When Morse left the hospital three days later, it was to find Jakes sitting out front in a patrol car. The doctor's letter advising a week's sick leave and prescription for sleeping pills had been disposed of in the nearest bin. Morse slipped into the passenger seat of the car and Jakes, who was finishing off a cigarette just nodded nonchalantly at him.
"DI's been pulled by Bright. Today is deadline day," Jakes explained in his usual gruff manner.
He shifted the car into gear and drove off down the street, heading back towards the nick.
"Jakes, any chance we could stop by the office of the Oxford press? There's something I want to check," Morse was in his thoughtful reverie.
"You fit for duty? Thought the Doc would tell you to lay up for a bit."
"Yes I'm fine, fit as a fiddle. Look I think I can solve this case today, get Bright off all our backs."
Although Jakes wasn't convinced by the first part of Morse's statement, he couldn't argue with the latter. If anyone could solve this case, it was Morse. He spun the car around, heading towards the newspaper office, whilst Morse radioed in, requesting for Strange to meet them there.
"The editors name is Smith, isn't it? Joseph Smith?" Morse enquired. "I saw him at the station once, and Frazil has told me about him"
"Yeah, slimy git tried to corner us outside the hospital. Thursday ripped up his notebook and told him that if tried to come near you he would personally make sure he never printed another article."
Morse sat pondering the care and protection offered towards him, trying to convince himself that Thursday would do this for any of his officers, not just Morse. Would he though? Or was it just that he thought Morse needed extra protection? The thought embarrassed Morse, so he decided to settle on the theory that Thursday was simply a loyal colleague.
Joseph Smith was a tall, well-built man in his mid-forties. His eyes narrowed upon the officer's entrance, and he looked sceptical as Jakes introduced them both. Something about the room was tugging on Morse's memory, but the thought couldn't quite break through his lingering headache.
"I thought I was to stop harassing you lot? Or does it not count, seeing as you came to me this time?" Smith enquired sarcastically.
"We're just here to ask you a few questions Sir," Jakes answered, struggling to maintain the polite façade. Morse distinctly noticed Jakes flex his fist and crack his knuckles, but Smith was a good half foot taller and wider than him.
"And why should I answer yours when you refuse to answer mine?
Because if you don't, I could just as easily take you down the station," Morse spoke for the first time.
Smith looked at Morse, smiled and motioned with his hand for Morse to begin.
"Firstly Mr Smith, I was just wondering how you found out about the attack at our station?"
"Alas Constable, a good journalist never reveals his sources," Smith smiled genially. "Speaking of which, Morse perhaps you could give me a quote on how you feel following your discharge from hospital?"
"Ok, well perhaps you could tell me what you did during the war?" Morse ignored the question smith had put to him.
"The war? I was on the front line fighting the Germans. Sergeant, where is he going with this?"
"Just answer the questions please, Sir." If Jakes was confused, he was managing not to show it. He had long since learned that there was method behind Morse's madness, and to just go with the flow.
"Why have you started wearing your hair gelled? When I last saw you, you let it sit naturally," Morse was getting in his flow if seemingly whacky questions.
"Why really, I must protest. Is a man not allowed to try out different styles, or is there some law against that? If you must know, I find gelling my hair gives me a more professional appearance," Smith was getting indignant.
"Is the real reason not that you have started gelling your hair only recently to hide the bald spot? The bold spot which matches the lock of hair I have in my evidence bag at the station, which was found in the hand of Jeanie Brocks dead body."
Smith started laughing, waggling his finger at Morse. "Why, this is a fun game, but so far you seem to be entertaining nothing but wild fantasies," Smith said. "What possible evidence could support such a claim? Are you going to go round all the ginger men of oxford making the same accusation simply because they have gelled hair?"
"No, not quite, but let me state my case. Firstly, it was only your paper that ran an article on the bin fire, making you ideally placed to know that evidence was no longer being kept in that room. It was therefore reasonable to assume that case evidence would be kept in the CID office. It wouldn't have been too difficult to slip past the front desk or through a side door once everyone had gone home for the night. That leads me onto my second point. No one else knew about the attack, none of the other local papers had got hold of it. So either you have a police officer feeding you information, or you were the attacker." Morse paused for breath, before diving back in again
"My name was definitely not released in connection to the incident, and you were banned from the hospital, so how did you know it was me? When you asked me earlier how I felt, you didn't recognise me by name, but by face from hitting me over the head. After leaving the station that night, you wrote up your story, came back for a photo then sent it to print. Also, there was something else bothering me about this room and it has just come to me – there is an unusual scent of aftershave here which I now remember from the assault, which another officer also mentioned. Finally, you just commented on me testing all the redheads of Oxford – I didn't tell you that the lock of hair we had was ginger." Morse finished, with an air of triumph, looking towards Jakes who looked utterly gobsmacked.
Mr Smith's smile had taken on a rather steely element, and he was looking at Morse with an expression that betrayed a very slight air of danger.
"Fascinating story, but why would I murder an innocent girl? I didn't even know the young lady," Smith condescended.
"Ah but that's not true though, is it? Miss Brocks wasn't as quiet and shy as her family made out. Six months ago, she applied to you for a job at this newspaper, and you turned her down flat. She didn't like that did she? So she started using her skills to investigate your past, try and dig up some dirt to get revenge. When I examined the electoral register, there is a Joseph Smith, but only going back as far as 1943 - Before that, Joseph Smith was called Schmidt. You were born in England to a German father and English mother, but in the late thirties your father took the family back to his homeland to join the war effort. Horrified by the thought you might be discovered and imprisoned, you returned to England and anglicised your name to slip seamlessly back in with society. Miss Brocks uncovered all of this, and threatened to go public unless you stood down and gave her a job as a news editor, leading to her transition to main editor within a year. You followed her through the park where she was found, killed her and planted the fake moustache as a double bluff. However, in the struggle Miss Brocks had managed to pull out a lock of your hair, but before you could remove it from her clenched hand you must have been disturbed. You ran away, and then tried to break into the station at the earliest opportunity to steal the incriminating evidence."
It was at times like this that Morse's lack of body mass counted against him. Smith grabbed Morse by the lapels and threw him across the desk with all his might – Morse crashed into a filing cabinet then landed on the floor whilst Smith fled for the door. Jakes, who had been momentarily stunned by Morse's genius, sprang into action, but at that opportune moment Strange, who was just outside the door, stuck out his leg, sending smith sprawling on the floor. Strange and two more uniforms pinned their detainee to the ground while they arrested and cuffed him, then frog marched him off to a waiting car.
Jakes turned back to help Morse, and found him lying on the floor, blood coming from a gash on his forehead. He groaned as Jakes supported him into a sitting position and pressed a handkerchief on his head to try and stem the bleeding.
"Bloody hell Morse, did you have to go and get yourself injured on my watch? Thursday is going to take me to the cleaners and back now, you probably weren't even supposed to be at work," Jakes sighed with chagrin.
"Sorry Jakes. Least you'll have Bright off your back now," Morse was trying not to sound too amused. He didn't need to use his imagination; he knew all too well what Thursday was going to say to Jakes.
"Given the choice, I think I'd take Bright just now," Jakes muttered, helping Morse to his feet. "Right you, we're going back to casualty, and if you even think about resisting, I will arrest you and take you there in handcuffs."
Morse didn't doubt this, so he complied, letting Jakes help him into the car and drive him to accident and emergency without one word of complaint.