by Colin Dexter
‘Cheers!’ He lifted his glass and buried his nose in the froth.
‘Cheers!’ She sipped the gin and stubbed out her cigarette.
‘Have you been thinking about me?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been too busy to think about anybody.’ It wasn’t very encouraging.
‘I’ve been thinking about you.’
‘Have you?’
They lapsed into silence.
‘It’s got to finish – you know that, don’t you?’ For the first time she looked him directly in the face, and saw the hurt in his eyes.
‘You said you enjoyed it yesterday.’ His voice was very low.
‘Of course I bloody well enjoyed it. That’s not the point, is it?’ Her voice betrayed exasperation, and she had spoken rather too loudly.
‘Shh! We don’t want everybody to hear us, do we?’
‘Well – you’re so silly! We just can’t go on like this! If people don’t suspect something by now, they must be blind. It’s got to stop! You’ve got a wife. It doesn’t matter so much about me, but—’
‘Couldn’t we just—?’
‘Look, Donald, the answer’s “no”. I’ve thought about it a lot – and, well, we’ve just got to stop, that’s all. I’m sorry, but—’ It was risky, and above all she worried about Bartlett finding out. With his Victorian attitudes . . .
They walked back to the office without speaking, but Donald Martin was not quite so heart-broken as he appeared to be. The same sort of conversation had taken place several times before, and always, when he picked his moment right, she was only too eager again. So long as she had no other outlet for her sexual frustrations, he was always going to be in with a chance. And once they were in her bungalow together, with the door locked and the curtains drawn – God! What a hot-pants she could be. He knew that Quinn had taken her out for a drink once; but he didn’t worry about that. Or did he? As they walked into the Syndicate building at ten minutes to two, he suddenly wondered, for the first time, whether he ought perhaps to be a fraction worried about the innocent-looking Quinn, with his hearing aid, and his wide and guileless eyes.
Philip Ogleby heard Monica go into her office and gave her no second thought today. He occupied the first room on the right-hand side of the corridor, with the Secretary’s immediately next door, and Monica’s next to that – at the far end. He drained his second cup of coffee, screwed up his thermos flask, and closed an old copy of Pravda. Ogleby had been with the Syndicate for fourteen years, and remained as much a mystery to his present colleagues as he had done to his former ones. He was fifty-three now, a bachelor, with a lean ascetic face, and a perpetually mournful, weary look upon his features. What was left of his hair was grey, and what was left of his life seemed greyer still. In his younger days his enthusiasms had been as numerous as they were curious: Morris dancing, Victorian lampposts, irises, steam-locomotives and Roman coins; and when he had come down from Cambridge with a brilliant First, and when he had walked directly into a senior mathematics post in a prestigious public school, life had seemed to promise a career of distinguished and enviable achievement. But he had lacked ambition, even then; and at the age of thirty-nine he had drifted into his present position for no other reason than the vague conviction that he had been in one rut for so long that he might as well try to climb out and fall as gently as possible into another. There remained but few joys in his life, and the chief of these was travel. Though his six weeks’ annual holiday allowed him less time than he would have wished, at least his fairly handsome salary allowed him to venture far afield, and only the previous summer he had managed a fortnight in Moscow. As well as deputizing for Bartlett, he looked after Mathematics, Physics and Chemistry; and since no one else in the office (not even Monica Height, the linguist) was his equal in the unlikelier languages, he did his best to cope with Welsh and Russian as well. Towards his colleagues he appeared supremely indifferent; even towards Monica his attitude seemed that of a mildly tolerant husband towards his mother-in-law. For their part, the rest of the staff accepted him for what he was: intellectually superior to them all; administratively more than competent; socially a nonentity. Only one other person in Oxford was aware of a different side to his nature . . .
At twenty past three Bartlett rang extension five.
‘Is that you, Quinn?’
‘Hullo?’
‘Come along to my office a minute, will you?’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t hear you very well.’
