In the current telephone directory, neither Richards (C.) nor Richards Publishing Company (or whatever) of Abingdon was listed, and Morse realised he would have saved himself the bother of looking if he had remembered Richards' recent arrival in Oxfordshire. But the supervisor of Telephone Enquiries was able, after finally convincing herself of Morse's bona fides, to give him two numbers: those of Richards, C., 261 Oxford Avenue, Abingdon, and of Richards Press, 14 White Swan Lane, Abingdon. Morse tried the latter first, and heard a recorded female voice inform him that in gratitude for his esteemed enquiry the answering machine was about to be activated. He tried the other number. Success.

'I was just on my way to the office, Inspector, but I don't suppose you've rung up about a printing contract, have you?'

'No, sir. I just wondered if you'd heard about the trouble in Jericho last night.'

'Trouble? You don't mean my vast audience rioted after my little talk?'

'A man was murdered in Jericho last night.'

'Yes?' (Had Charles Richards' tone inserted the question-mark? The line was very crackly.)

'Pardon?'

'I didn't say anything, Inspector.'

'His name was Jackson-George Jackson, and I think you may have known him, sir.'

'I'm afraid you're mistaken, Inspector. I don't know any Jackson in Jericho. In fact, I don't think I know anyone in Jericho.'

'You used to, though.'

'Pardon, Inspector?' (Surely the line wasn't all that bad?)

'You knew Anne Scott-you told me so.'

'What's that got to do with this?'

'Jackson lived in the house immediately opposite her.'

'Really?'

'You didn't know where she lived?'

'No, I didn't. You tell me she lived in Jericho but-well, to be truthful, I thought Jericho was somewhere near Jerusalem until…' Charles Richards hesitated.

'Until what?'

'Until I heard of Anne's-suicide.'

'You were, shall we say, pretty friendly with her once?'

'Yes, I was.'

'Too friendly, perhaps?'

'Yes, you could say that,' said Richards quietly.

'You never visited her in Jericho?'

'No, I did not!'

'But she got in touch with you?'

'She wrote-yes. She wrote on behalf of the Book Association, asking me if I'd talk about-well, you know that. I said I would-that's all.'

'She must have known you were coming to Abingdon.'

'We're beating about the bush, aren't we, Inspector? Look, I was very much in love with her once, and we-we nearly went off together, if you must know. But it didn't work out like that. Anne left the company-and then things settled down a bit.'

'A bit.'

'We wrote to each other.'

'Not purely casual, chatty letters, though?'

Again Richards hesitated and Morse heard the intake of breath at the other end. 'I loved the girl, Inspector.'

'And she loved you in return.'

'For a long time, yes.'

'You've no idea why she killed herself?'

'No, I haven't.'

'Do you remember where you were on the afternoon of the day she died?'

'Yes, I do. I read about her death in the Oxford Mail and-'

'Where were you, sir?'

'Look, Inspector, I don't want to tell you that. But, please believe me, if it really-'

'Another girl friend?'

'It could have been, couldn't it? But I'm-'

'You deny your car was parked in Jericho at the bottom of Victor Street that afternoon?'

'I certainly do!'

'And what if I told you I could prove that it was?'

'You'd be making one almighty mistake, Inspector.'

'Mm.' It was Morse's turn to hesitate now. 'Well, let's forget that for the minute, sir. But it's my official duty, I'm afraid, to ask you about er about this person you saw that afternoon. You see-'

'All right, Inspector. But you must promise me on your honour that this whole thing won't go an inch further if-'

'I promise that, sir.'

Morse rang the girl immediately, and she sounded a honey-although a progressively angrier honey. She was reluctant to answer any of Morse's questions for a start, but she slowly capitulated. Yes, if he must know, she'd been in bed with Charles Richards. How long for? Well, she'd tell him how long for. From about eleven thirty in the morning to after five in the afternoon. All the bloody time! So there! As he put down the phone Morse wondered what she was like, this girl. She sounded sensuous and passionate, and he thought perhaps that it might be in the long-term interests of justice as well as to his own short-term benefit if he kept a note of her address and telephone number. Yes. Mrs. Jennifer Hills who lived at Radley-just between Oxford and Abingdon: Jennifer Hills… yet another part of the new picture that was gradually forming in his mind. It was rather like the painting by numbers he'd seen in the toy shops: some areas were numbered for green, some for orange, some for blue, some for red, some for yellow-and, suddenly, there it was! The picture of something you'd little chance of guessing if you hadn't known: 'Sunset over Galway Bay', perhaps-or 'Donald Duck and Goofy'.

If Morse had but known it, Jennifer Hills was thinking along very similar lines. Her husband, Keith, a representative for the Gulf Petroleum Company, was still away in South Africa, and she herself, long-legged, lonely, randy and ready enough this featureless Saturday morning, had liked the sound of the chief inspector's voice. Sort of educated-but sort of close, too, and confidential-if only she could have explained it. Perhaps he might call and give her some 'inter-' something. Interrogation, that was it! And possibly some inter-something-else as well… How silly she'd been to get so cross with him! It was all Charles Richards' fault! She'd heard nothing from him since that exasperating phone call, and instinct told her to keep well away-at least for the time being. Yes… it might be nice, though, if the inspector called, and she found herself willing the phone to ring again. But it didn't.

'You were quite right, you know,' conceded Bell, when Morse looked into his office in the middle of that Saturday afternoon. 'Jackson had been bashed about the head quite a bit, it seems, but nothing all that serious. Certainly not serious enough to give him his ticket. The real trouble was the edge of that head-post on the bed-just like you said, Morse. Someone must have tried to shake his teeth out and cracked his skull against the upright.'

'You make it sound like a football match.'

'Boxing match, more like.'

'Blood all over the other fellow?'

'Pretty certainly, I'd think. Wouldn't you?'

Morse nodded. 'Accidental, perhaps?'

'Accidentally bloody deliberate, Morse-and don't you forget it.'

Morse nodded again. As soon as the surgeon had mentioned 'a squarish sharp-edged weapon', it had merely corroborated the suspicion he'd originally formed when he'd examined the bedpost, only about a foot from Jackson's head. To his naked eye, at the time, there had been nothing to confirm the suspicion, but he was as happy as the rest of them to rely upon the refinements of forensic tests. The weapon was settled then, and Morse felt he ought to put his colleague on the right lines about motive, too.