The front door is open so he lets himself in, and once he's reached the stairs he takes two steps at once to escape the prying eyes of the elderly landlady living on the ground floor.
When he knocks on Morse's door, once, twice, there's no reply. He should have known. The windows are dark, there's no music playing from beyond the thin walls.
Out drinking, Morse is, probably on his own.
Jakes doesn't even know why he's come tonight.
“Moved out about a week ago, that one,” an unpleasant voice calls up to him.
Curiosity has made Morse's landlady follow Jakes halfway up the stairs, curlers in her greying hair and faded dressing gown and all. It's late.
With Morse he almost never bothers with keeping respectable hours. In fact, he hasn't paid him a visit for months now.
Not since the other man has been relegated to Witney, pushing paper out in the countryside.
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