The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (10 page)

rest of the staff could ever manage to keep their hands off her, and cynically suspected

that perhaps they didn't. The bright-green, flower-patterned dress she wore was

stretched too tightly across her wide thighs, yet somehow managed to mould itself

sofdy and suggestively around her full breasts. Biddable, by the look of it—and

eminently beddable. She wore little make-up, but her habit of passing her tongue

round her mouth imparted a moist sheen to her slightly pouting lips; and she exuded a

perfume that seemed to invite instant and glorious gratification. Morse felt quite sure

that at certain times and in certain moods she must have proved well-nigh irresistible

to the young and the susceptible. To Martin, perhaps? To Quinn? Yes, surely the

temptation must always have been there. Morse knew that he himself, the middle-

aged and the susceptible . . . But he pushed the thought to the back of his mind. What

about Ogleby? Or even Bartlett, perhaps? Whew! It was a thought! Morse recalled the

passage from Gibbon about one of the tests designed for the young novitiate: stick him

in a sack all night with a naked nun and see if . . . Morse shook his head abruptly and

passed his hand over his eyes. It was always the same when he'd had a lot of beer.

'Do you mind if I just ring my daughter, Inspector? (Daughter?) 'I'm usually on my way

home by this time, and she'll probably wonder where I've got to.' Morse listened as she

rang a number and explained her whereabouts.

'How old is your daughter, Miss, er, er, Miss Height?'

She smiled understandingly. 'It's all right, Inspector. I'm divorced, and Sally's sixteen.'

'You must have married young.' (Sixteen!)

'I was foolish enough to marry at eighteen, Inspector. I'm sure you had much more

sense than that.'

'Me? Oh yes, em, no, I mean. I'm not married myself, you see.' Their eyes held again

for a brief second and Morse sensed he could be living dangerously. It was time he

asked the fair Monica a few important questions.

"When1 did you last see Mr. Quinn?'

'It's funny you should ask that. We were only . . .' It was like listening to a familiar

record. She'd seen him on Friday morning—quite sure of that. But Friday afternoon?

She couldn't quite remember. It was difficult. After all, Friday was—what?—five days

ago now. ('Could have been four, five days' hadn't the police surgeon said?)

'Did you like Mr. Quinn?' Morse watched her reaction carefully, and suspected that this

was one question for which she hadn't quite prepared herself.

'I haven't known him all that long, of course. What is it? Two or three months? But I

liked him, yes. Very nice sort of person.'

'Did he like you?'

'What do you mean by that, Inspector?'

What
did
he mean? 'I just thought—well, I just thought—'

'You mean did he find me attractive?'

'I don't suppose he could help that.'

'You're very nice, Inspector.'

'Did he ever ask you out with him?'

'He asked me out to the pub once or twice at lunchtimes.'

'And you went?'

'Why not?'

'What did he drink?'

'Sherry, I think.'

'What about you?'

Her tongue moistened her lips once more. 'I've got slightly more expensive tastes

myself.'

'Where did you go?'

'The Horse and Trumpet—just at the end of the road. Nice, cosy little place. You'd love

it.'

'Perhaps I'll see you in there one day.'

'Why not?'

'Your tastes are expensive, you say?'

'We could work something out.'

Again their eyes met and the danger bells were ringing in Morse's brain. He stood up:

'I'm sorry to have kept you so long, Miss Height. I hope you'll apologize for me to your

daughter.'

'Oh, she'll be all right. She's been home a lot of the time recently. She's retaking a few O-levels, and the school lets her go home when she hasn't got an examination.'

'I see.' Morse stood at the door, and seemed reluctant to leave. 'We shall be seeing

each other again, no doubt.'

'I hope so, Inspector.' She spoke pleasantly and quietly and—damn it, yes!—sexily.

Her last words re-echoed in Morse's mind as he walked abstractedly down the

corridor.

'At last!' muttered Lewis to himself. He had been sitting in the entrance foyer for the

past twenty minutes with Bartlett, Ogleby and Martin. All three had their overcoats and

briefcases with them but were obviously reluctant to depart until Morse came and said

the word. The death of Quinn had obviously thrown a pall of gloom over everything,

and they had little to say to each other. Lewis had liked Ogleby, but had learned little

from him: he'd remembered seeing Quinn the previous Friday morning1, but not in the

early afternoon; and to each of Lewis's other questions he had appeared to answer

frankly, if uninformatively. Martin, though, had seemed a completely different

proposition: intense and nervous now, as the shock of the whole business seemed to

catch up with him, he'd said he couldn't really remember seeing Quinn at all on Friday.

Rather awkwardly, Morse thanked them for their cooperation, and gathered from

Bartlett that it would be perfectly in order for himself and Lewis to stay in the building: the caretaker would be on the premises until at least 7.30 p.m., and naturally the

building would be kept open for them as long as they wished. But before handing over

the keys to Quinn's office and to his filing cabinets, Bartlett gave the policemen a

stern-faced little lecture on the strictly confidential nature of most of the material they would find; it was of the greatest importance therefore that they should remember . . .

