The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn - Inspector Morse 03

by Colin Dexter

  Lewis finished his own cup of tea and was leaving the police canteen as Dickson walked in.

  'I see you're appealing for help, Sarg. Old Morse stuck, is he?' He handed Lewis the Oxford Mail and pointed to a paragraph at the bottom of the front page:

  MURDER INQUIRY

  Police investigating the murder of Mr N. Quinn, 1 Pinewood Close, Kidlington, whose body was found on Tuesday morning by a colleague from the Foreign Examinations Syndicate, are appealing to anyone who may have seen the murdered man on either the evening of Friday, 21st November, or on Saturday, 22nd November, to come forward. Chief Inspector Morse, who is heading the inquiry, said today that any such information could be vital in establishing the time of Mr Quinn's death. An inquest will be held next Monday.

  Lewis looked at the photograph beside the article, and handed the paper back to Dickson. In his inside pocket was the original which Morse had asked the Quinns to bring with them from Huddersfield. Sometimes, he had to agree, Morse did take on the dirty work; compared to which his present little assignment was a doddle.

  He soon found the young manager and learned that the flimsy short roll of paper he had brought with him was a richly-seamed mine of information: the date at the top; the 'customer-reading' number on the right; the items purchased each classified according to the various departments, and designated by one of the Roman numerals I-IV; the number of the till at the bottom. 'Customer flow' (Lewis learned) was fairly constant on Fridays, with high takings for most of the day, and (though the manager refused to be precise) the items listed had doubtless been purchased in the late afternoon or early evening. If he had to guess? Well, between 5 and 6.30 p.m. Unfortunately, however, the plump waddling little woman who was summoned in her capacity as i/c Till 3 could remember nothing, and failed to register even the vaguest recollection of ever having seen the face on the photograph she was shown. It was the goods she always watched, you see; seldom the faces. Ah well!

  Lewis thanked the manager and left the Kidlington premises of the Quality supermarket. Morse wouldn't be too pleased, perhaps, but all the clues seemed to be fitting into a firm, clear pattern.

  ‘But why why why didn't you tell me? You must have realized—' 'Come off it, Joyce! You know why. It would have upset you, and we've—'

  It wouldn't have been half such a shock as reading about it in the paper!'

  He shook his head sadly. ‘I just thought I was doing right, luv. That's all. Sometimes you just can't win, can you?'

  'No, I suppose not.' She understood all right, but she knew that he didn't. How could he?

  'As I say, there's no need to worry about anything. When you're better again, we can talk about things. But not now. It’ll soon all blow over - you see; and we're all fixed up for the time being.'

  No, he couldn't begin to understand. He was trying hard not to put it into so many words, but he'd got it all wrong. The fact was that she hadn't as yet given a single thought as to whether they should go back to live in Pinewood Close or not. No. There was something much more urgent on her mind for the minute, and of that she would tell him nothing. Not yet anyway.

  fourteen

  Christopher Roope had willingly agreed to meet Morse, on Friday just after 12 noon, at the Black Dog in St Aldates, just opposite the great portal of Christ Church. Roope had mentioned that he might be a few minutes late - he had a tutorial until twelve - but Morse waited happily with a pint of beer in front of him. He looked forward to meeting the young chemist, for if any outsider was involved in the murder of Quinn, he'd decided that Roope was the likeliest candidate, and already he had gleaned a few significant facts about him. First, he had learned that Roope had spent some time with one of the Gulf Petroleum companies, and might therefore have been in some sort of liaison with the men of power. For a deal there must have been at some stage, doubtless (though later) involving Bland at the Oxford end, in a perverse, though infinitely profitable, betrayal of public trust It was certainly a possibility. Second, Roope was a chemist: and whoever had murdered Quinn had a great deal of technical knowledge about the fatal dosages of cyanide. Who better than Roope? Third, it was Roope who had suddenly materialized in the Syndicate building at a very, very crucial time - 4.30 p.m. or thereabouts (according to Noakes) on the previous Friday; and it was Roope who had looked into the rooms of each of the graduate staff in turn. What exactly had he been doing there? And what had he done after Noakes had gone upstairs for tea ...? Fourth, there was the strange animosity that existed between Roope and Bartlett, and it appeared to Morse that the explanation for such animosity probably lay deeper, far deeper, than any temporary clash of views over the appointment of Quinn. Yes ... It was interesting that the clash had been over Quinn. And that fitted well with the fifth fact, which Morse had patiently unearthed earlier that morning in the University Registry: the fact that Roope had been educated at a public school in Bradford, the city where Quinn had lived almost all his short life, first as a pupil and then as a teacher. Had the two men known each other before Quinn was appointed to the Syndicate? And why had Roope been so obviously anxious to get Quinn appointed? (Morse found himself dismissing the Dean's charitable view of his colleague's social conscience.) Why, then? Now, Quinn had been thirty-one and Roope was thirty, and if they had been friends ... Yet where was the logic in that? One didn't go around murdering one's friends. Unless, that is—

