'How do you come to know all this?'

'I’m surprised you don't, sir.'

Morse nodded vaguely. 'What if I wanted to pay the fine straight away? Could I take the money-or sign a cheque-and, well, just pay it?'

'Oh, yes. Not at the Penalty Office, though. You'd have to take it to the Magistrates' Office.'

'But if the warden hadn't taken the carbon in-'

'Wouldn't matter. You'd take your ticket in, pay your fine-and then things would get matched up later.'

'They'd have a record of all that, would they? I mean, what the fine was for, who paid it, and so on?'

'Of course they would. On the ticket there'd be the details of the date, the time, the street, the registration number, as well as the actual offence-double yellows or whatever it was.'

'And there'd be a record of who paid the fine, and when it was paid.'

Morse was impressed. 'You know, Lewis, I never realised how many bits and pieces a traffic warden had in that little bag of hers.'

'A lot of them are men.'

'Don't treat me like an idiot, Lewis!'

'Well, you don't seem to know much about…' But Morse wasn't listening: he needed just a little confirmation, that was all, and again he nodded to himself-this time more firmly. 'Lewis, I've got your first little job all lined up.'

In fact Lewis's 'first little job' took rather longer than expected, and it was just before noon when he returned and handed Morse a written statement of his findings.

Parking fine made out on Wed. 3^rd Oct. for Rolls Royce, Reg. LMK 306V, parked on corner of Victor St. and Canal St. at 3.25 p.m. in area reserved for resident permit holders only. Fine paid by cheque on Friday 5^th Oct. and the Lloyds a/c of Mr. C. Richards, 216 Oxford Avenue, Abingdon, duly debited.

'Well, well, well!' Morse beamed hugely, wondered whether the last word was misspelt, reached for the phone, and announcing himself rather proudly by his full official title asked if he could speak to Mr. Charles Richards. But the attractive-sounding voice (secretary, no doubt) informed him that Mr. Richards had just gone off to lunch. Could Morse perhaps try again-in the morning?

'The morning?' squeaked Morse. 'Doesn't he work in the afternoons?'

'Mr. Richards works very hard, Inspector' (the voice was somewhat sourer) 'and I think er I think he has a meeting this afternoon.'

'Oh, I see,' said Morse. 'Well, that's obviously much more important than co-operating with the police, isn't it?'

'I could try to get hold of him.'

'Yes, you could-and I rather hope you will,' said Morse quietly. He gave the girl his telephone number and said a sweet 'goodbye'.

The phone rang ten minutes later.

'Inspector Morse? Charles Richards here. Sorry I wasn't in when you called. Can I help you?'

'Yes, you can, sir. There are one or two things I'd like to talk to you about.'

'Really? Well, fire away. No time like the present.'

'I’d rather see you about things, if you don't mind, sir. Never quite the same over the phone, is it?'

'I don't see why not.'

Nor did Morse. 'One or two rather-delicate matters, sir. Better if we meet, I think.'

'As you wish.' Richards' voice sounded indifferent.

'Tomorrow?'

'Why not?'

'About ten o'clock?'

'Fine.'

'Any parking space outside your office?' Morse asked the question innocently enough, it seemed.

'I’ll make sure there's a space, Inspector. Damned difficult parking a car these days, isn't it?' His voice sounded equally innocent.

Outside the inn the legend was printed 'Tarry ye at Jericho until your beards be grown'. Inside the inn, Joe Morley hoisted his vast-bellied frame on to the high stool at the corner of the public bar, and the landlord was already pulling a pint of draught Guinness.

'Evenin', Joe.'

'Evenin'.'

'Bit of excitement, we hear, down your criminal neck of the woods.'

Joe wiped the creamy froth from his thick lips. 'Poor old George, you mean?'

'You knew him pretty well, didn't you?'

'Nobody knew George very well. He were a loner, were George. Bloody good fisherman, though.'

'Bird watcher as well, wasn't he?'

'Was he?'

The landlord polished another glass and leaned forward. 'Used to watch the birds, Joe-and not just the feathered variety. Used to watch that woman opposite as killed herself-with a pair of bloody binoculars!'

''Ow do you know?'

'Mrs. Purvis was tellin' old Len-you know old Len as comes in sometimes. No curtains in the bedroom, either!'

'Very nice, too, I should think.'

The landlord leaned forward again. 'Do you want to know summat else? George weren't doin' too badly with all the odd jobs he used to do, neither. Two hundred and fifty quid he put in the post office last Thursday-some OAP bonds or something.'

''Ow do you know?'

'You know old Alf as comes in. Well, his missus was talkin' to, you know, that woman, whatsername, who works in the post office and-'

A group of youths came in, and the landlord reached up for two sets of darts and handed them over. 'The usual, lads?'

The middle-aged man who had been sitting silently at one of the tables moved over to allow the dartboard area to be cleared. He was beginning to feel very hungry indeed, for Morse had insisted (when he'd divided the Jericho pubs into two lists) that the early evening was the best time for pub gossip. 'Just listen, if you like,' Morse had said. 'I'll bet most of 'em there will be talking about Jackson.'

And Lewis's hearing was good.

Morse himself, however, had heard nothing whatsoever about Jackson: it seemed that darts, football, and the price of beer had resumed their customary conversational priorities. Life went on as before-except for Anne Scott and George Jackson.

When, considerably over-beered, Morse looked back in his office at 9 p.m., he found an interesting report awaiting him. He had insisted that the fingerprint men should go and have another look round 10 Canal Reach; and they had found something new. Two prints-two fairly clear ones, too. And they weren't Jackson's. Morse felt he'd had a pretty good day.

Morse allowed himself half an hour along the A34 from Kidlington; and it was ample, for he spotted White Swan Lane assoon as he approached the town centre. Richards Brothers, Publishing & Printing, marked only by a brass plate to the right of the front door, was a converted nineteenth-century red-brick house, set back about ten yards from the street, with four parking lots marked out in white paint on the recently tarmacadamed front. One of the spaces was vacant, and as Morse pulled the Lancia into it he was aware that someone standing by the first-floor window had been observing his arrival. A notice inside the open front door directed him up the wide, elegant staircase where the frosted-glass panel in the door to his right repeated the information on the plate downstairs, with the addendum Please Walk In.

A woman looked up from behind a desk littered with papers. A very attractive woman, too, thought Morse-though considerably older than she'd sounded on the phone.

'Inspector Morse, isn't it?' she asked without enthusiasm, 'Mr. Richards is expecting you.'

She walked across to a door (Charles Richards, Manager, in white plastic capitals), knocked quietly, and ushered Morse past her into the carpeted office, where he heard the door click firmly to behind him.