by Colin Dexter
Ogleby shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Will you tell me why you went?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Have you ever been?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m a lecherous old man.’
Morse switched his line of attack. ‘Were you still here when Mr Roope came into the building?’
‘Yes. I heard him talking to the caretaker.’
Again it was the answer that Morse had least expected, and he felt increasingly bewildered. ‘But you weren’t in your room. Your car—’
‘I didn’t come in a car on Friday.’
‘You didn’t see Quinn – in the cinema, I mean?’
‘I wasn’t in the cinema.’
‘Did you see Miss Height and Mr Martin there?’
Surprise certainly registered now. ‘Were they there?’ Morse could have sworn that Ogleby had not known of that, at any rate, and in a blindingly perverse sort of way, he felt very tempted to believe the man. ‘Did you enjoy the film, sir?’
‘I didn’t see it.’
‘You enjoy pornographic films, though?’
‘I’ve sometimes thought that if I were a film producer I’d make something really erotic, Inspector. I think I’ve got the right sort of imagination.’
‘You didn’t keep your ticket?’
‘I didn’t have a ticket.’
‘Will you look for it, sir?’
‘Not much point, is there?’
Whew!
Morse decided that he might as well go the whole hog now. Few secrets could be kept for long in a place like the Syndicate, and he realized that he would be losing nothing – might, in fact, be gaining – by coming out into the open.
With Ogleby gone, he invited Bartlett along to Quinn’s office, and told him what he had learned that afternoon: told him of the deserted office he had left behind him when he’d gone to Banbury; told him of the mammary magnetism of Miss Inga Nielsson; told him of his difficulties in establishing the whereabouts of everyone on that Friday afternoon; told him indeed, most of what he knew, or suspected, to be true. It wasn’t really giving much away for most of it would have to come out in the wash fairly soon anyway. Finally, he told Bartlett that he would be grateful of a more accurate timetable of his movements; and all in all Bartlett hadn’t taken things too badly. He could (he said) so very easily establish his own whereabouts; and there and then he rang the Head of Banbury Polytechnic and put him straight on to Morse. Yes, Bartlett had addressed a meeting of Heads; had arrived about five to three; together they had taken a glass of sherry; and the meeting was over about twenty, twenty-five past four. That was that, it seemed.
Bartlett asked if he was allowed to make his own observations on what he’d been told, and it was quite obvious that he was a far shrewder judge of his fellows than Morse had given him credit for. ‘I’m not all that surprised, Inspector, about Miss Height and Martin. She’s a very attractive girl: she’s attractive to me, and I’m getting an old man; and Martin hasn’t had the happiest of marriages, so I’m led to believe. There have been the occasional rumours, of course; but I’ve said nothing. I hoped it was just one of those brief infatuations – we’ve all had them in our time, and I thought it best to let it blow itself out. But – but, I must be honest, I’m very surprised by what you told me about Ogleby. It just doesn’t seem to fit in. I’ve known him many years now, and he’s – well, he’s not like that.’
‘We’ve all got our little weaknesses, sir.’
‘No, you misunderstand me. I didn’t mean whether he’d want to go to a sexy film or not. I’ve often . . . Well, never mind about that. No. It was about him saying he was here. You see, he’s just not the sort of man who lies about things, and yet you say he insists that he was here when Roope came.’
‘That’s what he says.’
‘And Roope says he wasn’t in his own office, or anywhere around?’
‘The caretaker backs him up.’
‘He might have been upstairs.’
‘I don’t think so. Mr Ogleby himself says he heard Roope come in.’
Bartlett shook his head slowly and frowned. ‘What do the girls say?’
‘What girls?’
‘The girls who collect the out-trays.’
Morse mentally kicked himself. ‘What time are the trays collected?’
‘Four o’clock every afternoon. The Post Office van is usually here about four-fifteen, and we like to have everything ready before then.’
I bet you do, thought Morse.
Bartlett rang through to the Registry and almost immediately a young, fair-haired girl came in and tried to keep her head as Morse questioned her. She had collected the trays on Friday afternoon. Yes, at four o’clock. And no one was there. Neither Ogleby, nor Miss Height, nor Martin, nor Quinn. No, she was quite sure. She’d mentioned to the other girls how odd it seemed.
