The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (13 page)

them to account for their movements on Friday afternoon. The last thing he had

expected was that they'd
all
need an alibi. Bartlett, he knew, had been out at Banbury.

But where had the others been that fateful afternoon? Monica, Ogleby, Martin, and

Quinn.
All of them out of the office
. Whew!

'What time was all this, Mr. Noakes?'

' 'Bout half past four, sir.'

'Had any of the others left a note?'

'I don't think so.'

'Could any of them have been upstairs, do you think?'

'Could 'ave been, sir, but—well, I was here quite a long while. I was in the corridor,

you see, fixin' this broken light when Mr. Roope came in.'

Morse still seemed temporarily blown off course, and Lewis decided to see if he could

help. 'Could any of them have been in the lavatory?'

'Must have been in there a long time!' It was quite clear from the slighdy contemptuous

smirk that crossed Noakes's face that he was not prepared to pay any particular

respect to the suggestions of a mere sergeant, and the almost inevitable 'sir' was

noticeably absent.

'It was raining on Friday afternoon, wasn't it?' said Morse at last.

'Yes, sir. Rainin', blowin'—miserable afternoon it was.'

'I hope Mr. Roope wiped his feet,' said Morse innocendy.

For the first time Noakes seemed uneasy. He passed his hands one over the other,

and wondered what on earth
that
was supposed to mean.

'Did you see any of them at all—later on, I mean?'

'Not really, sir. I mean, I saw Mr. Quinn leave in his car about—'

'You
what?
' Morse sat up and blinked at Noakes in utter bewilderment.

'You saw him
leave
, you say?'

'Yes, sir. About ten to five. His car was—'

'Were there any other cars here?' interrupted Morse.

'No, sir. Just Mr. Quinn's.'

'Well, thank you, Mr. Noakes. You've been very helpful.' Morse got up and walked to

the door. 'And you didn't see anyone else—anyone at all—after that?'

'No, sir. Except the Secketary himself. He came back to the office about half past five,

sir.'

'I see. Well, thank you very much.' Morse had scarcely been able to hide his mounting

excitement and he fought back the strong impulse to push Noakes ou1t into the

corridor.

'If I can be of any help any time, sir, I hope you . . .' He stood fawning at the door like a liegeman taking leave of his lord. But Morse wasn't listening. A little voice within his

brain was saying 'Bugger off, you obsequious little creep,' but he merely nodded good-

naturedly and the caretaker finally sidled through the door.

'Well, Lewis? What do you make of that little lot?'

'I expect we shall soon find somebody who saw Quinn in a pub on Friday night. About

chucking-out time.'

'You think so?' But Morse wasn't really interested in what Lewis was making of it. The

previous day the cogs had started turning all right, but turning, it now appeared, in the wrong direction; and whilst Noakes had been speaking they'd temporarily stopped

turning altogether. But they were off again now, in forward gear, with two or three of

them whirring furiously. He looked at his watch, and saw that the morning was over.

'What swill do they slop out at the Horse and Trumpet, Lewis?'

FEW OF THE BUILDINGS erected in Oxford since the end of the Second World War have

met with much approval from either Town or Gown. Perhaps it is to be expected that a

public privileged with the daily sight of so many old and noble buildings should feel a

natural prejudice against the reinforced concrete of the curious post-war structures; or

perhaps all modern architects are mad. But it is generally agreed that the John

Radcliffe Hospital on Headington Hill is one of the least offensive examples of the

modern design—except, of course, to those living in the immediate vicinity who have

found their expensive detached houses dwarfed by the gigantic edifice, and who now

view from the bottom of their gardens a broad and busy access road instead of the

green and open fields of Manor Park. The seven-storeyed hospital, built in gleaming,

off-white brick, its windows painted chocolate brown, is set in spacious, tree-lined

grounds, where royal-blue notice boards in bold white lettering direct the strangers

towards their destinations. But few are strangers here, for the John Radcliffe Hospital

is dedicated to the safe delivery of all the babies to be born beneath the aegis of the

Oxfordshire Health Authority, and in it almost all the pregnant mums have suffered

their precious embryos to be coddled and cosseted, turned and tested many many

times before. Joyce Greenaway has. But with her ('one in a thousand', they'd said)

things have not gone quite according to the gynaecological guarantee.

Frank Greenaway had Wednesday afternoon free and he drove into the hospital car

park at 1 p.m. He was feeling much happier than he had done, for it now looked as if

everything was going to be all right after all. But it still annoyed him that the

incompetent nitwit of a foreman at Cowley had not been able to get the message to

him the previous Friday evening, and he felt that he had let his wife down. Their first,

too! Not that Joyce had been over-worried: when things seemed to her to be getting to

the critical stage, she had shown her usual good sense and contacted the hospital

direct. But it still niggled a bit; he couldn't pretend it didn't. For when he had finally arrived at the hospital at 9.30 p.m., their underweight offspring—some three weeks

premature—was already putting up its brave and successful littie fight in the Intensive

Care Unit. It wasn't
his
fault, was it? But1 for Frank (who had little imagination, but a ready sympathy) it was something like arriving ten minutes late for an Oxford United

fixture and finding he'd missed the only goal of the match.

