouldn't it? Well, most of it. Yet why, if that had happened, hadn't Jackson phoned the police immediately? There was a phone
there,
in number 9. Had Jackson felt guilty about something? Had there been something — money, perhaps? — in the kitchen that his greedy soul had coveted? It must have been
something
like that. Then, of course, there was that other mystery: Morse! For it
must
have been Morse whom Jackson had seen there that day. What on earth was
he
doing there earlier in the afternoon? Was he taking German lessons? Walters thought back to those oddly tentative, yet oddly searching questions that Morse had asked that night. 'Is she — is
she
dead?' Morse had asked him. Just a minute! How on earth...? Had one of the policemen outside mentioned who it was they'd found? But no one could have done, for there was no one else who knew... Suddenly Walters shot bolt upright, jumped out of bed, slipped downstairs, and with fingers all thumbs, riffled through the telephone directory until he came to the M's. Rubbing his eyes with disbelief he stared again and again at the entry he'd been looking for: 'Morse, E., 45 The Flats, Banbury Road'. Morse! 'E.M.'! Was it
Morse
who'd been expected that afternoon? Steady on, though! There were a thousand and one other people with those initials — of course there were. But Morse
had
been there that afternoon — Walters was now quite sure in his own mind of that. It all fitted. Those questions he'd asked about doors and locks and lights — yes, he'd been there, all right. Now if Morse had a key and if
he,
not Jackson, had found his way through into the kitchen... Why hadn't he reported it, then? Money wouldn't fit into the picture now, but what if somehow Morse had... what if Morse was frightened he might compromise himself in some strange way if he reported things immediately? He'd rung later, of course — that would have been his duty as a police officer... Walters returned to bed but could not sleep. He was conscious of his eye-balls darting about in their sockets, and it was in vain that he tried to focus them on some imaginary point about six inches in front of his nose. Only in the early hours did he finally drift off into a disturbed sleep, and the most disturbing thought of all was what, if anything, he was to say to Chief Inspector Bell in the morning.

It was not only Walters who slept uneasily that night, although for Charles Richards the causes of his long and restless wakefulness were far more anguished. The undertow of it all was what he saw as the imminent break-up of his marriage, and all because of that one careless, amateurish error on his own part. Why, oh why — an old campaigner like he! — when Celia had seen that long, blonde, curling hair on the back of his dark brown Jaeger cardigan, hadn't he shrugged her question off, quite casually and uncaringly, instead of trying (as he had) to fabricate that laboured, unconvincing explanation? He remembered — kept on remembering — how Celia's face, for all its fortitude, had reflected then her sense of anger and of jealousy, her sense of betrayal and agonised inadequacy. And that hurt him — hurt him much more deeply than he could have imagined. In the distant past she might have guessed; in the recent past she must, so surely, have suspected; but now she
knew —
of that there now was little doubt.

And as he lay awake, he wondered how on earth he could ever cope with the qualms of his embering conscience. He could eat no breakfast when he got up the next morning, and after a cup of tea and a cigarette he experienced, as he sat alone at the kitchen table, a sense of helplessness that frightened him. His head ached and the print of
The Times
jumped giddily across his vision as he tried to distract his thoughts with events of some more cosmic implication. But other facts were facts as well: he was losing his hair, losing his teeth, losing whatever integrity he'd ever had as a civilised human being — and now he was losing his wife as well. He was drinking too heavily, smoking too addictively, fornicating far too frequently... Oh God, how he hated himself occasionally!

Saturday mornings were hardly the most productive periods in the company's activities, but there was always correspondence, occasionally an important phone call, and usually a few enquiries at the desk outside; and he had established the practice of going in himself, of requiring his personal secretary to join him, and of expecting his brother Conrad to put in a brief appearance, too, so that before adjourning for a midday drink together they could have the opportunity of discussing present progress and future plans.

On that Saturday morning, as often when he had no longer-ranging business commitments, Charles drove the five-minute journey to the centre of Abingdon in the Mini. The rain which had persisted through the previous few days had now cleared up, and the sky was a pale and cloudless blue. Not an umbrella day. Once seated in his office he called in his secretary and told her that he didn't wish to be disturbed unless it were absolutely necessary: he had, he said, some most important papers to consider.

For half an hour he sat there and did nothing, his chin resting on his left hand as he smoked one cigarette after another.
That
could be a start, though! He vowed earnestly that as soon as he'd finished his present packet (Glory be! — it was still almost full) he would pack up the wretched, dirty habit, thereby deferring, at a stroke, the horrid threats to heart and lungs, with the additional sweet benefits of less expense and (as he'd read) a greater sexual potency in bed. Yes! For a moment, as he lit another cigarette, he almost regretted that there were so many left. By lunch time they'd be gone though, and that would be the time for his monumental sacrifice — yes, after he'd had a drink with Conrad. If Conrad were coming in that morning... He sank into further fathoms of self-pitying gloom and recrimination... He had tried so hard over the years. He had reformed and vowed to turn from his sinful ways as frequently as a regular recidivist at revivalist meetings, and the thought of some healing stream that could abound and bring, as it were, some water to the parched and withering roots of life was like the balm of hope and grace. Yet (he knew it) such hope was like the dew that dries so early with the morning sun. So often had his inner nature robbed him of his robe of honour that now he'd come to accept his weaknesses as quite incurable. So he safeguarded those weaknesses, eschewing all unnecessary risks, foregoing those earlier, casual liaisons, avoiding where he could the thickets of emotional involvement, playing the odds with infinitely greater caution, and almost persuading himself sometimes that in his own curious fashion he was even becoming a fraction more faithful to Celia. And one thing he knew: he would do anything not to hurt Celia. Well, almost anything.

At ten-fifteen he rang his brother Conrad — Conrad, eighteen months younger than himself, not quite so paunchy, far more civilised, far more kindly, and by some genetic quirk a little greyer at the temples. The two of them had always been good friends, and their business association had invariably been co-operative and mutually profitable. On many occasions in the past Charles had needed to unbosom himself to his brother about some delicate and potentially damaging relationship, and on those occasions Conrad had always shown the same urbanity and understanding.

'You thinking of putting in an appearance today, Conrad? It's after ten, you know.'

'Twenty past, actually, and I'm catching the London train at eleven. Surprised you'd forgotten, Charles. After all, it was you who arranged the visit, wasn't it?'

'Of course, yes! Sorry! I must be getting senile.'

'We're all getting a little older day by day, old boy.'

'Conrad — er — I want you to do me a favour, if you will.'

'Yes?'

'It'll be the last one, I promise you.'

'Can I have that in writing?'

'I almost think you can, yes.'

'Something wrong?'

'Everything's wrong. But I can sort it out, I think — if you can help me. You see, I'd — I'd like an alibi for yesterday afternoon.'

'That's the
second
time this week!' (Was there an unwonted note of tetchiness in Conrad's voice?)

'I know. As I say, though, I promise it won't— '

'Where were we?'

'Er — shall we say we had a meeting with some prospective— '

'Whereabouts?'

'Er — High Wycombe, shall we say?'

'High Wycombe it shall be.'

'The Swedish contract, let's say.'

'Did I drive you there?'

'Er — yes. I — er — we — er — finished about six.'

'About six, I see.'

'This is all just in case, if you see what I mean. I'm sure Celia wouldn't want to go into details, but— '

'Understood, old boy. You can put your mind at rest.'

'Christ, I wish I could!'

'Look, Charles, I must fly. The train's— '

'Yes, of course. Have a good day! And, Conrad — thanks! Thanks a million!'

Charles put down the phone, but almost immediately it rang, and his secretary informed him that there was a call on the outside tine: personal and urgent.

'Hello? Charles Richards here. Can I help you?'

'Charles!'
The voice was caressing and sensual. 'No need to sound quite so formal, darling.'

'I told you not to ring— ' The irritation in his voice was obvious and genuine, but she interrupted him with easy unconcern.

'You're on your own, darling — I know that. Your secretary said so.'

Charles inhaled deeply. 'What do you want?'

'I want
you,
darling.'

'Look— '

'I just wanted to tell you that I had a call from Keith this morning. He's got to stay in South Africa until a week tomorrow. A week tomorrow! So I just wondered whether to put the electric blanket on for half-past one or two o'clock, darling. That's all.'

'Look, Jenny. I — I can't see you today — you know that. It's impossible on Saturdays. I'm sorry, but— '

'Never
mind,
darling! Don't sound so cross about it. We can make it tomorrow. I was just hoping— '

'Look!'

'For God's sake stop saying "look"!'

'I'm sorry; but I can't see you again next week, Jenny. It's getting too risky. Yesterday— '

'What the hell is this?'

Charles felt a rising tide of despair engulfing him as he thought of her long, blonde, curling hair and the slope of her naked shoulders. 'Look, Jenny,' he said more softly, 'I can't explain now but— '

'Explain? What the hell is there to
explain?

'I can't tell you now.' He ground the words into the mouthpiece.

'When shall I see you then?' Her voice sounded brusque and indifferent now.

'I'll get in touch. Not next week, though. I just can't— '

But the line was suddenly dead.

As Charles sat back breathing heavily in his black-leather swivel chair, he was conscious of a hard, constricting pain between his shoulder-blades, and he reached into a drawer for the
Opas
tablets. But the box was empty.

That day
The Oxford Mail
carried a page-two account (albeit a brief and belated one) of the death of Anne Scott at 9 Canal Reach, Jericho; and at various times in the day the account was noticed and read by some tens of thousands of people in the Oxford area, including the Murdoch family, George Jackson, Elsie Purvis, Conrad Richards, Gwendola Briggs, Detective Constable Walters and Chief Inspector Morse. It was quite by chance that Charles Richards himself was also destined to read it. After three double Scotches at the
The White Swan,
he had returned home to find the Rolls gone and a note from Celia saying that she had gone shopping in Oxford. 'Back about five — pork-pie in the frig.' And when she had returned home, she'd brought a copy of
The Oxford Mail
with her, throwing it down casually on the coffee table as Charles sat watching the football round-up.