The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn - Inspector Morse 03

by Colin Dexter

  'How deaf was he?'

  ‘He would probably have gone completely deaf in a few years' time. That was the prognosis, anyway.'

  For the first time since Bartlett had been talking the merest flicker of interest showed itself in Morse's eyes. 'Little surprising you appointed him, perhaps, sir?'

  ‘I think it's you who would have been surprised, Inspector.

  You could hardly tell he was deaf, you see. Apart from dealing with the phone, which was a problem, he was quite remarkable. He really was.'

  ‘Did you er did you appoint him, you know, because he was deaf?’

  ‘Did we feel sorry for him, you mean? Oh no. It seemed to the er, the er committee that he was the best man in the field.' ‘Which committee was that?'

  Did Morse catch a hint of guardedness in Bartlett's eyes? He wasn't sure. What he did know was that the teeth of the smallest cog had now begun to bite. He sat back more happily in his chair.

  'We er had all twelve Syndics on that committee - plus myself, of course.'

  'Syndics? They're er—?'

  They're like governors of a school, really.'

  They don't work here?'

  'Good gracious, no. They're all university dons. They just meet here twice a term to see if we're doing our job properly.' ‘Have you got their names here?'

  Morse looked with interest down the typed list that Bartlett handed to him. Printed beside the name of each of the Syndics were full details of university, college, degrees, doctorates and other academic honours, and one name in the list jumped out at him. 'Most of them Oxford men, I see, sir.'

  'Natural enough, isn't it?'

  'Just one or two from Cambridge.'

  ‘Ye-es.'

  'Wasn't Quinn at Magdalene College, Cambridge?' Morse began to reach for the folder, but Bartlett immediately confirmed the fact.

  'I see that Mr Roope was at the same college, sir.' ' ‘Was he? I'd never noticed that before.'

  ‘You notice most things, if I may say so.'

  'I always associate Roope with Christ Church, I suppose. He's been appointed a fellow there: "student", rather, if we want to be pedantic, Inspector.' His eyes were utterly guileless now, and Morse wondered if he might earlier have been mistaken.

  What's Roope's subject?'

  'He's a chemist.'

  ‘Well, well.' Morse tried to suppress the note of excitement in his voice, but realized that he wasn't succeeding. 'How old is he? Do you know?'

  ‘Youngish. Thirty or so.'

  'About Quinn's age, then?'

  'About that.'

  ‘Now, sir. Just one more thing.' He looked at his watch and found that it was already a quarter to five. 'When did you last see Quinn? Can you remember?'

  ‘Last Friday, sometime. I know that. But it's a funny thing. Before you came in, we were all trying to think when we'd last seen him. Very difficult, you know, to pinpoint it exactly. I certainly saw him late on Friday morning; but I can't be sure about Friday afternoon. I had to go to a meeting in Banbury at three o'clock, and I'm just not sure if I saw him before I went.'

  "What time did you leave the office, sir?'

  'About a quarter past two.'

  ‘You must drive pretty fast.'

  'I've got a fast car.'

  Twenty-two, twenty-three miles?'

  Bartlett's eyes twinkled. ‘We've all got our little weaknesses, Inspector, but I try to keep within the speed limits.'

  Morse heard himself say he hoped so, and decided it was high time he saw Miss Monica Height. But before he did so he had a very much more urgent call to pay. 'Where's the nearest Gents? I'm dying for—'

  'There's one right here, Inspector.' He got up and opened the door to the right of his desk. Inside was a tiny lavatory with a small wash basin tucked away behind the door; and as Morse blissfully emptied his aching bladder, Bartlett was reminded of the mighty outpourings of Niagara.

  After only a few minutes with Monica Height, Morse found himself wondering how the 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.

  "When 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 pa
st 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 morning, 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 1'

  ‘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.

  eight

  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-green 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. TJo 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 armful 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 the only object of even minimal interest he had so far unearthed. But Quinn had obviously shown no inclination to emulate an Evelyn or a Pepys, and little more than the dates and times of various meetings had been entered. 'Birthday' (under 23rd October), and 'I owe Donald £1' seemed to form the only concession to an otherwise autobiographical blank. And since he could think of nothing more purposeful to pursue, Morse idly counted the meetings: ten of them, almost all for the revisions of various question papers, within twelve weeks or so. Not bad going. And one or two other meetings: one with the English Committee on 30th September and one, a two-day meeting, with AED - whatever that was - on the 4th and 5th November.

  What's AED stand for, Lewis?'

  'Dunno, sir.'

  ‘Have a guess.'

  'Association of Eccentric Dentists.'

  Morse grinned and shut the diary. 'You nearly finished?'

  Two more drawers.'

  Think it's worth it?'

  'Might as well go through with it now, sir.'

  'OK.' Morse leaned back in the chair, his hands behind his head, and looked across the room once more. Not a particularly memorable start to a case, perhaps; but it was early days yet.

  He de
cided to put a call through to HQ. The grey telephone seemed the one used for outside calls, and Morse pulled it towards him. But as soon as he had picked up the receiver he put it down again. Underneath the orange code book he saw a letter which had escaped his notice hitherto. It was written on the official notepaper of the Frederic Delius School, Bradford, and was dated Monday, 17th November:

  Dear Nick,

  Don't forget me when you sort out your examining teams for next year. I trust you've had the form back by now. Gryce wasn't all that cooperative about the testimonial at first, but you'll have noticed that I'm 'a man of sound scholarship, with considerable experience of O- and A-level work.' What more can you ask for? Martha sends her love, and we all hope you'll be up here on your old stamping ground this Christmas. We've decided we can't please both lots of parents, and so we are going to please neither -and stay at home. By the way, old sour-guts has applied for the headship of the new Comprehensive! O tempora! O mores! As ever, Brian.

  The letter was ticked through in black biro, and Morse considered it carefully for a moment. Had Quinn rung up his friend? A former colleague, possibly? If so, when? It might be worth while finding out.

  But it was Lewis who, quite accidentally, was to stumble through the trip-wire and set off the explosive that blew the case wide open, although he himself was quite unaware at the time of his momentous achievement. As he was about to jam the latest batch of files back into its cabinet he caught sight of an envelope, squashed and crumpled, which had become wedged beneath the moveable slide designed to keep the file cases upright. He worked it out and took the single sheet of paper from the envelope. 'I can tell you what AED stands for, sir.' Morse looked up without enthusiasm and took the letter from him. It was an amateurishly-typed note, written on the official, headed notepaper of the Al-jamara Education Department, and dated 3rd March.

  Dear George,

  Greetings to all at Oxford. Many thanks for your letter and for the Summer examination package.

  All Entry Forms and Fees Forms should be ready for final dispatch to the Syndicate by Friday 20th or at the very latest, I'm told, by the 21st. Admin has improved here, though there's room for improvement still; just give us all two or three more years and we'll really show you! Please don't let these wretched 16+ proposals destroy your basic O and A pattern. Certainly this sort of change, if implemented immediately, would bring chaos. Sincerely yours,