Part 1

i

DCI Bob Jericho minced slowly up the short length of Wells High Street. A damp Wednesday morning in February. Up ahead he could hear the clanging of the poles as the midweek market was erected in the town square, the sharp peal of the metal poles blending with the ringing of the Mattin bells from the Cathedral.

Jericho was walking with even more of a stoop than usual, having woken with a cricked neck. Before emerging like a hunchback out into the grey of morning, he had popped a couple of 400mg Nurofen Slept In A Weird Position, and had rummaged through the cabinet in the bathroom - which had mostly remained untouched since his wife had left seven years previously - managing to dig up a Deep Heat aerosol, which had gone out of date in 1995. He had sprayed it on his neck and back the best he could, the net effect being no improvement to the pain whatsoever, and a stench like the warm-up area of the London marathon which encircled him to a ten yard radius.

He attracted a couple of glances from the pole erectors, but Jericho generally wasn’t the kind of man that people looked at in the street. He slipped by, invisible to most, blending in with whatever setting he happened to be walking slowly through at the time.

Which was odd for the most famous detective in the country.

He walked through the arch at Penniless Porch, immediately seeing the object of his mission before him. As the bells rang out across the Cathedral Green, a lone man stood before the great 13th century building. A placard in one hand, his other arm raised in anger, shaking his fist at Wells Cathedral as if the old structure was itself communicating.

‘Bloody bells!’ shouted the old fella, his fist shaking. ‘Shut up!’

Jericho hesitated while he took in the scene, and then moved forward at the same strolling pace in which he’d walked up the high street. As he came alongside the old man, who was clean shaven, wearing a slightly bizarre long mauve raincoat and an old pair of black wellies, the bells suddenly stopped, and this man, who’d been so forcefully haranguing the entire Church of England, stopped mid-rant and snorted.

‘’Bout bloody time, in it? he muttered.

He turned as Jericho stopped beside him. ‘Bloody bells,’ he said, when he saw that Jericho was about to engage him. ‘What do you want?’ he added sourly.

Jericho flashed his badge at the old man, who still had the wherewithal about him to take in the information.

‘Professor Wittering,’ said Jericho, ‘you’ve been warned. This is the last time. Really. If you’re back here tomorrow, you’re nicked.’

‘Bloody bells,’ said Reginald Wittering MBE. ‘Anyway, what are they doing sending a Chief Inspector? And a detective at that? This your punishment for smelling like a jockstrap?’

A couple of guys had called in sick. They’d been thin on the ground. Jericho had fancied the walk and said he’d take it. No other reason.

‘How long have you lived in Wells?’ said Jericho, ignoring the question.

Wittering knew where this line of question was leading.

‘Three years,’ he muttered in reply, giving Jericho a look of loathing.

Jericho nodded. He turned and indicated the cathedral, then looked back at Wittering, wincing slightly at the movement.

‘Slept funny?’ asked Wittering, taking some pleasure in the question.

‘Three years...,’ said Jericho drily. ‘This lot, the church, they got here a long time ago. They got here first. If you don’t like the sound of bells, go and live... God, I don’t know, Istanbul... Tehran.... wherever...’

Wittering raised an eyebrow, then looked back at the cathedral. Which was when it started; what was to become known as the Case of the Stained Glass Widow.

As the two men looked at the cathedral - as if expecting something to happen - something did. The small door at the front was flung open, and out ran a man in the long white tunic of a church deacon. He stopped on the grass outside the cathedral and looked around at no one in particular; as it was, the only two people present on the green were Jericho and Wittering.

‘There’s been a murder!’ cried the deacon loudly, his voice tinged with desperation. The words echoed out into the silence of 7:27 on a weekday morning.

Jericho groaned.

‘Hah!’ barked Wittering, smiling broadly. ‘That’ll be why they sent a fucking detective.’ Then, holding tightly onto his banner, he turned and started walking away from the cathedral.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ muttered Jericho darkly, and then, with another wince at his sore neck, he minced towards the cathedral.

He hated it when people got murdered.

ii

Mattins had been cancelled, the crowd of seventeen filing slowly out into the grey morning, as dawn appeared mournfully over the city. Jericho had stood over the body, ascertaining that murder most foul had indeed been committed - the knife buried in the neck seemed confirmation in itself - and had put the call through to the station to raise the alarm. All hands required; it was time for the two constables who had called in sick to down the paracetamol and crawl into the office.