‘It’s Bartlett here.’ He almost shouted it into the phone.
‘Oh, sorry. Look, I can’t quite hear you, Dr Bartlett. I’ll come along to your office right away.’
‘That’s what I asked you to do!’
‘Pardon?’
Bartlett put the phone down and sighed heavily. He’d have to stop ringing the man; and so would everybody else.
Quinn knocked and entered.
‘Sit down, Quinn, and let me put you in the picture. When you were at your meeting yesterday, I gave the others some details of our little, er, jamboree next week.’
Quinn could follow the words fairly easily. ‘With the oil sheiks, you mean, sir?’
‘Yes. It’s going to be an important meeting. I want you to realize that. The Syndicate has only just broken even these last few years, and – well, but for these links of ours with some of the new oil states, we’d soon be bankrupt, like as not, and that’s the truth of the matter. Now, we’ve been in touch with our schools out there, and one of the things they’d like us to think about is a new History syllabus. O-level only for a start. You know the sort of thing: Suez Canal, Lawrence of Arabia, colonialism, er, cultural heritage, development of resources. That sort of thing. Hell of a sight more relevant than Elizabeth the First, eh?’
Quinn nodded vaguely.
‘The point is this. I want you to have a think about it before next week. Draft out a few ideas. Nothing too detailed. Just the outlines. And let me have ’em.’
‘I’ll try, sir. Could you just say one thing again, though? Better than “a list of metaphors”, did you say?’
‘Elizabeth the First, man! Elizabeth the First!’
‘Oh yes. Sorry.’ Quinn smiled weakly and left the room deeply embarrassed. He wished Bartlett would occasionally try to move his lips a little more.
When Quinn had gone, the Secretary half-closed his eyes, drew back his mouth as though he had swallowed a cupful of vinegar, and bared his teeth. He thought of Roope once more. Roope! What a bloody fool that man had been!
CHAPTER THREE
THROUGHOUT THE MONTH of October the health of the pound sterling was a topic of universal, if melancholy, interest. Its effective devaluation against the dollar and against other European currencies was solemnly reported (to two points of decimals) in every radio and TV news bulletin: the pound had a poor morning, but recovered slightly in later dealings; the pound had a better morning, but was later shaky against its Continental competitors. The pound, it seemed, occasionally sat up in its sick bed to prove to the world that reports of its death had been somewhat exaggerated; but almost invariably the effort appeared to have been overtaxing and very soon it was once more lying prostrate, relapsing, slipping, falling, collapsing almost – until finally it struggled up on to its elbow once more, blinked modestly around at the anxious foreign financiers, and moved up a point or two in the international money market.
Yet although, during that autumn, the gap in the balance of payments grew ever wider; although the huge oil deficit could be made up only by massive loans from the IMF; although the number of the unemployed rose sickeningly to unpredicted heights; although the bankruptcy courts were enjoying unprecedented business; although foreign investors decided that London was no longer a worthy recipient for their ever-accumulating cash surpluses – still, in spite of it all, there remained among our foreign friends a firm and charming faith in the efficiency and efficacy of the British educational system; and, as a corollary to this, in the integrity and fair-mindednes
s of the British system of public examinations. Heigh-ho!
