The dead of Jericho Read Online Free PDF Page A

that, where the rear of the small house had been progressively extended down into the garden plot at the rear, like so many homes he knew. He shook his head weakly and wondered what to do or say. Oh, God! What was he to do?
    'Do you want to go in, sir?'
    'No-o. No. I just happened to be around here — er, at the Clarendon Institute, actually. Talk, you know. We — er — we've just had a talk and I just happened… '
    'Nothing we can do, I'm afraid, sir.'
    'Is she — is she dead?'
    'Been dead a long time. The doc's in there now and he'll probably— '
    'How did she die?'
    'Hanged herself. Stood on a— '
    'How did you hear about it?'
    'Phone call — anonymous one, sir. That's about the only thing that's at all odd if you ask me. You couldn't have seen her from the back unless— '
    'She leave a note?'
    'Not found one yet. Haven't looked much upstairs, though.'
    What do you do, Morse? What do you do?
    'Was — er — was the front door open?'
    The constable (Morse remembered him now — Detective Constable Walters) looked interested. 'Funny you should ask that, sir, because it was open. We just walked straight in — same as anybody else could've done.'
    'Was that door locked?' asked Morse, pointing to the kitchen.
    'No. We thought it was though, first of all. As you can see, sir, it's sagging on its hinges and what with the damp and all that it must have stuck even more. A real push, it needed!'
    He took a step towards the door as though about to illustrate the aforesaid exertion, but Morse gestured him to stop. 'Have you moved anything in here?'
    'Not a thing, sir — well, except the key that was on the middle of the door-mat there.'
    Morse looked up sharply. 'Key?'
    'Yes, sir. Newish-looking sort of key. Looked as if someone had just pushed it through the letter box. It was the first thing we saw, really.'
    Morse turned to go, and on the light-green Marley tiles beside the front door saw a few spots of brownish rain-water. But the gentleman's black umbrella he'd seen there earlier had gone.
    'Have you moved anything here, constable?'
    'You just asked me that, sir.'
    'Oh yes. I — I was just thinking er — well, you know, just thinking.'
    'Sure you don't want to have a word with Chief Inspector Bell, sir?'
    'No. As I say, I just happened…' Morse's words trailed off into feeble mumblings as he opened the door on to the street and stood there hesitantly over the door-sill. 'You haven't been upstairs yet, you say?'
    'Well, not really, sir. You know, we just looked in— '
    'Were there any lights on?'
    'No, sir. Black as night up there, it was. There's two rooms leading off the little landing… '
    Morse nodded. He could visualise the first-floor geography of the house as well as if he'd stayed there — as he might well have stayed there once, not all that long ago; might well have made love in one of the rooms up there himself in the arms of a woman who was now stretched out on the cold, tiled floor of the kitchen. Dead, dead, dead. And — oh Christ! — she'd hanged herself, they said. A warm, attractive, living, loving woman — and she'd hanged herself. Why? Why? Why? For Christ's sake, why?
     
    As he stood in the middle of the narrow street, Morse was conscious that his brain had virtually seized up, barely capable for the moment of putting two consecutive thoughts together. Lights were blazing behind all the windows except for those of number 10, immediately opposite, against which darkened house there stood an ancient bicycle, with a low saddle and upright handle-bars, firmly chained to the sagging drainpipe. Three slow paces and Morse stood beside it, where he turned and looked up again at the front bedroom of number 9. No light, just as the constable had said. No light at all... Suddenly, Morse found himself sniffing slightly. Fish? He heard a disturbance in the canal behind the Reach as some mallard splashed down into the water. And then he turned and sniffed specifically at the cycle. Fish! Yes, quite