  A trio of laughing, long-haired, bearded undergraduates came into the bar, T-shirted and bejeaned, and Morse pondered on the changing times. He had worn a scarf and a tie himself - and sometimes a blazer. But that seemed a long time ago. He drained his glass and looked at his watch.

  'Chief Inspector Morse?' It was one of the bearded trio and Morse realized that he was a good deal further out of touch than he had imagined.

  'Mr Roope?'

  The young man nodded. 'Can I get you a refill? I’ll get them—'

  ‘No, no. My pleasure. What are you drinking?'

  Over their beer a somewhat bemused Morse explained as much of the situation as he deemed prudent, and stressed the importance of trying to fix the exact time of Quinn's death. And when he came to ask about the visit to the Syndicate on the previous Friday. Morse was pleasantly impressed to find how carefully and indeed (if Noakes could be believed) how accurately Roope retraced his steps from the moment he had entered the building. All in all, Roope and Noakes appeared to corroborate each other's evidence neatly at almost every juncture. Yet there were several points on which Roope's memory seemed somewhat less than clear, and on which Morse immediately pressed him further.

  ‘You say there was a note on Quinn's desk?'

  ‘Yes. I'm sure the caretaker must have seen it too. We both—'

  'But you don't remember exactly what it said?'

  Roope was silent for a few seconds. 'Not really. Something; about - oh, I don't know - "being back soon", I think.'

  'And Quinn's anorak was on one of the chairs?'

  That's right. Over the back of the chair behind his desk.'

  ‘You didn't notice if it was wet?'

  Roope shook his head.

  'And the cabinets were open, you say?'

  'One of them was, I'm sure of that. The caretaker pushed it to and locked it.'

  ‘Bit unusual for a cabinet to be left open - with Bartlett around, I mean?' Morse watched the chemist closely, but discerned no reaction.

  ‘Yes.' And then Roope grinned disarmingly. 'Bit of a sod, you know, old Bartlett. Keeps 'em all on their toes.' He lit himself a cigarette and put the spent match carefully back into the box with his left hand.

  ‘How do you get on with him, sir?'

  'Me?' Roope laughed aloud. ‘We don't see eye to eye, I'm afraid. I suppose you've heard—?' 'I gathered you weren't exactly bosom pals.'

  "On, I wouldn't put it like that. You mustn't believe everything you hear.'

  Morse let it ride. 'Mr Ogleby wasn't in his room, you say?' ‘Not while I was there.'

  Morse nodded, and believed him. ‘H
ow long were you there, air?'

  ‘Quarter of an hour, I suppose. Must have been. If Ogleby or any of the others were there - well, I just didn't see them, that's all. And I'm pretty sure I would have done if they had been there.'

  Morse nodded again. I think you're right, sir. I don't think anyone was there.' His mind drifted off, and for a brief second one of the silhouettes on the cavern wall focused in full profile -a profile that Morse thought he could recognize without much difficulty...

  Roope interrupted his thoughts. 'Anything else I can tell you?'

  Morse drained his beer and said there was. He asked Roope to account for his activities during the whole of the previous Friday, and Roope gladly obliged: he had caught the 8.05 to London; arrived at Paddington at 9.10; caught the Inner Circle tube to Mansion House; conferred with his publishers about the final proofs of a forthcoming opus on Industrial Chemistry; left about 1045; had a chicken salad in the Strand somewhere; spent an hour or so in the National Portrait Gallery in Trafalgar Square; and then returned to Paddington, where he'd caught the 3.05 for Oxford.