Yes, yes, yes, yes. Morse realized how he would have hated working under Bartlett, a

man for whom the sin against the Holy Ghost was clearly that of leaving filing cabinets

unlocked whilst nipping out to pee.

After they had gone, Morse suggested a quick stroll round the block, and Lewis

responded willingly. The building was far too hot, and the cool night air was clean and

refreshing. On the corner of the Woodstock Road they passed the Horse and Trumpet

and Morse automatically, consulted his watch.

'Nice little pub, I should think, Lewis. Ever been in?'

'No, sir, and I've had enough beer, anyway. I'd much rather have a cup o' tea.'

Relieved that it still wanted ten minutes to opening time, he told Morse of his

interviews, and Morse in turn told Lewis of his. Neither of them, it seemed, felt

unequivocally convinced that he had stared into the eyes of a murderer.

'Nice-looker, isn't she, sir?'

'Uh? Who do you mean, Lewis?'

'Come off it, sir!'

'I suppose she is—if you go for that sort.'

'I notice you kept her all to yourself.'

'One o' the perks, isn't it?'

'I'm a bit surprised you didn't get a bit more out of her, though. Of the lot of 'em she

seemed to me the one most likely to drop her inhibitions pretty quickly.'

'Drop her knickers pretty smartish, too, I shouldn't wonder.'

Lewis sometimes felt that Morse was quite unnecessarily crude.

QUINN'S OFFICE WAS large and well-furnished. Two blue-leather chairs, one on each

side, were neatly pushed beneath the writing desk, the surface of which was clear,

except for the in- and out-trays (the former containing several letters, the latter empty) and a large blotter, with an assortment of odd names and numbers, and meaningless

squiggles scribbled round its perimeter in black biro. Lining two complete walls, right

up to the ceiling, were row upon row of History texts and editions of the English

classics, with the occasional yellow, red, green and white spine adding a further

splash of colour to the brightly-lit and cheerful room. Three dark-gr1een filing cabinets stood along the third wall, whilst the fourth carried a large plywood notice board and,

one above the other, reproductions of Atkinson Grimshaw's paintings of the docks at

Hull and Liverpool. Only the white carpet which covered most of the floor showed

obvious signs of wear, and as Morse seated himself magisterially, in Quinn's chair he.

noticed that immediately beneath the desk the empty waste-paper basket covered a

patch that was almost threadbare. To his right, on a small black-topped table stood

two telephones, one white, one grey, and beside them a pile of telephone directories.

'You go through the cabinets, Lewis. I'll try the drawers here.'

'Are we looking for anything in particular, sir?'

'Not that I know of.'

Lewis decided to plod along in his own methodical manner: at least it promised to be a

bit more interesting that listing tins of rice pudding.

Almost immediately he began to realize what an enormous amount of love and labour

went into the final formulation of question papers for public examinations. The top

drawer of the first cabinet was stuffed with bulky buff-coloured folders, each containing copies of drafts, first proofs, first revises, second revises—even third revises—of

papers to be set for the Ordinary-level English syllabuses. 'I reckon I could get a few

quick O-levels this way, sir.'

Morse mumbled something about not being worth the paper they were printed on, and

carried on with his own desultory investigation of the top right-hand drawer of Quinn's

desk, wherein it soon became abundantly clear that he was unlikely to make any

cosmic discoveries: paper-clips, bulldog-clips, elastic bands, four fine-pointed black

biros, a ruler, a pair of scissors, two birthday cards ('Love, Monica' written in one of

them—well, well!), a packet of yellow pencils, a pencil sharpener, several letters from

the University Chest about the transfer of pension rights to the University

Superannuation Scheme, and a letter from the Centre for the Deaf informing Quinn

that the lip-reading classes had been transferred from Oxpens to Headington Tech.

After poking haphazardly around, Morse turned to the books behind him and found

himself in the middle of the M's. He selected Marvell's
Collected Poems
, and as if someone else had recently been studying the same page, the book fell open of its

own accord at the poem written 'To His Coy Mistress', and Morse read again the lines

which had formed part of his own mental baggage for rather more years than he

wished to remember:

'The grave's a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace . . .'

Yes, Quinn was lying in the police mortuary, and Quinn had hoped his hopes and

dreamed his dreams as every other mortal soul . . . He slotted the book back into its

shelf, and turned with a slightly chastened spirit to the second drawer.

The two men worked for three-quarters of an hour, and Lewis felt himself becoming

progressively more dispirited. 'Do you think we're wasting our time, sir?'

'Are you thirsty, or something?'

'I just don't know what I'm looking for, that's all.'

Morse said nothing. He didn't either.

By seven o'clock Lewis had looked through the contents of two of the three cabinets,

and now inserted the key into the third, whence he took a further ar1mful of thick

folders and once again sat down to his task. The first file contained many carbons of

letters, stretching back over two years, all marked GB/MF, and the replies from various

members of the Syndicate's English Committee, all beginning 'Dear George'.

'This must be the fellow Quinn took over from, sir.'

Morse nodded cursorily and resumed his study of a black Letts desk diary which was