'He's in Spain, officer. He's there on business for a week or so.'

'Oh! Well, never mind! We shall have to try to see him when he gets back.'

For five minutes after Lewis had gone, Conrad Richards sat silently at his desk, his features betraying no sign of emotion or anxiety. Then he reached for the phone.

Morse, too, sat waiting, depressed, impatient, and irritated, on a low wooden bench beside the church in Radley. He had told himself (with a modicum of honesty) that he was still vaguely worried about Charles Richards' whereabouts on the day of Anne Scott's death; but he could only half convince himself on the point. Perhaps the simple truth was that he liked interviewing women whose voices over the phone promised a cloud nine of memorable mouths and leggy elegance. But whichever way it was, his visit had been fruitless. The house was locked firmly front and back, the shrill bell echoing through an ominously vacant property. Pity! A lovely female firmly sunk in fathoms of leisure-and just at this moment she had to be out! A bit more than out, too, according to the neighbours. Away. Abroad.

Morse was still staring glumly at the ground when the white police car finally drew alongside.

'Any luck?' asked Lewis, as Morse got in beside him.

'Interesting!' Morse feigned a vague indifference and fastened his seatbelt.

'Nice looker, sir?' ventured Lewis after a couple of miles.

'I didn't bloody see her, did I?' growled Morse. 'She's in Spain.'

'Spain?' Lewis whistled loudly. 'Well, well, well! The birds seem to be flying from their nests, don't they?' He recounted the details of his own eminently more successful mission and the impression he'd formed of Conrad Richards; and Morse listened in silence. Lewis had often noticed it before: over a beer table it was usually difficult to get the chief to shut up at all, but in a car he was invariably a taciturn companion.

'What d'you think, then, Lewis?'

'Well, we can get those prints checked straight away-and I've got the feeling we may just about be there, sir. As I see it, Charles Richards must have brought his brother along with him when he came to give his talk; then dropped him somewhere in Jericho and told him to go and scare the living daylights out of Jackson.'

'He must have taken him completely into his confidence, you mean?'

Lewis nodded as he turned on to the A34 and headed north. 'Charles Richards must have traced Jackson-he probably followed him after leaving the money somewhere-and then, as I say, he must have asked Conrad to help him. Quite neat, really. Charles is completely in the clear and nobody's going to think Conrad had anything to do with it. Anyway, things must have gone wrong, mustn't they? I doubt whether Conrad ever actually meant to kill Jackson-I reckon he'd have been far more careful about leaving any prints if he had. In fact, I doubt if he knew what to do, poor chap. Jackson's bleeding like mad, and Conrad just panics up there in the bedroom. He gets out quick and rings the police. Perhaps his one big worry was to save the old fellow.'

'Mm.' The monosyllable sounded sceptical.

'How else, sir?'

'I dunno,' said Morse. It might have happened the way Lewis had suggested, but he doubted it. From the look of the dead Jackson's face, it seemed quite clear that someone had definitely meant business: something more than mere gentle persuasion followed by an accidental bang against a bedpost. The man had been clouted and punched about the head by someone made of much sterner stuff than Conrad Richards, surely, for (from the little Morse had learned of him) Conrad was considered by all to be one of the mildest and most amenable of men. Everyone, as Morse supposed, was just about capable of murder, but why should Conrad be put forward as the likeliest perpetrator of such uncharacteristic malice? He ought to see Conrad, though: ought to have seen him that afternoon instead of-

'Turn the car round!'

'Pardon, sir?'

'We're going back there-and put your foot down!'

But Conrad Richards was no longer in his upper-storey office. According to the young receptionist, he had brought two suitcases with him that morning, and he had gone off in a taxi about ten minutes ago. He had mentioned something about a business trip, but had given no indication of where he was going or when he would be returning.

Morse was angry with himself and his displeasure was taken out on the receptionist, she appearing to be the only other person on the premises. After impressively invoking the awful majesty of the law, and magisterially demanding whatever keys were available, he stood with Lewis in Charles Richards' office and looked around: bills in the in-trays, ash in the ash-trays, and the same serried ranks of box files on the shelves he had seen before. It seemed a daunting prospect, and leaving Lewis to 'get on with it' he himself climbed the stairs to Conrad Richards' office.

One way and another, however, it wasn't to be Morse's day. In the (unlocked) drawers of Conrad's desk he found nothing that could raise a twitch from a hyper-suspicious eyebrow: invoices, statements, contracts, costings-it all seemed so futile and tedious. The man had hidden nothing; and might that not be because he had nothing to hide? There were box files galore here, too, but Morse sat back in Conrad's chair and gave up the unequal struggle. On the walls of the office were two pictures only: one a coloured reproduction of a delicate wall-painting from Pompeii; the other a large black-and-white aerial photograph of the medieval walled city of Carcassone. And what the hell were they supposed to tell him?

It was Lewis who found it-underneath a sheaf of papers in the bottom (locked) drawer of Charles Richards' desk; and as he climbed the stairs he sought to mask the beam of triumph on his face. Putting his nose round the door, he saw Morse seated at the desk, scowling fecklessly around him. 'Any luck, sir?'

'Er, not for the minute, no. What about you?'

Lewis entered the office and sat down opposite his chief. 'Almost all of it business stuff, sir. But I did find this.'

Morse took the folded letter and began to read:

Dear Mister Richards Its about Missis Scott who died, I now all about you and her but does Missis Richards…

Asthey walked out of the office below, Morse spoke to the receptionist once more.

'You weren't here when I called on Tuesday, were you?'

'Pardon, sir?' The young girl seemed very flustered and a red flush spread round her throat.

'You took the day off, didn't you? Why was that?'

'Mr. Richards told me I needn't-'

'Which Mr. Richards was that?'

'Mr. Charles, sir. He said-'

But Morse dismissed her explanation with a curt wave of his hand, and walked down to the street.

'Bit short with her, weren't you, sir?'

'They're all a load of liars, Lewis! Her, too, I shouldn't wonder. Let's get back!'

Morse said nothing on the return drive. The letter that Lewis had found lay on his lap the whole time, and occasionally he looked down to read it yet again. It perplexed him sorely, and by the time the police car pulled into the HQ yard at Kidlington, whatever look of irritation had earlier marked his face had changed to one of utter puzzlement.

'D'you know, Lewis,' he said as they walked into the building together, 'I'm beginning to think we're on the wrong track completely!'

'Pardon, sir?'

'Is everybody going bloody deaf all of a sudden?'

Lewis said no more, and the two men called into the canteen for a cup of tea.