  Morse himself couldn't have specified the reason, but suddenly he became convinced that somehow, somewhere, Roope was lying. It was all too pat, too slick. A good deal of it must be true (the bit about the publishers, for instance). Mm. He'd obviously gone to London all right; but exactly when had he returned? Roope said he'd left his publishers at about 1045 am. A taxi to Paddington, perhaps? Easy! Roope could have been back in Oxford before lunchtime. 'Just as a matter of interest, sir’ (he asked it very mildly), 'do you think you could prove all that?'

  Roope looked at him sharply. ‘I don't suppose I could, no.' The eyes were steady and steely. ‘You didn't meet anyone you knew in London?'

  I told you. I went to see—' ‘Of course. But I meant later.'

  ‘No, I didn't' The words were slow and evenly spaced, and Morse sensed that in spite of his slim build and his rather mannered trendiness, Roope was probably considerably tougher, both physically and mentally, than he appeared to be. One thing was sure: he wasn't very happy when his word was questioned. Was that perhaps why he and Bartlett... ?

  ‘Well, never mind that now, sir. Tell me something else, if you will. Did you know Quinn before he came to Oxford?'

  ‘No.'

  ‘You came from that part of the country though, don't you?' ‘You mean I haven't got an Oxford accent?' Td put you down as a Yorkshireman.' ‘You've done your homework, I see.' ‘That's what they pay me for, sir.'

  ‘I'm from Bradford, and so was Quinn. But let me spell it out. I'd never set eyes on him before he came before the interviewing committee. Do you believe that?'

  ‘I believe everything you tell me, sir. Why shouldn't I?'

  ‘You'd be a fool to believe everything some people told you.' There was little pretence now at masking the hostility in his voice, and Morse was beginning to enjoy himself.

  ‘I think you ought to know,' said Morse quietly, ‘that whatever else I am, I'm not a fool, sir.'

  Roope made no reply and Morse resumed his questioning. ‘Have you got a car?'

  ‘No. I used to have, but I only live just up the Woodstock Road—'

  That's the bachelor flats, isn't it?

  Roope suddenly relaxed and smiled ingenuously. ‘Look, Inspector, why don't you ask me something you don't know?'

  Morse shrugged his shoulders. 'All right. Tell me this. Was it raining when you came back from London?'

  ‘Raining like hell, yes. I—' Suddenly the light dawned in his eyes. ‘Yes. I got a taxi from the station - straight to the Syndicate! There'll be a record of that somewhere, surely?’

  ‘Do you remember the driver?'

  ‘No. But I think I remember the cab firm.'

  Roope was right, of course. It shouldn't be all that difficult. ‘We could try to—'

  ‘Why not?' Roope got to his feet and picked up a pile of books. ‘No time like the present, they say.'

  As they walked up to Carfax and then left into Queen Street, Morse felt that he had gone wrong somewhere, and he said nothing until they reached the railway station, where a line of taxis was parked alongside the pavement. 'You'd better leave it to me, sir. I’ve got a bit of experience—'

  'I'd rather do it myself, if you don't mind, Inspector.'

  So Morse left him to get on with it; and stood there waiting under the 'Buffet' sign, feeling (he told himself) like the proverbial spare part at a prostitute's wedding.

  Five minutes later a crestfallen Roope rejoined him: it wasn't going to be so easy as he'd thought, though he'd still like to do it himself, if Morse didn't mind, that was. But why should Morse mind? If the young fellow was as anxious as all that to justify himself... like another beer?'

  They walked through the ticket area and came to the barrier.

  ‘We only want a beer,' explained Morse.

  ' 'Fraid you'll need platform tickets, sir.'

  'Ah, bugger that,' said Morse. He turned to Roope: 'Let's walk down to the Royal Oxford’

  'Just a minute!' said Roope quietly. His eyes were shining again, and he retraced his steps and tapped the ticket collector on the shoulder. 'Do you remember me?'

  ‘Don't think so, mate.'

  ‘Were you here on duty last Friday afternoon?'

  ‘No.' Dismissive.

  'Do you know who was?'

  ‘You'd have to ask in the office.'

  ‘Where's that?'

  The man pointed vaguely. ‘Not much good now, though. Lunchtime, isn't it?'

  Clearly it wasn't Roope's day, and Morse put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, and turned to the ticket collector. ‘Give us two of your platform tickets.'