He, too, was no stranger now. The doors opened for him automatically, and he walked

his way confidently down the wide, blue-carpeted entrance hall, past the two inquiry

desks, and made straight for the lift, where he pressed the button and, with a freshly-

laundered nightie, a box of Black Magic, and a copy of
Woman's Weekly
, he

ascended to the sixth floor.

Both Joyce and the baby were still isolated—something to do with jaundice ('Nothing

to worry about, Mr. Greenaway'), and Frank walked once more into Private Room 12.

Why he felt a little shy, he could hardly begin to imagine; but he knew full well that he had every cause for continued apprehension. The doctors had been firmly insistent

that he should as yet say nothing whatsoever about it. ('Your wife has had a pretty

rough time, Mr. Greenaway.') She would have to know
soon
, though; couldn't
help
getting to know. But he had willingly agreed to play the game, and the sister had

promised to have a word with each of Joyce's visitors. ('The post-natal period can be

very difficult, Mr. Greenaway.') No
Oxford Mail
either, of course.

'How are we then, love?'

'Fine.'

'And the little one?'

'Fine.'

They kissed, and soon began to feel at ease again.

'Has the telly-man been yet? I meant to ask you yesterday,'

'Not yet, love. But he'll fix it—have no fear.'

'I should hope so. I shan't be in here much longer—you realize that, don't you?'

'Don't you worry about that.'

'Have you put the cot up yet?'

'I keep telling you. Stop
worrying
. You just get on your feet again and look after the little fellah—that's all that matters.'

She smiled happily, and when he stood up and put his arm around her she nestled

against his shoulder lovingly.

'Funny, isn't it, Frank? We'd got a name all ready, if it was a girl. And we were so sure it would be.'

'Yeah.'I been thinking, though. What about "Simon"? Nice name, don't you think.

"Simon Greenaway"—what about that? Sounds sort of—distinguished, if you know

what I mean.'

'Yeah. Perhaps so. Lots of nice names for boys, though.'

'Such as?'

'WeIl. You know that chap downstairs—Mr. Quinn? His name's "Nicholas". Nice

name, don't you think? "Nicholas Greenaway." Yeah. I quite like that, Frank.' Watching his face closely, she could have sworn there was
something
there, and for a second she felt a surge of panic. But he
couldn't
know. It was just her guilty conscience: she was imagining things.

The Horse and Trumpet was quite deserted when they sat down in the furthest corner

from the bar, and Lewis had never known Morse so apparently uninterested in his

beer, over which he lingered like a maiden aunt sipping homemade wine at a church

social. They sat for several minutes without speaking, and it was Lewis who broke the

silence. 'Think we're getting anyw1here, sir?'

Morse seemed to ponder the question deeply. 'I suppose so. Yes.'

'Any ideas yet?'

'No,' lied Morse. 'We've got to get a few more facts before we start getting any fancy

ideas. Yes . . . Look, Lewis. I want you to go along and see Mrs. What's-her-name, the

cleaner woman. You know where she lives?' Lewis nodded. 'And you might as well

call on Mrs. Jardine—isn't it?—the landlady. You can take my car: I expect I'll be at the Syndicate all afternoon. Pick me up there.'

'Anything particular you want me to—?'

'Christ, man! You don't need a wet nurse, do you? Find out all you bloody well can!

You know as much about the case as I do!' Lewis sat back and said nothing. He felt

more angry with himself than with the Inspector, and he finished his pint in silence.

'I think I'll be off then, sir. I'd just like to nip in home, if you don't mind.'

Morse nodded vaguely and Lewis stood up to go. 'You'd better let me have the car

keys.'

Morse's beer was hardly touched and he appeared to be staring with extraordinary

intensity at the carpet.

Mrs. Evans had been cleaning the ground floor of No 1 Pinewood Close for several

years, and had almost been part of the tenancy for the line of single men who had

rented the rooms from Mrs. Jardine. Most of them had been on the lookout for

something a little better and had seldom stayed long; but they'd all been pleasant

enough. It was chiefly the kitchen that would get so dirty, and although she dusted and

hoovered the other rooms, her chief task always lay in the kitchen, where she usually

spent half an hour cleaning the stove and another half-hour ironing the shirts,

underwear and handkerchiefs which found their weekly way into the local launderette.

It was just about two hours' work—seldom more, and often a little less. But she always

charged for two hours, and none of the tenants had ever demurred. She liked to get

things done whilst no one was about; and, with Quinn, 3-5 p.m. on Fridays was the

regularly appointed time.

It was about poor Mr. Quinn, she knew that, and she invited Lewis in and told him the

brief story. She had usually finished and gone before he got back home. But the

previous Friday she had to call at the Kidlington Health Centre for Mr. Evans, who had

bronchitis and was due to see the doctor again at 4.30 that day. But the weather was

so dreadful that she thought he ought to stay in. So she went herself to get Mr. E

another prescription, called in at the dispensing chemist, and then went home and got

the tea. She got back to Quinn's house at about a quarter past six and stayed about

half an hour to do the ironing.

'You left a note for him, didn't you, Mrs. Evans?'