Bartlett watched her distastefully as she left. He was wondering exactly how much work the ‘other girls’ had been doing when his back was turned.
Morse, as he walked slowly up the corridor with Bartlett, realized how very little he knew about the tangled complexity of relationships within the office. ‘I’d like to have a long chat with you sometime, sir – about the office, I mean. There are so many things—’
‘Why not come out and have a meal with us? My wife’s a jolly good cook, you’ll find. What about it?’
‘That’s very kind of you, sir. When do you suggest?’
‘Well. Any time, really. Tonight, if you like.’
‘Your wife—’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Leave it to me.’ He disappeared into his office, and returned a couple of minutes later. ‘Do you like steak, Inspector?’
As they walked to the car, both Lewis and Morse were deep in thought. The case was throwing up enough clues to solve a jumbo crossword, but somehow they wouldn’t quite fit into the diagram.
‘Nice fellow, Bartlett,’ ventured Lewis, as they drove along the Woodstock Road towards the ring-road perimeter.
Morse did not reply. Bit too nice, perhaps, he was thinking. Far too nice, really. Like one of those suspects in a detective story who like as not turns out to be the crook. Was it possible! Was there any way in which the sturdy, shrewd, efficient little Secretary could have contrived the murder of Nicholas Quinn? As Lewis picked up speed down the long hill towards Kidlington, Morse began to see that there was a way. It would have been fiendishly clever; but then for all Morse knew . . . Oxford was full of clever people, wasn’t it? And all at once it occurred to Morse that he was in very real danger of underestimating all of those he’d interviewed so far. Why, even now, perhaps, they were all sitting there quietly laughing at him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MORSE SAT ALONE in his office. It was over two and a half hours before he was due at the Bartletts’ and he welcomed the solitude and the chance to think.
The groceries which Quinn had purchased and the list of the provisions found in his kitchen proved more interesting than Morse had expected. Two pieces of steak and a bag of mushrooms, for instance. Bit extravagant, for one person? Might it have been for two? Two lovers? Morse pictured again the girl at the buffet door that led to Platform 1, and she merged into the figure of Monica Height. Could it have worked? Monica now admitted going to the cinema – with Martin, though. Could he forget Martin? Spineless creature. And so besotted with Monica that he’d say anything – if she told him to, or bribed him to. Think on, Morse! Monica and Quinn, then. Back row of the rear lounge; awkward unfastenings and frenetic fondlings, with the promise of still more glorious things in store – later. Later, yes. But where? Not at her place: impossible with Sally around. Why not at his? He could get some food in (steak? mushrooms?), and she would cook it for him. She’d love to. ‘And don’t forget, Nick, I’ll bring the drinks this time. Sherry, isn’t it? Dry sherry? I like that, too. And I’ll bring a bottle of Scotch, as well. It always does things to me . . .’ Possibl
e. A starting point anyway.
Morse looked at the two lists again, and noticed a fact he’d missed before. Quinn already had two half-pound packs of butter in his fridge, yet for some reason he’d bought another. Different brand, too. Very odd. Like a few other facts. He took a piece of paper and wrote them down:
(a) Position of Quinn’s coffee table indicated that he’d probably been sitting in the draught. (Steady, Sherlock!)
(b) No spent matches found in either kitchen or living room; no matches found in Quinn’s pockets. (Remember: Mrs E had already cleaned; she’d only returned for the ironing and had not cleared the wastepaper basket again.)
(c) More butter bought, when plenty in stock. (Forget it?)
(d) Note left by Quinn for Mrs E: vague enough to fit virtually any occasion? (Not all that vague though.)