  Half an hour later, after Roope had left him, Morse sat deep in thought and, to the teenaged couple who came to sit opposite him at the narrow buffet table, his face seemed quite impassive. Yet had they looked more carefully at him, and rather less eagerly towards each other, they might just have spotted the mildest hint of a satisfied smile trying to hide itself around the corners of his mouth. He sat quite still, his grey eyes staring unblinkingly into some great blue beyond, as the unresting birds of thought winged round and round his brain ... until the London train came lumbering massively alongside the platform and finally broke the spell.

  The young couple got up, kissed briefly but passionately, and said their fond farewells.

  ‘I won't come on the platform,' he said. 'Always makes me miserable.'

  ‘Yeah. You ge' off now. See you Sat'day.'

  ‘You bet!'

  The girl walked off in her high-heeled boots towards the door leading to Platform 1, and the boy watched her as she went, and fished for his platform ticket.

  'Don't forge'. I'll bring the drinks this time.' She almost mouthed the words, but the boy understood and nodded. Then she was gone; and Morse felt the icy fingers running down from the top of his spine. Then was the memory that had been eluding him. Yes! It all came back in a rushing stream of recollection. He'd been an undergraduate then and he'd invited the flighty little nurse back to his digs in Iffley Road and she'd insisted on bringing a bottle because her father kept a pub and she'd asked him what his favourite drink was and he'd said Scotch and she'd said it was hers too not so much because she enjoyed the taste but because it made her feel all sexy and ... Christ, yes!

  Morse shut off the distant, magic memories. The main silhouette was growing blurred again; but others now appeared upon the wall of the darkened cave, and together they fell into a more logical grouping. Much more logical. And as Morse handed in his platform ticket and walked out into the bright afternoon, he was more firmly convinced than ever that someone else had been in Studio 2 that Friday afternoon. He looked at his watch: 145 pm. Tempting. By Jove, yes! The cinema was

  only three or four minutes' walk away, and Inga would be showing 'em all a few tricks. Ah well.

  He signalled for a taxi: 'Foreign Examinations Syndicate, please.'

  fifteen

  'I don't care what you
ask her,' snapped Morse. ‘When I've fetched her in here, just keep her talking for ten minutes, that's all I ask.' Lewis, who half an hour previously had been summoned to the Syndicate building once more, looked inordinately uncomfortable. "What do you want me to find out, though?'

  'Anything you like. Ask her what her measurements are.'

  'I wish you'd try to be serious, sir.'

  ‘Well, ask her whether gin goes straight to her tits, or something.'

  Lewis decided he would get nowhere with Morse in such a mood. What had happened to him? Something, surely; for suddenly he seemed as chirpy as a disc jockey.

  Morse himself crossed the corridor, knocked on Monica's door, and went in. 'Can you spare a minute, Miss Height? Won't take long.' He escorted her politely to Quinn's office, showed her to the chair that faced Lewis, her reluctant interlocutor, and himself stood idly aside.

  The phone went a few minutes later and Lewis answered it. ‘For you, sir.'

  'Morse here.'

  'Ah, Inspector. Can I see you for a minute? It's er rather important. Can you come along straightaway?' 'I'm on my way.'

  Both Lewis and Monica had heard the-voice plainly, and Morse excused himself without further explanation.

  Once inside Monica's office, he worked swiftly. First, the bulky sheepskin jacket hanging up in the wall cupboard. Nothing much

  in either pocket - nothing much of interest, anyway. Next, the handbag. It would surely be here, if anywhere. Make-up, cheque book, diary, Paper-mate pen, comb, small bottle of perfume, pair of earrings, programme for a forthcoming performance of The Messiah, packet of Dunhill cigarettes, matches - and a purse. His hands trembled slightly as he opened the catch and poked his fingers amidst the small change and the keys and the stamps and - there it was. Ye gods. He'd been right! He was breathing nervously and noisily as he closed the handbag, placed it carefully back in its former position, left the room, closed the door quietly behind him, and stood alone in the corridor. He saw the implications - the extraordinarily grave implications - of the discovery he had just made. Certainly he'd been fairly sure that with a bit of luck he might find something. Yet now he'd found it, he knew there was something wrong, something that rang untrue, something that had not occurred to him before. Still, there was a quick way of finding out.