On the night of Monday, 3rd November, many were making their ways to hotel rooms in Oxford: commercial travellers and small business men; visitors from abroad and visitors from home – each selecting his hotel with an eye to business expenses, subsistence allowances, travellers’ cheques or holiday savings. Cheap hotels and posh hotels; but mostly of the cheaper kind, though they (Lord knew) were dear enough. Rooms where the cisterns groaned and gurgled through the night; rooms where the window sashes sagged and the floorboards creaked beneath the flimsy matting. But the five emissaries from the Sheikdom of Al-jamara were safely settled in the finest rooms that even the Sheridan had to offer. Earlier in the evening they had eaten gloriously, imbibed modestly, tipped liberally; and each in turn had made his way upstairs and slipped between the crisp white sheets. Domestic problems, personal problems, health problems – certainly any or all of these might ruffle the waters of their silent dreams; but money was a problem which worried none of them. In the years immediately after the Second World War, oil, of high quality and in large accessible deposits, had been discovered beneath their seemingly barren sands; and a benevolent and comparatively scrupulous despot, in the person of the uncle of Sheik Ahmed Dubal, had not only secured American capital for the exploitation of the wells, but had immeasurably enriched the lives of most of the inhabitants of Al-jamara. Roads, hospitals, shopping centres, swimming pools and schools had not only been planned – but built; and in such an increasingly westernized society the great demand of the wealthier citizens was for the better education of their children; and it was now five years since the first links with the Foreign Examinations Syndicate had been forged.
The two-day conference started at 10.30 a.m. on Tuesday the 4th, and at the coffee session beforehand there was much shaking of hands, many introductions, and all was mutual smiles and general bonhomie. The deeply tanned Arabs were dressed almost identically in dark-blue suits, with sparklingly laundered white shirts and sober ties. Quinn had earlier viewed the day with considerable misgivings, but soon he found to his very great relief that the Arabs spoke a beautifully precise and fluent brand of English, marred, it was true, by the occasional lapse from purest idiom, but distinct and (to Quinn) almost childishly comprehensible. In all, the two days passed rapidly and delightfully: plenary sessions, individual sessions, general discussions, private discussions, lively conversations, good food, coffee, sherry, wine. The whole thing had been an enormous success.
On Wednesday evening the Arabs booked the Disraeli suite at the Sheridan for a farewell party, and all the Syndicate’s permanent staff, together with wives and sweethearts, and all the Syndicate’s governing council, were invited to the junketing. Sheik Ahmed himself, resplendent in his Middle-Eastern robes, took his seat beside a radiant Monica Height, exquisitely dressed in a pale-lilac trouser suit; and Donald Martin, as he sat next to his plain-looking little wife, her white skirt creased and her black jumper covered with dandruff, was feeling progressively more miserable. The Sheik had clearly commandeered the fair Monica for the evening and was regularly flashing his white and golden smile as he leaned towards her – intimate, confiding. And she was smiling back at him – attentive, flattered, inviting . . . Quinn noticed them, of course, and as he finished his shrimp cocktail he watched them more closely. The Sheik was in full flow, but whether his words were meant for Monica alone, Quinn was quite unable to tell.
‘As one of your own Englishmen told me one day, Miss Height,
“Oysters is amorous,
Lobsters is lecherous,
But Shrimps – Christ!”’
Monica laughed and said something close beside the Sheik’s ear which Quinn could not follow. How foolish he had been to harbour any hope! And then he was able to follow another brief passage of their conversation, and he knew that the words must certainly have been whispered pianissimo. He felt his heart beat thicker and faster. He must surely have been mistaken . . .
Towards midnight the party had dwindled to about a third of its original number. Philip Ogleby, who had drunk more than anyone, seemed the only obviously sober one amongst them; the Martins had left for home some time ago; Monica and Sheik Ahmed suddenly reappeared after an unexplained absence of over half an hour; Bartlett was talking rather too loudly, and his large solicitous wife had already several times reminded him that gin always made him slur his words; one of the Arabs was in earnest negotiation with one of the barmaids; and of the Syndics, only the Dean, Voss, and Roope appeared capable of sustaining the lively pace for very much longer.
At half past midnight Quinn decided that he must go. He felt hot and vaguely sick, and he walked into the Gentlemen’s, where he leaned his head against the coolness of the wall mirror. He knew he would feel rough in the morning, and he still had to drive back to his bachelor home in Kidlington. Why hadn’t he been sensible and ordered a taxi? He slapped water over his face, turned on the cold tap over his wrists, combed his hair, and felt slightly better. He would say his thank-yous and good-byes, and be off.
