'Ah, I see,' said Bell. 'Yes, that's very interesting. Birthdays, eh?'

The old man elaborated as far as he could, and Bell thanked him with a fair show of simulated gratitude. It was good of the old boy to ring up, really. Birthdays! He made a note of the call and put the sheet of paper in his tray: Walters could stick it with the rest of the stuff.

In fact, the note just written was to be the final contribution of Chief Inspector Bell to the riddle of the Jericho Killings.

Morse had been a little surprised when earlier in the week, after seeking an interview with his Assistant Chief Commissioner, he learned that the ACC, in turn, would welcome a little chat with Morse, and that 'a cup of tea up at my little place up at Beckley' would make a pleasant rendezvous. At four-thirty, therefore, on that sunny October afternoon, the two men sat on a weedless lawn overlooking the broad, green sweep of Otmoor, and Morse recounted to his senior officer the irregularities and improprieties of his own investigations, over the previous fortnight. The ACC was silent for a long time, and the answer, when it finally came from those rather bloated lips, was unexpected.

'I want you to take over the case, Morse. You're quite good at that sort of thing; Bell isn't.'

'But I didn't come to ask-'

'It's what you've got.'

'Well, I'm sorry, sir, but I can't accept the case. It's just not fair to belittle Bell-'

'Belittle?' The ACC smiled curiously, and Morse knew he'd missed a point somewhere. 'Don't worry about Bell! I'll ring him and put things straight myself.'

'But I just-'

'Shut your mouth a minute, Morse, will you?' (That maddening smile again!) 'You see, you've done me a good turn in a way. I know you didn't apply for the vacant super's post, but I was er thinking of recommending you, actually. On second thoughts, though, I don't think I shall bother. The job's going to involve an awful lot of public relations-very important these days, Morse!-and er I just don't think you're cut out for that sort of thing. Do you?'

'Well, I don't know, really.'

'Anyway, Bell applied-and he's senior to you anyway, isn't he?'

'Only just,' mumbled Morse.

'He's a good man. Not the greatest intellect in the Force-but neither are you, Morse. So I can work things very sweetly for you, can't I? I can let Bell know he's got promotion and tell him to drop this Jericho business straight away.'

'I'd rather think things over, sir, if you don't mind.'

'No sense, old chap. We made the appointment yesterday, actually.'

'Oh.' Morse felt a twinge of envy and regret; but all that public relations stuff would have bored him to death, he knew that.

The ACC interrupted his thoughts. 'You know, Morse, you don't go about things in the right way, do you? With your ability you could have been sitting in my chair, and earning a sight more-'

'I've got a private income, sir-and a private harem.'

'I thought your father was a taxi driver?'

Morse stood up. 'That's right, sir. He used to drive the Aga Khan.'

'You got any of your private harem to spare?'

'Sorry, sir. I need 'em all.'

'You'll need Lewis, too, I suppose?'

For the first time that afternoon Morse looked happy.

Even if, in his boyhood, Sergeant Lewis's parents had been twinly blessed with privilege and wealth, it seems unlikely that their son would have won a scholarship to Winchester. As it was-after leaving school at fifteen-Lewis had worked his way up through a series of day-release courses and demanding sessions at night schools to a fair level of competence in several technical skills. At the age of twenty he had joined the police force and had never really regretted his decision. Promoted to the rank of sergeant ten years ago, he was as sensibly aware of his potential as of his limitations. It was six years ago that he had first come within Morse's orbit, and in retrospect he felt honoured to have been associated with that great man. In retrospect, let it be repeated. During the many, many hours he had spent in Morse's company on the several murder cases that had fallen within their sphere of duty, there had been frequent occasions when Lewis had wished him in hell. But there were infinitely worthwhile compensations-were there not?-in being linked with a man of Morse's almost mythical methodology. For all his superior's irascibility, crudity, and self-indulgence, Lewis had taken enormous pride-yes, pride-in his friendship with the man whom almost all the other members of the Thames Valley Constabulary had now come to regard as a towering, if somewhat eccentric, genius. And in the minds of many the phenomenon of Morse was directly associated with himself-yes, with Lewis. They spoke of Morse and Lewis almost in the same vein as they spoke of Gilbert and Sullivan, or Moody and Sanky, or Lennon and McCartney. Thus far, however, in the case of the Jericho killings, Lewis's sole contribution had been to drive his chief down to the Clarendon Institute car park about a fortnight ago. And why, oh why (as Lewis had then wondered) hadn't the idle beggar taken a bus? Surely that would have been far, far quicker.

It was, therefore, with a lovely amalgam of treasured reminiscence and of personal satisfaction that Lewis listened to Morse's voice on the phone at 7.30 a.m. the following morning. 'Yes, sir?'

'I want your help, Lewis.'

'How do you mean, sir? I can't help much today. I'm running this road-safety campaign in the schools and-'

'Forget it! I've had a word with Strange. As I say, I need your help.'

Suddenly the uplands of Lewis's life were burnished with the autumn sun. He was needed.

'I'll be glad, sir-you know that. When do you want me?'

'I'm in my office. Just get your bloody slippers off and get the car out!'

For the first time for many months, Lewis felt preternaturally happy; and his Welsh wife, cooking the eggs and bacon, could sense it all.

'I know 'oo that was-I can see it from your face, boy. Inspector Morse. Am I right?'

Lewis said nothing, but his face was settled and content, and his wife was happy for him. He was a good man, and his own happiness was a source of hers, too. She was almost glad to see him bolt his breakfast down and go: he had that look about him.

Lewis saw the stubs of filter-tipped cigarettes in the ash-tray when he knocked and entered the office at ten past eight. He knew that it was Morse's habit either to smoke at an extravagantly compulsive rate or not at all, and mentally he calculated that the chief must have been sitting there since about six thirty. Morse himself, showing no sign of pleasure or gratitude that Lewis had effected such an early appearance, got down to business immediately.

'Listen, Lewis. If I left my car on a double yellow line in North Oxford and a traffic warden copped me, what'd happen?'

'You'd get a ticket.'

'Oh, for Christ's sake, man! I know that. What's the procedure!'

'Well, as I say, you'd get a ticket under your wipers, and then after finishing work the warden would have to put the duplicates-'

'The what?'

'The duplicates, sir. The warden sticks the top copy on the windscreen, but there are two carbons as well. The first goes to the Fixed Penalty Office, and the second goes to the Magistrates' Clerk.'