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The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn - Inspector Morse 03

Page 12

by Colin Dexter


  He hadn't been away for more than two or three minutes, and Lewis was relieved to see him back so soon. He sat on the corner of the table and looked at her. There were times (not very frequent, he admitted) when he seemed to lose all interest in the female sex, and this was one of them. She might as well have been a statue cast in frigid marble for all the effect she was having on him how. It happened to all men - or, at least, so Morse had heard. The womenopause, they called it. He took a deep breath. ‘Why did you lie to me about last Friday afternoon?'

  Monica's cheeks flushed a deep crimson, but she was not, it appeared, excessively surprised. 'It was Sally, wasn't it? I realized, of course, what your man was up to.'

  Well?'

  'I don't know. I suppose it sounded less - less sordid, somehow, saying we went to my place.' ‘Less sordid than what?'

  ‘You know - motoring around, stopping in lay-bys and hoping no one else would pull in.' 'And that's what you did?' 'Yes.'

  ‘Would Mr Martin back you up?' 'Yes. If you explained to him why—'

  ‘You mean you haven't done that already?' The tone of Morse's voice was becoming increasingly harsh, and Monica coloured deeply again.

  ‘Don't you think we ought to ask him?'

  ‘No I don't! You've got him round your little finger, woman! Anyone can see that. I'm not interested in your web of lies. I want the truth! We're investigating a murder - not a bloody parking offence!'

  ‘Look, Inspector. I can't do much more than tell you—'

  'Of course you can! You can tell me the truth’

  ‘You seem terribly sure of—'

  'And so I am, woman! What the hell do you think that is?' He banged his right hand furiously on the top of the desk, and revealed the torn-off half of a cinema ticket. Across the top were the letters 10, and almost immediately after them the number 2; beneath were the words ‘Rear Lounge', and along the right-hand edge, running downwards, were the numbers 93556.

  Monica looked down at the ticket as if mesmerized.

  ‘Well?'

  ‘I suppose it was you who arranged the little charade on the phone with Dr Bartlett?'

  'I’ve done worse in my time,' said Morse. And suddenly, and quite inexplicably, he felt a surge of sympathy and warmth towards her, and his tone softened as he looked into her eyes: 'It'll come out in the end - you know that. Please let me have the truth.'

  Monica sighed deeply. 'Do you mind getting me a cigarette, Inspector? As I think you know, mine are in my handbag.'

  Yes (she said) Morse had been right. With Sally back from school that afternoon, there was no chance of going home, and she wasn't that keen, in any case. The whole thing was her fault quite as much as Donald's, of course; but recently she had been increasingly anxious to end the futile and dangerous affair. It was Donald who suggested they should go to the cinema and she had finally agreed. It would be an unnecessary risk to be seen going in together, and so it was arranged that he should go in at twenty past one, and she a few minutes later. They would each buy a ticket separately, and he would sit on the back row of the rear lounge in Studio 2 and watch out for her. And that's what they'd done. Everything had gone as planned, and they had left the cinema at about half past three. They'd each taken their car, and hers had been parked in Cranham Terrace, at the side of the cinema. She herself had gone straight home afterwards, and so, for all she knew, had Donald. Naturally they'd both been worried when they heard that the police wanted to know their whereabouts on Friday afternoon, and so they'd foolishly - well, Morse knew what they'd done. It wasn't all that far from the truth, though, was it? But, yes, they'd lied about that Friday afternoon. Of course, they had.

  'Do you mind if we get your boyfriend in?' asked Morse.

  ‘I think it would be better if you did.' She looked a little happier now, in spite of the jibe - certainly happier than Morse.

  Pathetically Martin himself began to repeat the unauthorized version, but Monica stopped him. Tell them the truth, Donald. I just have. They know exactly where we both were on Friday afternoon.' 'Oh. Oh, I see.'

  Morse felt his morale sagging ever lower as Martin stumbled his way through the same cheap little story. No discrepancy anywhere. He, like Monica it seemed, had gone straight home afterwards. And that was that.

  ‘One more question.' Morse got up from the edge of the table and leaned against the nearest cabinet. It was a vital question -the vital question, and he wanted to witness their immediate reactions. ‘Let me ask you both once again - did either of you see Mr Quinn on Friday afternoon? Please think very, very carefully before you answer.'

  But it seemed that neither of them had any wish to think unduly carefully. Their faces registered blank. They shook their heads, and with apparent simplicity and earnestness they said that they hadn't.

  Morse took another deep breath. He might as well tell them, he thought - that is, if they didn't know already. ‘Would it surprise you both if I told you that ...' (Morse hesitated -dramatically, he hoped) 'that there was another of your colleagues in Studio 2 last Friday afternoon?'

