The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (28 page)

driving me a bit too far, you know. You've not the slightest shred of evidence for any of the1se fantastic allegations you've made against me. Not the slightest! And if you can't

do any better than this I suggest that it may be in your own interests, not just mine, to pack in this ridiculous charade immediately.'

'You deny the charges then?'

'Charges?
What
charges? I'm not aware that you've made any charges.'

'You deny that the sequence of events—'

'Of
course
, I deny it! Why the hell should anyone go to all that trouble—?'

'Whoever murdered Quinn had to try to establish an alibi. And he did. A very clever

alibi. You see all the. indications in this case seemed to point to Quinn being alive on

Friday evening, certainly until the early evening, and it was vital—'

'You mean Quinn
wasn't
alive on Friday evening?'

'Oh no,' said Morse slowly. '
Quinn had been dead for several hours
.'

There was a long silence in the small room, broken finally by Roope. 'Several hours,

you say?'

Morse nodded. 'But I'm not
quite
sure exactly when Quinn was murdered. I rather

hoped you might be able to tell me.'

Roope laughed aloud, and shook his head in bewilderment. 'And you think
I
killed

Quinn?'

'That's why you're here, and that's why you're going to stay here—until you decide to

tell me the truth.'

Roope's voice suddenly became high-pitched and exasperated. 'But—but I was in

London that Friday. I
told
you that. I got back to Oxford at four-fifteen. Four-fifteen!

Can't you believe that?'

"No, I can't,' said Morse flatly.

'Well, look, Inspector. Let's just get one thing straight. I don't suppose I could account for my movements—at least not to your satisfaction—from, let's say, five o'clock to

about eight o'clock that night. And you wouldn't believe me, anyway. But if you're

determined to keep me in this miserable place much longer, at least charge me with

something I
could
have done. All right! I drove Quinn's car and did his shopping and God knows what else. Let's accept all that bloody nonsense, if it'll please you.
But

charge me with murdering Quinn as well
. At twenty past four—whenever you like, I

don't care! Five o'clock. Six o'clock. Seven o'clock. Take your pick. But for Christ's

sake show
some
sense.
I was in London until three o'clock or so, and I was on the
train until it reached Oxford
. Don't you understand that? Make something up, if you like. But please,
please
tell me when and how I'm supposed to have murdered the

man. That's all I ask.'

As Lewis looked at him, Morse seemed to be growing a little less confident. He picked

up the papers in front of him and shuffled them around meaninglessly. Something

seemed to have misfired somewhere—that was for sure.

'I've only got your word, Mr. Roope' (it was
Mr
. Roope now) 'that you caught that particular train from London. You were at your publishers', I know that. We've checked.

But you could—'

'May I use your phone, Inspector?'

Morse shrugged and looked vaguely disconsolate. 'It's a bit unusual, I suppose, but—'

Roope looked through the directory, rang a number, an1d spoke rapidly for a few

minutes before handing the receiver to Morse. It was the Cabriolet Taxis Services, and

Morse listened and nodded and asked no questions. 'I see. Thank you.' He put down

the phone and looked across at Roope. 'You had more success than we did, Mr.

Roope. Did you find the ticket collector, too?'

'No. He's had the flu, but he'll be back at work this week sometime.'

'You've been very busy.'

'I was worried—who wouldn't be? You kept asking me where I was, and I thought

you'd got it in for me, and I knew it would be sensible to try to check. We've all got an instinct for self-preservation, you know.'

'Ye-es.' Morse ran the index finger of his left hand along his nose—many, many times;

and finally came to a decision. He dialled a number and asked for the editor of the

Oxford Mail
. 'I see. We're too late then. Page one, you say? Oh dear. Well, it can't be helped. What about Stop Press? Could we get anything in there? . . . Good. Let's say

er "Murder Suspect Released. Mr. C. A. Roope (see page 1), arrested earlier today in connection with the murder of Nicholas Quinn, was released this afternoon. Chief

Inspector—" What? No more room? I see. Well, it'll be better than nothing. Sorry to

muck you about . . . Yes, I'm afraid these things do happen sometimes. Cheers.'

Morse cradled the phone and turned towards Roope. 'Look, sir. As I say, things like

this do—'

Roope got to his feet. 'Forget it! You've said enough for one day. Can I assume I'm free

to go now?' There was a sharp edge on his voice.

