The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (20 page)

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 word!
'

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 fi1nish 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?'

'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 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 1and 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.

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 . . .' Possible. 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: