'You lie!' thundered Morse 'Do you honestly believe it was my wish for Sergeant Lewis to go and disturb your brother? You're right. He is ill. Do you think I don't know all about him? Do you think I'd risk his chances of getting over all this trouble if I didn't have to?'
Edward Murdoch did a very strange thing then. Like some frenetic pianist banging away at the same chords, he pressed the fingers of both his hands all over the letter in front of him, and sat back breathing heavily with a look of triumph in his eyes.
'Not really very sensible,' said Morse mildly. 'You see, I'm going to have to ask you why you did that, aren't I? And, I’ll tell you something, lad, you'd better think up something pretty good!'
'You're trying to trick me!' shouted the boy. 'Why don't you just-?'
'I'm not trying to trick you, lad. I don't need to. You're making enough mistakes without needing me to do much about it.'
'I told you. I didn't-'
'Look! Sergeant Lewis'll be back any minute now, because I can't really believe your brother's as stupid as you are. And when he comes in, we'll have a statement, and then we'll take you up to Kidlington and get one from you. It's all right. You didn't write the letter, you say. That's fine. All we've got to do is to get it down in writing, then typed up, and signed. It won't take all that long, and I'll give your mum a ring and tell her-'
'What's it got to do with her?'
'Won't she be a bit worried about you, lad? You're all she's got at home now, you know, and she's had one hell of a time this last few weeks, hasn't she?'
It was the final straw, and Edward Murdoch buried his head in his hands and wept.
Morse quietly left the room and beckoned to Lewis, who had been sitting for the last quarter of an hour on a bench at the end of the corridor, making steady progress with the Coffee-Break Crossword in the Daily Mirror.
The sordid little story was soon told. It had been Edward who had seen the letter to Charles Richards underneath a pile of books in the study, unsealed but ready to post, with the envelope addressed and stamped. In it Anne Scott had begged for advice, support, and money. She was sure she was pregnant and the father could only be Charles Richards because she had never made love with any other man. She pleaded with Charles to contact her and arrange to see her. She knew he would agree because of what they had meant to each other for so many years; and so very recently, too. She held out no threats, but the very fact that such a thing had crossed her mind served only to show how desperate she was feeling. If he could be her lover no longer, at least he could be a friend-now, when she needed him as never before. She treasured all the letters he had written to her, and re-reading them was about the only thing that gave her any hope. She would burn them all-as he'd often asked her to-if only he would help her. If he wouldn't-well, she just couldn't say what she would do.
As best he could remember it, that was the gist of the letter that Edward had read before hastily replacing it as he heard Anne climbing the stairs; and that was the gist of what he'd told his brother Michael the same evening. Not in any fraternal, conspiratorial sort of way. Just the opposite, in fact; because Michael had frequently boasted about making love to Anne, and-yes!-he, Edward, had been angry and jealous about it. But Michael had laughed it off; after all it wasn't much good her appealing to him for any money, was it? He couldn't even afford a decent fix every now and again. Then Anne had died; and soon after hearing of her death, Michael had asked Edward whether he could remember the name and address of the man Anne had written to. And that's how it started. Just a joke, really-that's what they'd thought, anyway. There was a chance of some money, perhaps, and money for Michael was becoming an urgent necessity, because (as Edward knew) he'd been on drugs for almost a year. So, almost in a schoolboyish manner, they had concocted a note together-and, well, that was all. The next day Michael had been rushed off to hospital, and Edward himself had felt frightened. Was still frightened-and agonisedly sorry about the cheap thing he'd done and all the trouble he'd caused. He'd never rung up Charles Richards, and he'd never been down to the willow trees to see if anything had been left there.
Whilst Lewis was laboriously scrawling the last few sentences, Morse wandered off and walked into the ward where Michael lay, a large white dressing over his right eye, his left eye, bruised and swollen, staring up at the ceiling. 'Your brother just told me that between you you wrote a letter to Charles Richards. Is that right, Michael?'
'If Ted says so. I forget.' He seemed nonchalant and unconcerned.
'You don't forget other things, perhaps?'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'You'd always remember getting into bed with Ms. Scott, surely?'
To Morse the look that leaped into the single eye of Michael Murdoch seemed distastefully crude and triumphant but the boy made no direct reply.
'Real honey, wasn't she?'
'Phew! You can say that again.'
'She-er-she took her clothes off, you mean?'
'You kidding? Beautiful body that woman had!'
Morse shrugged his shoulders. 'I wouldn't go so far as that myself. I only saw her after she-after she was dead, but, you can't really say she had a beautiful body, can you? With that great birthmark on her side? Come off it, lad. You can't have seen many.'
'You don't notice that sort of thing too much, though, do you, when-?'
'You must have noticed it sometimes, though.'
'Well, yes, of course, but-'
'What a cheap and sordid little liar you are, Murdoch!' The anger in Morse's voice was taut and dangerous. 'She had no birthmark anywhere, that woman! She had one big fault and only one; and that was that she was kind and helpful to such a spineless specimen as you, lad-because you're so full of wind and piss there's room for nothing else!'
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.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky
– Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol
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.