It was a little after nine. The cathedral had been closed off, the morning services cancelled. Jericho was standing outside the cathedral keeping an eye on the small crowd that had gathered at the exciting news. He could hear the sound of the Cathedral School swing band coming from the old music department building adjacent to the Cathedral; he wasn’t sure, but they seemed to be playing We All Stand Together from Rupert & The Frog Song, lending a slightly bizarre air to the murderous morning. A large majority of the gathered crowd - standing as if they might expect to see at the very least an action replay of the first murder or, if things really picked up, a second killing - seemed to be made up of school children who had elected to be late for their first lesson of the day.

Jericho’s latest Detective Sergeant came and stood beside him, joining his boss in surveying the scene. Sipping a cup of coffee. DS Morgan. An early bloomer.

‘We’ve had the i.d. confirmed, Sir, they’re just bagging up the stiff now. Jeffery Parks, 57, owned the old bookshop out on the Bath road. I thought I’d get out there now.’

‘Where did you get that?’ asked Jericho.

Morgan followed his eyes to the cup of coffee.

‘Constable Walker got it for me. Did you want one?’

Jericho grumpily eyed Morgan from a distance of two feet. Morgan found himself involuntarily stepping back an inch or two.

‘Is there a wife?’ asked Jericho. ‘Well... widow.’

Morgan indicated the cathedral.

‘Seems to be. The guy we talked to, you know, he’s just some guy who works in there. Knew Parks a bit. Says he was married, but didn’t know much about them.’

‘We’ll go to his house first,’ said Jericho. ‘Then the shop.’

He started to walk off in the direction of the market square, and then stopped, Morgan on his heels.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Jericho. ‘I presume you’ve got an address.’

‘This is the right,’ said Morgan glibly. ‘I’ll get you a coffee on the way...’

*

There was nobody home. There aren’t many places in Wells that are more than a fifteen minute walk from the cathedral, although it turned out that Parks’ house was right at the far end of the town, and in the opposite direction from the book shop where he’d worked.

‘Will I get a car to come and pick us up?’ asked Morgan, as they turned away from the house, started walking back towards the centre of town.

‘We’ll walk,’ said Jericho. ‘It’s good for you.’

They walked on in silence. Jericho finished his coffee and tossed the cup into a bin, wiped his lips with the sleeve of his coat. He was aware that Morgan was casting glances at him, waiting for him to do something. Something to dramatically take the lead in the investigation.

‘What?’ said Jericho eventually.

‘Just, you know....’ began Morgan uncertainly. ‘What do you think? Of the murder?’

‘What makes you think I think anything?’

‘You’re like this thing,’ said Morgan. ‘Never failed to solve a crime. The papers say you’ve always got the killer pegged in the first five minutes of the investigation.’

‘The papers are full of shite, son,’ said Jericho. ‘Make any sort of decision in the first five minutes and you’re going to prejudice the process of the entire investigation. Contrary to what the papers say, you should keep your mind open right up until the point you have concrete proof.’

Morgan nodded, a look on his face like he was mentally writing it down.

‘Even then,’ said Jericho, ‘remember that if it gets hot enough, concrete melts.’

‘You think?’ said Morgan. ‘Doesn’t it break into its constituent parts and go on fire and evaporate, or carbonise, shit like that?’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ said Jericho with a dismissive hand. ‘Look, the papers say whatever helps sell, whatever sounds like a good story. Everyone knows that, and yet people still believe the crap they read. Isn’t it weird?’

Morgan glanced at him, wondering if he was supposed to answer.

‘Middle-aged detective continues to get lucky...,’ said Jericho. ‘That’s not a story. No one gives a shit. However, modern day Sherlock Holmes nails another bastard with stroke of sleuthing genius. That’s a story. Who cares whether or not it’s true?’

Morgan nodded.

‘So, you don’t already know who did this?’ he asked anyway.

‘Have I just been talking?’ said Jericho. ‘Of course I don’t know. So far, who have we got? The guy who found the body? The widow who we haven’t met? His work colleague, assuming there is one?’

‘Well?’ said Morgan. ‘Which one do you think?’