Morse sat back and looked at his handiwork. Individually each point seemed pretty thin; but collectively – did they add up to something? Something like assuming that Quinn did not return from work at all that Friday evening? Had it been somebody else who lit the fire, and bought the groceries, and wrote a note for Mrs Evans? Think on, Morse! Think on, my boy! It was possible. Another starting point. Could the mysterious somebody have been Monica? (His mind kept coming back to her.) But she must have gone home to Sally sometime. (Job for Lewis – check.) Martin? He must have gone home to his wife some time. When? (Job for Lewis – check.) And anyway, neither of them knew enough about cyanide, did they? Poisoning was a highly specialized job. (A woman’s weapon, though.) Now, Roope was a chemist. And Ogleby knew enough . . . Roope or Ogleby – a much likelier pair to choose from. But Roope was out of Oxford until about 4.15 p.m. (Or so he said.) And Ogleby went home a bit early. (Or so he said.) Mm. And what about Bartlett? Kidlington was on the main road from Banbury, and the main road passed no more than thirty yards from Pinewood Close. If he’d left Banbury at 4.25 p.m. and really pushed it, 70 mph say, he could have been in Kidlington by, well, ten to five? Opportunity enough for any of them really. For if Quinn had discovered that one of the four . . .
Morse knew he wasn’t getting very far. It was the method he couldn’t fathom. But one thing was becoming an ever firmer conviction in his mind: whoever had come to Pinewood Close that Friday evening, it hadn’t been Nicholas Quinn. Leave it there for the minute, Morse. Think of something else. Always the best way, and there was one thing he could check on straightaway.
He called in Peters, the handwriting pundit, showed him the note written to Mrs Evans, and gave him one of the sheets of Quinn’s writing taken from Pinewood Close.
‘What do you think?’
Peters hesitated. ‘I’d need to study—’
‘What’s stopping you?’
Nothing had ever been known to hurry or ruffle Peters, an ex-Home Office pathologist, who in his younger days had made a considerable name and a considerable income for himself by disobeying the two cardinal rules for success – of thinking quickly and of acting decisively. For Peters thought at the speed of an arthritic tortoise and acted with the decisiveness of a soporific sloth. And Morse knew him better than to do anything but sit quietly and wait. If Peters said it was, it was. If Peters said that Quinn had definitely written the note, Quinn had definitely written the note. If he said he wasn’t sure, he wasn’t sure: and no one else in the world would be sure.
‘How long will you be, Peters?’
‘Ten, twelve minutes.’
Morse therefore knew that in about eleven minutes he would have his answer, and he sat quietly and waited. The phone went a few minutes later.
‘Morse. Can I help you?’
It was the switchboard. ‘It’s a Mrs Greenaway, sir. From the John Radcliffe. Says she wants to talk to the man in charge of the Quinn murder.’
‘That’s me,’ said Morse, without much enthusiasm. Mrs Greenaway, eh? The woman above Quinn. Well, well.
She had read the report in the Oxford Mail (she said) and felt that she ought to ring the police. Her husband wouldn’t be very happy but— (Come on, girl, come on!) Well, she wasn’t to have the baby until December, but she’d known – about four o’clock on Friday. The contractions— (Come on, girl!) Well, she’d rung up the works where Frank (‘my husband, Inspector’), where Frank worked, and tried to get a message to him. But something must have gone wrong. She’d sat there by the window, watching and waiting, but no one came; and then she’d rung the works again about a quarter to five. She wasn’t really worried, but she’d feel happier if Frank . . . Anyway she could always ring the hospital herself. They would send an ambulance straightaway; and she wasn’t absolutely sure. It could have been just— (Come on!) Anyway, she saw Quinn come in, in his car, just after five.
‘You saw him?’
‘Yes. About five past five, it must have been. He drove in and put his car in the garage.’
‘Was anybody with him?’
‘No.’
‘Go on, Mrs Greenaway.’
‘Well, there’s nothing else, really.’
‘Did he go out again?’
‘I didn’t see him.’
‘Would you have seen him?’
‘Oh yes. As I say, I was looking out of the window all the time.’
‘We think he went out to the shops, Mrs Greenaway. But you say—’
‘Well, he could have gone out the back way, I suppose. You can get through the fence and on to the path, but—’
‘But you don’t think he did?’
‘Well, I didn’t hear him, and he wouldn’t have gone over the back. It’s ever so muddy.’
