The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (15 page)

'She confirms what Martin says, sir.'

'Does she now?'

'You sound a bit dubious.'

'Do I?'

'You don't believe 'em?'

'For what it's worth, Lewis, I think they're a pair of bloody liars. But I may be wrong, of course. As you know, I often am.' He had that deprecatingly-conceited look on his face

which many found the Chief Inspector's least attractive trait, and Lewis was

determined not to demean himself by trying to delve further into that cocky logic. For

his part, he believed them, and high-and-mighty Morse could mumble away as he

pleased.

'Didn't you hear me, Lewis?'

'Pardon sir?'

'What the hell's up with you today, man? I said go and get Ogleby. Can you do that

small thing for me?'

Lewis slammed the door behind him and walked out into the corridor.

Morse had spoken no more than half a dozen words to Ogleby when they had been

formally introduced the previous day, yet he had felt an instinctive liking for the man;

and this impression was confirmed as Ogleby began to chat informatively and

authoritatively about the work of the Syndicate.

"What about security?' asked Morse cautiously, like a timid skater testing the ice.

'It's a constant problem, of course. But everyone's conscious of it, and so in an odd sort of way the problem solves itself—if you see what I mean.'

Morse thought he did. 'I gather the Secretary's pretty keen on that side of things.'

'Yes, I suppose you could say that.'

Morse eyed him sharply. Had there been a tinge of irony—or even jealousy, perhaps

—in Ogleby's reply? 'Is there
never
any malpractice?'

'Oh, I wouldn't say that. But that's a completely different question.'

'Is it?'

'You see if a candidate decided to cheat in the examination room, either by taking

notes in with him or copying from someone else, then we've just got to rely on the

invigilators keeping a very careful eye on things, and reporting anything suspicious

directly to us.'

'That happens, does it?'

'Two or three times a year.'

'What do you do about it?'

'We disqualify the candidates concerned from every subject in the examinations.'

'I see.' Morse tried another angle. 'You send out the question papers before the

examination, don't you?'

'Wouldn't be much good holding the examinations if we didn't, would it?'

Morse realized what a stupid question he'd asked, and continued rather hastily. 'No1. I

mean—if one of the teachers was dishonest, or something?'

'The question papers are sent out directly to examination departments, and then

distributed to heads of centres—not to individual teachers.'

'But let's take a headmaster, then. If he was a crook—let's say he opened a particular

package of question papers and showed them to his pupils—'

'It's as good a way as any for the headmaster to slit his throat.'

'You'd know, you mean?'

Ogleby smiled, 'Gracious, yes. We've got examiners and awarders who'd smell

anything like that a mile away. You see we've got records going back over the years of

percentage passes for all the subjects examined, and so we know the sort of pupils

we're examining, the types of schools—all that sort of thing. But that's not really the

point. Like all the examining Boards we inspect our centres regularly after they've

been accepted, and they have to meet pretty high standards of integrity and

administrative competence before they're recognized in the first place.'

'The schools are regularly inspected then?'

'Oh yes.'

'Is that the sort of job Mr. Bland does in Al-jamara?'

Morse watched Ogleby carefully, but the deputy sailed serenly on. 'Among other

things, yes. He's in charge of the whole administrative setup there.'

Morse decided that he might as well tackle the problem from the other end, and he

delicately tiptoed his way over the ice again.

delicately tiptoed his way over the ice again.

'Would it be possible for an outsider, one of the cleaners, say, to get into the cabinets in this office? And get the papers he wanted?'

'Technically, I suppose, yes. If he had the keys, knew where to look, knew the

complicated system of syllabus numbering, had the intelligence to understand the

various amendments and printing symbols. Then he'd have to copy what he'd got, of

course. Every page of proofs and revises is carefully numbered, and no one could get

away with just pinching a page.'

'Mm. What about examiners? Let's say they put a high mark down for a particular

candidate who's as thick as a plank.'

'Wouldn't work, I'm afraid. The arithmetic of every single script is checked against the

marksheet.'

'Well, let's say an examiner gives high marks for all of the answers on the script—even

if they're rubbish.'

'If an examiner did that, he would have been kicked out years ago. You see the

examiners are themselves examined by a team of what we call "awarders", who report on all the members of the various panels after each examination.'

'But the awarders could . . .' No, Morse, let it go. He began to see that it was all far

more complex that he had imagined.

But Ogleby finished the thought for him. 'Oh, yes, Inspector. If one of the people
at the
top
was crooked, it would be very easy. Very easy indeed. But why are you asking me all this?'

Morse pondered a while, and then told him. "We've got to find a motive for Quinn's

murder, sir. There are a hundred and one possibilities, of course, but I was just

wondering if—if perhaps he'd found some er some suggestion of jiggery-pokery, that's

all. Anyway, you've been very helpful.'

Ogleby stood up to go, and Morse too rose from his chair. 'I've been asking

the others what they were doing last Friday afternoon. I suppose I ought to

ask you too. If you can remember, that is.'

'Oh, yes. That's easy enough. I went down to the Oxford University Press in

the morning, had a pretty late lunch at the Berni place there with the chief

printer, and got back here about, oh, about half past three, I should think.'