Only a few were left now, and he felt almost an interloper as he re-entered the suite. He tried to catch Bartlett’s eye, but the Secretary was deep in conversation with Sheik Ahmed, and Quinn stared rather fecklessly around for a few minutes before finally sitting down and looking again towards his hosts. But still they talked. And then Ogleby joined them; and then Roope walked over, and Bartlett and Ogleby moved away; and then the Dean and Voss went across; and finally Monica. Quinn felt almost mesmerized as he watched the changing groupings and tried to catch the drift of what they were talking about. He felt a simultaneous sense of guilt and fascination as he looked at their lips and followed their conversation, as though he were standing almost immediately beside them. He knew instinctively that some of the words must have been whispered very quietly; but to him most of them were as clear as if they were being shouted through a megaphone. He remembered one occasion (his hearing had been fairly good then) when he had picked up a phone and heard, on a crossed line, a man and his mistress arranging a clandestine rendezvous and anticipating their forthcoming fornication with lascivious delight . . .
He felt suddenly frightened as Bartlett caught his eye and walked over, with Sheik Ahmed just behind him.
‘Well? You enjoyed yourself, my boy?’
‘Yes, indeed. I – I was just waiting to thank you both—’
‘That is a great pleasure for us, too, Meester Queen.’ Ahmed smiled his white and golden smile and held out his hand. ‘We shall be meeting you again, we hope so soon.’
Quinn walked out into St Giles’. He had not noticed how keenly one of the remaining guests had been watching him for the past few minutes; and it was with considerable surprise that he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to face the man who had followed him to his car.
‘I’d like a word with you, Quinn,’ said Philip Ogleby.
At 12.30 the following day, Quinn looked up from the work upon which, with almost no success, he had been trying to concentrate all morning. He had heard no knock, but someone was opening the door. It was Monica.
‘Would you like to take me out for a drink, Nicholas?’
CHAPTER FOUR
ON FRIDAY, 21ST November, a man in his early thirties caught the train from Paddington back to Oxford. He found an empty first-class compartment with little difficulty, leaned back in his seat, and lit a cigarette. From his briefcase he took out a fairly bulky envelope addressed to himself (‘If undelivered please return to the Foreign Examinations Syndicate’), and extracted several lengthy reports. He unclipped his ballpoint pen from an inside pocket, and began to make sporadic notes. But he was left-handed, and with an ungenerous margin, and that only on the right of the closely-typed documents, the task was awkward; and progressively so, as the Inter-City train gathered full speed through the northern suburbs. The rain splashed in slanting parallel streaks across the dirty carriage window, and the telegraph poles snatched up the wires ever faster as he f
ound himself staring out abstractedly at the thinning autumn landscape; and even when he managed to drag his attention back to the tedious documents he found it difficult to concentrate. Just before Reading he walked along to the buffet car and bought a Scotch; then another. He felt better.
At four o’clock he put the papers back into their envelope, crossed out his own name, C. A. Roope, and wrote ‘T. G. Bartlett’ on the cover. Bartlett, as a man, he disliked (he could not disguise that), but he was honest enough to respect the man’s experience, and his flair for administration; and he had promised to leave the papers at the Syndicate that afternoon. Bartlett would never allow a single phrase in the minutes of a Syndicate Council meeting to go forward before the relevant draft had been circulated to every member who had attended. And (Roope had to admit) this meticulous minuting had frequently proved extremely wise. Anyway, the wretched papers were done now, and Roope snapped his briefcase to, and looked out at the rain again. The journey had passed more quickly than he could have hoped, and within a few minutes the drenched grey spires of Oxford came into view on his right, and the train drew into the station.
Roope walked through the subway, waited patiently behind the queue at the ticket barrier, and debated for a second or two whether he should bother. But he knew he would. He took the second-class day-return from his wallet and passed it to the ticket collector. ‘I’m afraid I owe you some excess fare. I travelled back first.’