‘I see.’
‘Well, I hope—’
‘Mrs Greenaway, are you absolutely sure you saw Mr Quinn?’
‘Well, perhaps I didn’t actually . . . I heard him on the phone, though.’
‘You what?’
‘Yes. We’ve got a shared line, and it was just after he came in. I was really getting worried, and I thought I’d try the works again; but I couldn’t get through, because Mr Quinn was using the phone.’
‘Did you listen to what he was saying?’
‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t. I’m not nosy like that.’ (Of course not!) ‘You see I just wanted him to get off the line, that’s all.’
‘Was he talking for long?’
‘Quite a while. I picked up the phone two or three times and they were still—’
‘You don’t remember a name, any name, that Mr Quinn used? Christian name? Surname? Anything at all that could help us?’
Joyce Greenaway was silent for a minute. There was a very vague recollection, but it slipped away from her. ‘I— No, I can’t remember.’
‘Not a woman, was it?’
‘Oh no. It was a man all right. Sounded an educated sort of man – well, you know what I mean, it wasn’t a common sort of voice.’
‘Were they having a row?’
‘No. I don’t think so. But I didn’t listen in. I didn’t really. I was just getting impatient, that’s all.’
‘Why didn’t you go down and tell Mr Quinn what the situation was?’
Joyce Greenaway hesitated a little, and Morse wondered exactly why. ‘Well, we weren’t, you know, as friendly as all that.’
‘Look, Mrs Greenaway. Please think very hard. It’s vitally important – do you understand? If you could remember – even the slightest thing.’
But nothing would come, although the outline of that name still lurked subliminally. If only—
Morse did it for her. ‘Ogleby? Mr Ogleby? Does that ring any bells?’
‘No-o.’
‘Roope? Mr Roope? Bartlett? Dr Bartlett? Mar—’
Joyce’s scalp tingled. She’d been fishing for a verbal shape like ‘Bartlett’. Could it have been? She wasn’t really listening to Morse now. ‘I can’t be sure, Inspector, but it might have been Bartlett.’
Whew! What a turn-up for the books! Morse said somebody would be in to see her, but it would have to be the next day; and Joyce Greenaway, feeling a strange mixture
of relief and trepidation, walked slowly back to the maternity ward.
Peters had been sitting quite motionless for the past two or three minutes, openly listening to the conversation, but he made no comment. ‘Well?’ said Morse.
‘Quinn wrote it.’
Morse opened his mouth, but closed it again. Any protestation was futile. Peters said it was; so it was.
Why not go with the evidence, Morse and fling your flimsy fancies aside? Quinn got back home about five; he wrote a note for Mrs Evans; and he rang somebody up – a well-spoken somebody, whose name may have been Bartlett.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MRS BARTLETT WAS something of a surprise. She was three or four inches taller than her husband, and she ordered him around as if he were a naughty but lovable little schoolboy. There was another surprise, too. No one had mentioned to Morse that the Bartletts had a son, and the rather slovenly dressed, sullen-looking, bearded young man who was introduced as Richard seemed not particularly anxious to make an immediately favourable impression. But whilst the four of them sat rather awkwardly drinking their sherry, it became apparent that under his skin young Richard had a pleasant and attractive personality. As the ice thawed, he spoke with an easy humour and a total lack of self-consciousness; and as he and Morse discussed the respective merits of the Solti and Furtwängler recordings of The Ring, Mrs Bartlett slipped away to push a cautious fork into the Brussels sprouts and summoned her husband to open the wine. The table was immaculately set for the four of them, the silver cutlery winking and sparkling on the white tablecloth in the dimly lit room. The vegetables were almost ready.
Bartlett himself refilled Morse’s glass. ‘Nice little sherry, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed,’ said Morse. He noticed that the label was different from that on the sherry bottle found in Quinn’s rooms.
‘Any more for you, Richard?’
‘No.’ It sounded oddly abrupt, as though there lurked some dark and hidden enmity within the Bartlett clan.
The soup was ready now, and Morse tossed back the last of his sherry, got to his feet, and walked across the wide room rubbing his hands together.