  Martin turned deathly pale, and Monica opened her mouth like a chronic asthmatic fighting for breath. Morse (as he later realized) would have been wiser if he had allowed his little speech to take its full effect. But he didn't. ‘You may well look surprised. You see, we know exactly where Mr Quinn was on Friday afternoon. He was sitting along with the pair of you - in the rear lounge of Studio 2!'

  Martin and Monica Height stared at him in stupefied astonishment.

  After they had gone, Morse turned to Lewis: That'll give 'em something to think about.'

  But Lewis was feeling far from happy, and he said so. I hope you'll forgive me, sir, but—'

  'C'mon, Lewis. Out with it!'

  "Well. I don't think you handled it very well.' He sat back and waited for the explosion.

  ‘Nor do I,' said Morse quietly. 'Go on.'

  ‘You see, sir, I had the impression that when you said one of the others was in the cinema - well, they didn't seem surprised at all. It was almost as if—'

  'I know what you mean. It was almost as if they expected me to say someone else, wasn't it?'

  Lewis nodded vigorously. ‘But they really were surprised when you said it was Quinn.'

  ‘Ye-es. You're right. And there's only one other person it could have been, isn't there? Bartlett was in Banbury that afternoon.'

  ‘We haven't checked on that.'

  ‘I don't think we shall have much trouble in finding a few headmasters to back up his alibi. No. I don't think there's much doubt where Bartlett was that afternoon.'

  That leaves Ogleby, then, sir.'

  Morse nodded.

  'Shall I go and fetch him, sir?'

  "What do you think?' His customary confidence had deserted him, and Lewis got up and walked to the door. 'No, Lewis. Leave it a while, please. I want to think things through a bit more carefully.'

  Lewis shrugged his shoulders with some impatience and sat down again. Morse didn't seem quite the man he had been, one way or another; but Lewis knew from previous experience that it wouldn't be long before something happened. Something was always happening when Morse was around.

  And even as Lewis righteously reviewed the perfectly valid points he had just been making, Morse himself was conscious of an even greater failure in his own powers of logical analysis. Clown of a clown I Martin and Monica Height! Why had they ever told that abject lie in the first place? There was every risk (with Sally home so often) that even a moderately competent detective would pretty soon ferret out the truth about that. Why, then? And suddenly the answer presented itself, pellucidly clear: there was an even greater risk about telling the truth. If they had gone to the cinema together, why not say so? It seemed an infinitely less reprehensible piece of behaviour than the sordid liaison to which they had both been prepared to admit. People did go to the pictures together. It would cause a bit of talk - of course it would - if someone saw them. But... The silhouetted figures once again refor
med, and they were all now grouping around one man. Arnold Philip Ogleby.

  'You're right, you know, Lewis. Go and fetch him straightaway.'

  After they had left Quinn's office, Donald and Monica had stood silent for a few seconds in the polished corridor. 'Come in a second,' whispered Monica. She closed her own office door behind her, and looked at him fiercely. She spoke clearly and quietly, and with a force that was impressive. 'We don't say a word about it. Is that clear? Not a single wordl’

  sixteen

  Ogleby looked tired, and Morse decided he might as well be short and sharp. He knew he was taking a risk, but he'd played longer shots before - and won.

  ‘You say, sir, that you came back to the office after lunch last Friday afternoon?' ‘We've been over that before.'

  Morse ignored him and continued. 'But you lied to me. You were seen outside this office last Friday afternoon. To be precise, you were seen going into Studio 2 in Walton Street.'

  Ogleby sat placidly in his chair. He seemed in no way surprised indeed, if anyone were surprised it was Morse, who expected almost anything except the answer he received. 'Who saw me?'

  ‘You don't deny it?'

  'I asked you who it was that saw me.'

  'I'm afraid I can't tell you that, sir. I'm sure you understand why.'

  Ogleby nodded disinterestedly. 'As you wish.'

  ‘We also have evidence, sir, that Mr Quinn was in Studio 2 that afternoon.'

  'Really? Did somebody see him, too?'

  Morse felt progressively less at ease with the man. It was one of the troubles with lies - his own lies; but he solved the problem by ignoring it. 'What time did you go to the cinema, sir?'

  'Don't you know?' (There it was again!)

  'I'd like your own statement.'

  For a few seconds Ogleby appeared to be weighing the pros and cons of coming clean. 'Look, Inspector. In a way I suppose I lied to you a little.' (Lewis was scribbling as fast as he could.) ‘We finish here, officially that is, at five. I try to put in my time as honestly as I can, and I think anyone you speak to here will confirm that. I'm never late, and I often work well after the rest have gone. On Friday, I agree, I left a bit early. I should think about a quarter to five, or so.'

  'And you went to Studio 2.'

  'I live in Walton Street, you know. It's not far away.'

  ‘You went there?'

  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?'

  1 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 son 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 Fm 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, Fm 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.' Tie 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. TJo 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.

  ‘Ni
ce 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 I 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.

  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 i, 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 ...' Possible. A starting point anyway.

 

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