'And you spent the rest of the afternoon in the office here?'

'Yes.'

'Are you sure about that, sir?'

Ogleby looked at him with steady eyes. 'Quite sure.'

Morse hesitated, and debated whether to face it now or later.

'What is it, Inspector?'

'It's a bit awkward, sir. I understand from, er, from other sources that there

was no one here in the latter part of Friday afternoon.'

'Well, your sources of information must be wrong.'

'You couldn't have slipped out for a while? Gone up to see the chief clerk

or something?'

'I certainly didn't go out of the office. I might have gone upstairs, but I don't

think so. And if I had, it would only have been for a minute or two, at the

very outside.'

'What would you say, then, sir, if someone said there was no one here on

Friday afternoon between a quarter past four and a quarter to five?'

'I'd say this someone was mistaken, Inspector.'

'But what if he insisted—?'

'He'd be a liar, then, wouldn't he?' Ogleby smiled serenly, and gently

closed the door behind him.

Or
you
would, thought Morse, as he sat alone. And although you don't

know it, my good friend Ogleby, there are two someones who say you

weren't here. And if you weren't here, where the hell
were
you?

THE POLICE CAR, white with a broad, pale-blue stripe along its middle, stood parked by

the pavement, and Constable Dickson knocked at the spruce detached bungalow in

Old Marston. The door was immediately opened by a smartly-dressed, attractive

woman.

'Miss Height?'

'Yes?'

'Is your daughter in?'

Miss Height's features crumpled into a girlish giggle. 'Don't be silly! 'I'm only sixteen!'

Dickson himself grinned oafishly, and accepted the young lady's invitation to step

inside.

'It's about Mr. Quinn, isn't it? Ever so exciting. Coo. Just think. He worked in the same office as Mummy!'

'Did you ever meet him, miss?'

'No, worse luck.'

'He never came here?'

She giggled again. 'Not unless Mummy brought him here while I was slaving away at

school!'

'She wouldn't do that, would she?'

She smiled happily. 'You don't know Mummy!'

'Why aren't you at school today, miss?'

'Oh, I'm taking some O-levels again. I took them in the summer but I'm afraid I didn't do too well in some of them.'

'What subjects are they?'

'Human Biology, French and Maths. Not that I've got much chance in Maths. We had

Paper Two this morning—a real stinker. Would you like to see it?'

'Not now, miss. I er—I was just wondering why you weren't at school, that's all.' It

wasn't very subtle.

'Oh, they let us off when we haven't got an exam. Great really. I've been off since

lunchtime.'

'Do you always come home? When you're free, I mean?'

'Nothing else to do, is there?'

'You revise, I suppose?'

'A bit. But I usually watch telly. You know, the kiddies' programmes. Quite good, really.

Sometimes I don't think I've grown up at all.'

Dickson felt he shouldn't argue. 'You've been here most days recently, then?'

'Most afternoons.' She looked at him innocently. 'I shall be here again tomorrow

afternoon.'

Dickson coughed awkwardly. He'd done the bit of homework that Morse had told him

to. 'I watched one of those kiddies' films, miss. About a dog. Last Friday afternoon, I

think it was.'

'Oh yes. I watched that. I cried nearly all the way through. Did it make
you
cry?'

'Bit of a tearjerker, I agree, miss. But I mustn't keep you from your revising. As I say, it was your mother I really wanted to see.'

'But you said—you said you wanted to see
me!
'

'I got it a bit muddled, miss, I'm afraid. I sort of thought—' He gave it up and got to his feet. He hadn't done too badly at all really, and he thought the Chief Inspector would

be pleased with him.

At 7 pm. the same evening Morse sat alone in his office. A single tube of white strip-

lighting threw a harsh unfriendly glare across the silent room, and a single yellow

lamp in the yard outside the uncurtained window did little more than emphasize the

blackness of the night. Occasionally, especially at times like this, Morse wished he

had a home to welcome him, with a wife to have his slippers warmed and ready. It was

at times like this, too, that murder seemed a crude and terrifying thing . . . Dickson had reported on his visit to Sally Height, and the silhouettes on the furthest walls of the

darkened cave were now assuming a firmer delineation. Monica had lied to him.

Martin had lied to him. It was odds-on that Ogleby had lied to him. Had Bartlett lied as

well? Stocky, cautious little Bartlett, meticulous as a metronome. If
he
had murdered Nicholas Quinn . . .

For half an hour he let his thoughts run wild and free, like randy rabbits in orgiastic

intercourse. And then he put a stop to it. He needed a few more facts; and facts were

facing him, here and now,1 in the dark-blue plastic bag containing the items found in

Quinn's pockets, in Quinn's green anorak, and in Lewis's inventories. Morse cleared

the top of his desk and set to work. Quinn's pockets had thrown up little of surprise or

interest: a wallet, a grubby handkerchief, half a packet of Polos, a diary (with not a

single entry), 43½p, a pink comb, one half of a cinema ticket, two black biros, a strip of tired-looking Green Shield stamps, and a statement from Lloyds Bank (Summertown