Jericho gave him the resigned look of a tortured parent.

‘The widow,’ he said. ‘It’s the widow.’

Morgan smiled. ‘I’ll hold you to it,’ he said.

‘Fuck off.’

iii

The shop was small and wonderfully old-fashioned. An independent bookshop, where books cost what they were supposed to cost and hadn’t been reduced to £1.99; where the recommendations had been read by the staff and recommended because they were good, and not because the publisher had forked out £25,000 for the privilege; where novels mixed with travelogues and biographies of war-time pilots, and there wasn’t a hint of a book ghost-written on behalf of someone called Wayne of Katie or Cheryl.

The small bell tinkled on the door as they walked in. There were no customers; a small attractive woman looked over the counter from behind heavy black-rimmed glasses. Her eyes were red, and Jericho wondered if she already knew.

They closed the door and paused for a moment to take in the surroundings.

‘Are you Caroline?’ asked Jericho.

She shook her head.

‘Caroline comes in at the weekend,’ she said, her voice sounding stronger than she looked. ‘Are you looking for her?’

‘No,’ said Jericho, ‘just saw her name on the staff recommendation in the window. You must be Ilsa?’

‘See,’ said Morgan, nodding at Jericho for all the world like the two of them were in Wayne’s World.

Ilsa Ravenwood looked slightly confused, so Jericho walked forward and held out his badge. Immediately her hand went to her mouth and she seemed to shrink an inch or two in height.

‘Has something happened to him?’ she asked, her voice having instantly weakened.

‘You’re missing Mr Parks?’ said Jericho.

‘I was supposed to see him last night,’ she said, immediately biting her lip.

‘He’s dead,’ said Jericho bluntly. ‘Someone stabbed him in the neck.’

She gasped, took a step backwards. Morgan, who had taken the course, moved forwards around the counter and took her arm. He glanced at Jericho, disapproving of his lack of compassion.

‘Maybe you should sit down,’ he said, and eased her back towards a small chair beside a desk.

Ilsa Ravenwood slumped down into the seat, her face crumpled in shock.

‘Ilsa?’ said Jericho. ‘Like in Casablanca?’

*

It took twenty-five minutes before she was able to talk any further. After placing the Closed sign on the door, Morgan made her a coffee and sat beside her making all the right noises, while Jericho perused the books. He liked the look of The Closing of the Western Mind by Charles Freeman, but thought it might be insensitive to offer to buy it.

Eventually, at a nod from Morgan, Jericho came over and stood at the counter.

‘Can I ask you a few questions, Mrs Ravenwood?’

She nodded, Morgan looked at Jericho and wondered how he knew she was married.

‘Can you tell us where we might find Mrs Parks?’

‘Australia,’ she said. ‘She left last week to spend some time with her sister in Sydney.’

‘Sydney?’

‘Yes. She was going to be there about a month.’

Morgan glanced at Jericho, a wry smile.

‘And you and Mr Parks were using the opportunity of his wife’s absence to further your affair?’

Ilsa Ravenwood stared at Jericho, and then finally crumpled forward, her head in her hands, sobbing bitterly.

*

They walked away from the shop half an hour later, leaving the bereft Mrs Ravenwood in the hands of a young female police officer, trained in the modern arts of compassion.

‘See,’ said Morgan, as they headed back in the direction of the cathedral. ‘You’re brilliant.’

Jericho gave him a sideways glance.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘You just, like, spot stuff. I mean, how do you do all that? She’s married, she’s having an affair... like, it’s brilliant.’

‘Are you serious?’ asked Jericho, as they passed the lower end of Vicar’s Close, and could hear the random runs of a student practicing scales on a piccolo.

‘Like, d’uh...,’ said Morgan. ‘It’s awesome, that thing you do. That’s why the papers are always on about how brilliant you are.’

‘The woman was wearing a wedding ring, for crying out loud,’ said Jericho irritably.

‘Oh, like, you mean the gold thing on her finger? That’s so last century, I always forget about it. All credit to you for noticing.’

Jericho slung him another glance.

‘What about the affair?’ continued Morgan, undaunted. ‘I mean, that was instinctive genius on your part, surely. That’s the kind of thing they talk about in the News of the World.’

