The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (14 page)

'I thought he'd wonder why I hadn't finished.'

'That was at about four o'clock, you say?'

She nodded, and felt suddenly nervous. Had poor Mr. Quinn died on
Friday night
, just after she'd left, perhaps?

'We found the note in the wastepaper basket, Mrs. Evans.'

'I suppose you would, sir. If he screwed it up, like.'

'Yes, of course.' Lewis found himself wishing that Morse was there, but he put the

thought aside. A few interesting ideas were beginning to develop. 'You left the note in

the lounge?'

'Yes. On the sideboard. I always left a note there at the end of the month—

when me four weeks' cleaning was up, like.'

'I see. Can you remember if Mr. Quinn's car was in the garage when you

got back?'

'No, Sergeant. I'm sorry. It was raining, and I was on me bike and I just got

in as fast as I could. Anyway, why should I look in the garage? I mean—'

'You didn't see Mr. Quinn?'

'No, I didn't.'

'Ah well. Never mind. We're obviously anxious—'

'You think he died on Friday night, then?'

'No, I wouldn't say that. But if we could find what time he got back from the

office—well, it would be a great help. For all we know, he didn't get back

home at all on Friday night.'

Mrs. Evans looked at him with a puzzled frown. 'But
I
can tell you what time

he got home.'

The room was suddenly very quiet and Lewis looked up tensely from his

notes. 'Will you say that again, Mrs. Evans?'

'Oh yes, Sergeant. You see, I left this note for him and he must have seen

it.'

'He
must
have done, you say?'

'Must have done. You just said it was in the wastepaper basket.'

Lewis sank back in the sofa, his excitement ebbing away, he could have

found the note any time, I'm afraid, Mrs. Evans.'

'Oh no. You don't understand. He'd seen the note before I got back at

quarter past six.' Lewis was sitting very still again and listening intently.

'You see, he left a note for me, so—'

'
He left a note for you?
'

'Yes. Said he'd gone shopping, or something. I forget exactly—but

something like that.'

'So you—' Lewis started again. 'You left the note at four o'clock and went

back there at quarter past six, you say?'

'That's right.'

'So you think he must have got home—when? About five?'

'Well, yes. He usually got home about then, I think.'

'You're sure the note was for you?'

'Oh yes. It got me name on it.'

'Can you—can you remember
exactly
what it said?'

'Not really. But I tell you what, Sergeant: I might have still got it. I probably

put it in me pinny, or something. I always wear—'

'Can you try to find it for me?'

As Mrs. Evans went out into the kitchen, Lewis found himself praying to the

gods that for once they would smile upon him, and he felt almost sick with

relief when she came with a small folded sheet of paper, and handed it to

him. He read it with the awesome reverence of a druid brooding on the

holy runes:

Mrs. E,

Just off shopping—shan't be long. NQ

It couldn't have been much briefer a1nd it puzzled him a little; but he was

fully aware of its huge importance.

' "Shopping", he says. Funny time for shopping, isn't it?'

'Not really, sir. The supermarket's open till nine of a Friday night.'

'The Quality supermarket, is that?'

'Yes, sir. It's only just behind the house, really. There's a pathway by the

side of the crescent, and now that the fence is down you can get on to it

from the side of the garden.'

Five minutes later Lewis thanked her fulsomely and left. By Jove, old

Morse was going to be pleased!

It was just after one when Monica walked into the lounge bar. She spotted

Morse immediately (though he appeared not to notice her) and after buying

a gin and Campari she walked across and stood beside him. 'Can I get you

a drink, Inspector?'

Morse looked up and shook his head. 'I seem to be off the beer today.'

'You weren't yesterday.'

'I wasn't?'

She sat down beside him and brought her lips close to his ear. 'I could

smell your breath.'

'You smelled pretty good, too,' said Morse, but he knew that this was not to

be a time for high romance. He could read the signs a mile away.

'I thought I might find you here.'

Morse shrugged non-committally. 'What have you got to tell me?'

'You don't beat about the bush, do you?'

'Sometimes I do.'

'Well it's—it's about Friday afternoon.'

'News gets around.'

'You wanted to know what we were all doing on Friday afternoon, is that

right?'

'That's it. Seems none of you were in the office, wherever else you were.'

'Well, I don't know about the others—no, that's not quite true. You see—Oh

dear! You don't make it very easy for me. I was out all the afternoon and,

well—I was with somebody else; and I suppose sooner or later you'll have

to know who I was with, won't you?'

'I think I know,' said Morse quietly.

Monica's face dropped. 'You can't know. Have you already spoken—?'

'Have I spoken to Mr. Martin? No, not yet. But I shall be doing so very soon,

and I suppose he'll tell me the whole story, with the usual dose of

reluctance and embarrassment—perhaps with a bit of anxiety, too. He
is

married, isn't he?'

Monica put her hand to her forehead and shook her head rather sadly. 'Are

you a clairvoyant?'

'I'd solve all my cases a bit quicker if I were.'

'Do you want to hear about it?' She looked at him unhappily.

'Not now. I'd rather hear it from your boyfriend. He's not a very good liar.'

He stood up and looked down at her empty glass; 'Gin and Campari, was

it?'