'Yes, sir. And, as I say . . .' Roope looked at him with deep contempt as the feeble

sentence whimpered away. 'Have you a car here, sir?'

'No. I don't have a car.'"

'Oh no, I remember. If you like, Sergeant Lewis here will—'

'No, he won't! I've had quite enough of your sickening hospitality for one day. I'll bus it, thank you very much!'

Before Morse could say more, he had left the room and was walking briskly across the

courtyard in the bright and chilly afternoon.

During the last ten minutes of the interview Lewis had felt himself becoming

progressively more perplexed, and at one stage he had stared at Morse like a street-

idler gaping at the village idiot. What
did
Morse think he was doing? He looked again at him now, his head down over the sheets of paper on the table. But even as Lewis

looked, Morse lifted his head, and a strangely self-satisfied smile was spreading over

his face. He saw that Lewis was watching him, and he winked happily.

THE MAN INSIDE the house is anxious, but reasonably calm. The phone rings stridently,

imperiously, several times during the late afternoon and early evening. But he does

not answer it, for he has seen the post-office van repairing (repairing!) the telephone

wires just along the road. Clumsy and obvious. They must think him stupid. Yet all the

time he knows that
they
are not stupid, either, and the knowledge nags away in his mind. Over and over again he tells himself that they cannot
know
, c1an only guess; can never prove. The maze would defeat an indefatigable Ariadne, and the ball of

thread leads only to blind and bricked-up alleyways. Infernal phone! He waits until the

importunate caller has exhausted a seemingly limitless patience, and takes the

receiver off its stand. But it purrs—intolerably. He turns on the transistor radio at ten minutes to six and listens, yet with only a fraction of his conscious faculties, to the

BBCs City correspondent discussing the fluctuations in the
Financial Times
index, and the fortunes of the floating pound. He himself has no worries about money. No

worries at all.

The man outside the house continues to watch. Already he has been watching for

over three and a half hours, and his feet are damp and cold. He looks at his luminous

watch: 5.40 p.m. Only another twenty minutes before his relief arrives. Still no

movement, save for the shadow that repeatedly passes back and forth across the

curtained window.

If sleep be defined as the relaxation of consciousness, the man inside the house does

not sleep that night. He is dressed again at 6 am. and he waits. At 6.45 am. he hears

the clatter of milk-hordes in the darkened road outside. But still he waits. It is not until 7.45 a.m. that the paper boy arrives with
The Times
. It is still dark, and the little business is speedily transacted. Uncomplicated; unobserved.

The man outside the house has almost given up hope when at 1.15 p.m. the door

opens and a man emerges and walks unhurriedly down towards Oxford. The man

outside switches to 'transmission' and speaks into his mobile radio. Then he switches

to 'reception', and the message is brief and curt: 'Follow him, Dickson! And don't let

him see you!'

The man who had been inside the house walks to the railway station, where he looks

around him and then walks into the buffet, orders a cup of coffee, sits by the window,

and looks out onto the car park. At 1.35 a car drives slowly past—a familiar car, which

turns down the incline into the car park. The automatic arm is raised and the car

makes for the furthest corner of the area. The car park is almost full. The man in the

buffet puts down his half-finished coffee, lights a cigarette, puts the spent match neatly back into the box, and walks out.

At 2.00 p.m. the young girl in the maroon dress can stand it no longer. The customers,

too, though they are only few, have been looking at him queerly. She walks from

behind the counter and taps him on the shoulder. He is not much above medium

height. 'Excuse me, sir. Bu' have you come in for a coffee, or somethin'?'

'No. I'll have a cup o' tea, please.' He speaks pleasantly, and as he puts down his

powerful binoculars she sees that his eyes are a palish shade of grey.

It is just after five when Lewis gets home. He is tired and his feet are like ice.

'Are you home for the night?'

'Yes, luv, thank goodness! I'm freezing cold.'

'Is that bloody man, Morse, tryin' to give you pneumornia, or somethin'?'

Lewis hears his wife all right, but he is thinking of something else, 'He's a clever

bugger, Morse is. Christ, he's clever! Though whether he's
right
or not . . .' But his wife is no longer listening, and Lewis hears the thrice-blessed clatter of the chip pan in the kitchen.