‘She’d been crying already. She was obviously upset at him not being somewhere he should have been, and it wasn’t because he was late getting to work. I think we’ll find that he’s been dead since some time yesterday evening.’

Morgan was shaking his head.

‘That’s just complete genius.’

‘No it’s not,’ barked Jericho. ‘If you’re an idiot, I don’t have to be a genius to be smarter than you.’

‘That’s just so cool,’ said Morgan, as if Jericho hadn’t spoken. ‘That whole thing. I love it. Of course, you were wrong about the widow.’

‘For a kick-off,’ barked Jericho, ‘I never said I thought it was the widow.’

‘Sure you did.’

‘I was being facetious. I had, and still have, no idea who did it. And secondly, let’s just establish that the widow is definitely in Australia before we go taking her off the slate, eh? And let’s not rule out the possibility of her having an accomplice.’

Morgan nodded sagely and tapped the side of his nose.

‘I see what you’re doing,’ he said. ‘Covering the angles. Very nice, very tasty piece of investigation.’

‘Yeah, ‘said Jericho sarcastically, ‘sometimes I amaze even myself. I’m going back to the Cathedral, you get down to the station and start making enquiries after the wife. If you get a number for her, wait until I get back and I’ll give her a call.’

‘Yes, Boss,’ said Morgan, and he saluted and walked quickly away, past the dwindling crowd of curiosity.

iv

Three hours later. Jericho was back at the station, sitting in his office, looking out over the fields which stretch towards Glastonbury. Usually he could see the Tor; it didn’t even have to be a good day. Today, however, the weather was so grim, so coldly claustrophobic, that the hill was lost in the murk. It was lunchtime, he was hungry, his stomach was making strange echoey noises, the painkillers were wearing off and his neck was beginning to hurt again. He was drinking his fifth coffee of the day.

The door opened, Morgan appeared. Jericho didn’t turn, just kept on staring across the fields. Morgan came and stood beside him, looking at the view.

‘I hate days like this,’ said Morgan.

Jericho shrugged, without actually moving his shoulders.

‘You know what I hate,’ he said, although it wasn’t really a question. ‘I hate the fact that Avatar is the biggest-grossing movie of all time. I hate that it’s been nominated for Best Film at the Oscars. I hate that I went to see it in 3D just because the media told me I should.’

‘I quite enjoyed it,’ said Morgan, smiling. ‘All that blue... you know, shit.’

‘That’s because you have the intellectual capacity of an amoeba.’

He turned, straightened - winced at the pain in his neck as he did so - and looked up at Morgan from behind his humph.

‘Tell me everything,’ he said.

‘Right,’ said Morgan, and he looked at his notebook. ‘We’ve established that the wife is definitely in Australia. She was logged out by immigration, she was on the plane, there’s a record of her arriving in Sydney, the whole nine yards. The police have been around there to tell her the news and made a positive identi...’

‘What?’ barked Jericho, and his face contorted again at the sudden movement in his neck as he barked. ‘Which part of let me tell her the news escaped you?’

‘The boss...,’ said Morgan by way of explanation.

‘What boss?’

‘The boss,’ he said again. ‘Superintendent Lucas. She said not to let you tell her. Said you’re not great with breaking bad news. Not great with the families.’

‘Did she?’

‘Yes. And you know, having seen you with Mrs Ravenwood...’

‘Aye, well...... Any news on what her reaction was?’

‘She cried a lot.’

‘Oh good.’

‘She’s arriving back at Heathrow at 10:25 tomorrow evening from Sydney.’

Jericho nodded, started running his hands together. Felt cold. Needed to go for lunch.

‘You think she had an accomplice?’ asked Morgan.

‘Don’t know,’ said Jericho. ‘Let’s meet her off the plane and start finding out, eh?’

He stood up slowly, trying to straighten his neck, embracing the hurt.

‘You got anything?’ asked Morgan.

‘Yes,’ said Jericho. ‘I’ve got a sore neck. I’ve also established that the book shop was a money pit but that it didn’t matter as the deceased had made millions in the city, and had retired out here to be a gentleman bookshop owner in the country.’

‘So the widow stands to benefit?’ said Morgan, nodding sagely.

‘Let’s see,’ said Jericho. ‘Maybe Mrs Ravenwood stands to benefit. You can get in touch with the lawyers after lunch.’

‘That’s good thinking,’ said Morgan, clicking his fingers at him. ‘Lawyers... They said you were good.’

Jericho stopped for a second, gave Morgan another look from the grave, and then turned and started walking slowly, as if begrudging every step, towards the canteen.

‘You kind of stink,’ said Morgan to his back. ‘You know, of Ralgex, or some shit like that. Have you been at the gym?’

Jericho hesitated, took a deep breath, and then walked on.

v

Heathrow, Terminal 3, Passport Control. Jericho and Morgan were waiting for the passengers from flight EK008 from Dubai. They had ascertained that Rosalind Parks had boarded the flight in Sydney, and had been on board after the stop-off in Dubai. Somehow, and for no reason that Jericho could fathom, he still didn’t believe it.

They were standing to the side, looking as obvious as two men in suits invariably look in this situation. They had studied the photos until they had Rosalind Parks’ face emblazoned on their eyeballs; meanwhile each of the Border Control officials on duty had had her name and face highlighted.

As it was, Jericho saw her coming the instant she had turned the corner away to his left, still seventy yards from the gate. Languid steps, as if she was walking in slow motion. She wasn’t beautiful, she wasn’t tall; her clothes were not particularly striking, her hair did not lend itself to extended inspection. Yet somehow she stood out from the crowd.

Jericho just saw her from seventy yards and felt the instant pull of attraction. He lowered his head for a second and sighed heavily. It never went well when he wanted to have sex with the suspects/witnesses/family members.

‘You all right?’ asked Morgan, glancing at him through a McDonald’s chicken thing with extra lettuce. He’d asked for the extra lettuce so that he felt a bit better about the fact that he was eating plastic.

Jericho lifted his head and nodded in the direction of the widow Parks.

‘That’s her,’ he said.

Morgan glanced towards the crowd. Parks had joined the back of a queue, and for Morgan at least, she did not stand out from the crowd.

‘Don’t see her,’ he said. ‘Is she in black?’

‘She’s wearing a lilac pashmina, at the back of the third queue from the left.’

‘What’s a pashmina?’

Jericho gave him another withering look.

‘Can you at least work out third queue from the left? Or are you having trouble with left?’

‘Ours or hers?... No, got her.... Purple shawl?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Doesn’t look too upset,’ said Morgan. ‘For someone who’s just lost her husband to a brutal murder.’

*

Jericho did not want to treat the woman who had been in Australia at the time of the crime as a suspect, so they were having coffee at Costa on the ground floor of Terminal 3, just outside arrivals. Two normal people having coffee after a long flight, before hitting the M4. Jericho had dispatched Morgan to wait in the car, and was already wondering why it was that he’d brought him along in the first place.

They sipped coffee in brief silence. Jericho could smell her, a delicate oriental scent. He was glad he’d showered, glad he hadn’t felt the need to wear any Deep Heat that day.

‘When was the last time you saw him?’ he asked eventually. Had to stop himself staring at her lips, the pink mark they left on her coffee cup.

‘Ten days ago,’ she said. ‘I spent a couple of days in London with my sister before I went to Oz.’

‘I thought your sister lived in Sydney?’ he said, and was immediately grateful that Morgan hadn’t been there to hear the stupidity of the question.

‘I have more than one sister,’ she said coolly.

‘Of course,’ muttered Jericho.

She smiled, something wicked about the movement of her lips. He shook himself mentally, tried to detach, tried to get back to treating her like he treated all interviewees.

‘You don’t seem particularly bothered that he’s dead,’ he said bluntly.

She laughed gently, a genuine smile stayed on her lips. He couldn’t tell if she was toying with him, or whether this disarming and beautiful act was as real as the smile.

‘He was awful,’ she said, ‘why would I care? He was a rude, abusive, miserable, miserable man. God knows how he managed to find three mistresses.’

‘We got the report that you cried a lot when you heard the news.’

He caught the flash of uncertainty on her face, the hint of discomfort, which was then effortlessly shrugged away.

‘It’s what they expected. I wasn’t going to get into discussions about my husband’s failings with the local police out there, was I?’

He nodded, looked disinterested.

‘Three mistresses?’ he said. ‘Tell me about them. Must have been because he was rich,’ he added.