She nodded, and thanked him; and as Morse walked over to the bar, she lit

another cigarette and inhaled deeply, her immaculate1ly plucked

eyebrows narrowing into a worried frown. What on earth was she going to

do if . . .?

Morse was soon back again, and placed her drink neatly on to a beer mat.

'I see what you mean about expensive tastes, Miss Height.'

She looked up at him and smiled feebly. 'But—aren't you going to join me?'

'No. Not now, thank you. I'm a bit busier than usual this week, you know.

I've got a murder to investigate, and I don't usually mix much with tarts,

anyway.'

After he had gone Monica felt utterly miserable, her thoughts a pallid

multitude that drifted along the sunless waters. How cruel he had been just

now! Only yesterday she had experienced an unwonted warmth of

pleasure in his company. But how she hated him now!

Morse, too, was far from happy with himself. He shouldn't really have

treated her as callously as that. How stupid it was, anyway—feeling so

childishly jealous! Why, he'd only met her once before. He could go back,

of course, and buy her another drink . . . and say he was sorry. Yes, he

could do that. But he didn't; for interwoven with the jealousy motif was

something else: he sensed intuitively that Monica had lied to him.

APART FROM THE fact that Mrs. Greenaway, the upstairs tenant, had been delivered of

a baby boy the previous Friday evening, Lewis had learned nothing much of interest

from Mrs. Jardine. She was unable to add anything of substance to the statement

made to Constable Dickson the previous day, and Lewis had stayed with her no more

than ten minutes. But he'd had his earlier triumph. Oh yes! And as that same afternoon

he recounted to Morse his interview with Mrs. Evans—and presented his prize—he felt

very pleased with himself indeed. Yet Morse's reactions seemed decidedly lukewarm;

certainly he'd looked long and hard at Quinn's brief note, but in general he appeared

preoccupied with other things.

'You don't seem very happy with life, sir.'

'The majority of men lead lives of quiet desperation.'

'But if this doesn't cheer you up—'

'What? Don't be daft I' Almost physically Morse tried to shake off his mood of

temporary gloom, and he looked down at the note once more. 'I couldn't have done

much better myself.' He said it flippantly, but Lewis knew him better.

'Let's have it, sir.'

'What do you mean?'

'What would you have asked her?'

'Just what you did—I told you.'

'What else?'

Morse appeared to consider the question carefully. 'Perhaps one or two other things.'

'Such as?'

'Perhaps I'd have asked her if she'd looked in the wastepaper basket.'

'Really?' Lewis sounded unimpressed.

'Perhaps I'd have asked her if Quinn's anorak was there.'

'But—' Lewis let it ride.

'I'd certainly have asked her if the gas fire was on.'

Lewis began to catch the drift of Morse's mind, and he nodded slowly to himself. 'I

suppose we'd better see her again, sir.'

'Oh yes,' said Morse quietly. 'We shall have to see her again. But that's no problem, is

it? The main thing is that we seem to have got Quinn alive till about six o'clock. I

wonder . . .?' His thoughts floated away again, but suddenly he sat upright and took

out his Parker pen. 'There's still a good deal to do here, though, Lewis. Nip and see if

he's back from lunch.'

'Who do you mean, sir?'

'I just told you—Martin. You going deaf?'

As Martin painfully corroborated Monica's story, Morse's facial expression was that of

a man with a rotten egg stuck just beneath his nose. The pair of them had left the office at about 1.10 pm. No, not together—in separate cars. Yes, to Monica's bungalow. Yes,

to bed. (Putrescent, fetid egg!) That was all really. (All! Christ! That was
all
he'd said.)

'What time did you leave?'

'About a quarter to four.'

'And you didn't come back to the office at all?'

'No. I went straight home.'

'Nice little surprise for your wife.'

Martin was silent.

'Lewis! Go and see Miss Height. You've heard what this man says. Get her story, and

see if it fits.'

After Lewis had gone Morse turned to Martin and looked him hard in the eyes. 'You're

a cock-happy young sod, aren't you?'

The young man shook his head sadly. 'I'm not really, you—know, Inspector. I've only

been unfaithful with Monica, never anyone else.'

'You in love with her?'

'I don't know. This business has—I don't know, Inspector. She's— Ah, what's it matter

now!'

'Why did you leave so early?'

'There's Sally—that's Monica's daughter. She usually gets home from school about

quarter past four.'

'And you didn't want her to find you shagging her mother, is that it?'

Martin looked up miserably. 'Haven't you ever been unfaithful, Inspector?'

Morse shook his head. 'No, lad. I've never had to be faithful, you see,'

'There's—there's no need for all this to come out, is there?'

'Not really, no. Unless—'

'Unless what?' A look of alarm sprang into Martin's eyes, and Morse did nothing to

dispel it.

'Tell me. This girl Sally: is she at school in Oxford?'

'Oxford High School.'

'Bit awkward with examinations, isn't it? I mean, with her mother—'

'No. You don't quite understand, Inspector. This Board doesn't examine in England at

all.'

'Wh1o examines Oxford High?'

'Oxford Locals, I think.'

'I see.'

After Martin had gone, Morse rang HQ and gave Constable Dickson his instructions;

and he was smiling contentedly to himself when Lewis returned.