‘Well, yes, that would account for two of them. Mrs Ravenwood, on the other hand,’ she said, saying the name with a tone which suggested envy, ‘seemed to love him for who he was. If you can believe that.’

‘Do you have the names of the other two?’

‘Of course. Wells is a very small place. Even if we do have the most famous detective on the planet,’ she added, her lips curling into the wicked smile again.

‘Surprised you came back,’ said Jericho glibly. ‘Just making sure he’s dead?’

She smiled again, ran a hand through her hair.

‘The good wife,’ she said. ‘Just playing the good wife. It’s what’s expected of me. I probably ought to go to the funeral.’

vi

Jericho stood looking out of the window of the small terraced house. All he could see was the other side of the street. Morgan was looking at that morning’s Daily Star. The object of their visit, Helena Belham, the next in line of Parks’ mistresses, had insisted on making a cup of tea.

‘See Jordan and Alex are talking about getting a divorce already,’ said Morgan, turning the page.

Jericho stared absent-mindedly out the window. He was thinking about the murder of Jeffrey Parks, 57, and the likelihood of it being related to the fact that he had four women in his life. Anyone who was sleeping with four women at the same time, thought Jericho, probably deserved to get murdered. He turned eventually, long after Morgan had moved on to the next story.

‘Who are they?’ he asked.

‘What?’ said Morgan, looking up.

‘Jordan and Alex? You been watching Eastenders again?’

‘It’s not a soap. Jordan. You know Jordan...’

Jericho gave him one of his best you-just-crawled-out-from-under-a-log looks.

‘What the fuck are you talking about? The country of Jordan? The river?’

‘The model with the big tits...,’ said Morgan. ‘Jordan of Katie and Pete.’

‘You’re talking about Katie and Pete now! Who the fuck are they?’

‘Katie’s name for when she gets her tits out is Jordan. She met Pete on a TV show, they got married, they got divorced, she met Alex, he won a TV show, they got married last week, Pete cried about it on the TV because he’s scared he’s going to lose the kids, and now Jordan and Alex are talking about getting a divorce.’

Jericho rubbed his forehead, looking pained.

‘I thought you said it wasn’t a soap,’ he said.

Morgan laughed and looked back at the newspaper.

‘Promise me,’ said Jericho, ‘that from now on you’ll only read grown-up papers.’

Morgan raised his head at last. ‘If you can find one in the UK, I’ll give it a shot.’

Helena Belham walked into the room, without the expected tea tray in her hands, and sat down on the sofa opposite Morgan. She sighed heavily and leaned forward, elbows on her knees.

‘Tea’s off,’ she said, looking at Jericho.

There was a pause. Jericho shrugged.

‘I didn’t kill him,’ she said abruptly. ‘But I know who might have.’

Morgan laid the paper down and sat forward.

‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ said Jericho.

‘What?’ she asked.

Jericho took a small notebook from his pocket, scribbled something on a piece of paper, tore the paper out, folded it and handed it to Morgan.

‘Go on, Mrs Belham,’ said Jericho. ‘Who do you think?’

She looked slightly concerned at Jericho’s peculiar behaviour, glanced at Morgan, and then said, ‘Ilsa Ravenwood. That little witch who worked with Jeffrey at the bookshop.’

She stopped talking as Jericho nodded to Morgan, and Morgan unfolded the piece of paper. The handwriting was hurried and dreadful, yet Morgan could still make out the name of Ilsa Ravenwood. He folded the paper back into his pocket, smiling ruefully to himself.

‘What?’ asked Helena Belham.

*

‘How d’you do that stuff?’ asked Morgan as they walked up past Tesco, on their way to the small house near St. Cuthbert’s, where they would find the fourth woman in Jeffrey Parks’ abruptly abbreviated life.

‘Are you learning?’ asked Jericho, with a raised eyebrow.

‘I ain’t learning shit,’ said Morgan. ‘But I’m impressed. What’s the secret?’

‘The secret, Luke, is paying attention.’

He walked on; Morgan followed, unsurprised at his taciturnity.

‘Should I pay attention to this next one?’ he asked.

‘If you like,’ said Jericho. ‘Although you’ll find that she also believes Mrs Ravenwood guilty of the murder.’

Morgan shook his head but managed to stop himself asking how he knew. Maybe, he thought, it would be best if he just paid attention.

GO TO PART 2