Read The silent world of Nicholas Quinn Online
Authors: Colin Dexter
The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (35 page)
Bartlett:
because she just couldn't believe that he was guilty
.'
Lewis nodded. Perhaps it was all adding up slightly better now.
'And above all,' continued Morse, 'there was Ogleby. He worried me the
most, Lewis, and you made the key point yourself: why didn't he tell me
what he knew? I think there are two possible reasons. First, that Ogleby
was quite prepared to go it alone—he was always a loner, it seems. He
knew he hadn't long to live anyway, and it may have added that extra bit of
mustard to his life to carry out a single-handed investigation into the quite
extraordinary situation he'd stumbled across. It couldn't have mattered
much to him that he might be living dangerously—he was living
dangerously in any case. But that's as may be. I feel sure there was a
second reason, and a much more compelling one. He'd discovered what
looked like extremely damning evidence against Bartlett—a man he'd
known and worked with for fourteen years—
and he just couldn't believe
that he was guilty
. And he was determined to say nothing which could lead
us to suspect him—not until he could prove it, anyway.'
'But he didn't get the chance—'
'No,' said Morse quietly. He leaned back in his chair and gently rubbed bis
swollen lip. 'Anything else while we're at it, my son?'
Lewis thought back over the whole complex case and realized that he
hadn't quite got it straight in his mind, even now. 'It was Martin, then, who
did all of the things you accused Bartlett of?'
'Indeed it was. And
more
. Martin killed Quinn at exactly the same time and
in almost exactly the same way. The deed was done in Martin's office, and
Martin had exactly the same opportunity as Bartlett would have had.
Admittedly, he was taking a slightly bigger risk, but he'd planned the whole
thing—at least up to this point—with meticulous care. You see, the main
plot must have been hatched up immediately after Bartlett had announced
the fire drill for Friday. But the Syndicate staff only received that notice on
the Monday, and there wasn't
all
that much time; and in the event they had
to improvise a bit as the situation developed. On the whole I suppose they
made the best of the opportunities that arose, but they tried to be a bit too
clever—especially about the Studio 2 business, which landed them both in
a hell of a lot of unnecessary trouble.'
'Don't get cross with me, sir, but can you just go over that again.1 I still—'
'I don't think Studio 2 figured in the original plan at all—though I may be
wrong, of course. The original idea must have been to try to persuade any
caller at Quinn's office that he was there or thereabouts during that Friday
afternoon. It was all a bit clumsy, but just about passable—the note to his
typist, the anorak, the filing cabinet, and so on. Now, I'd guess that Martin's
nerves must have been pretty near breaking-point after he'd killed Quinn,
and he must have breathed a huge sigh of relief when he managed to
persuade Monica to spend the afternoon with him: the fewer people in the
office that afternoon the better, and being with Monica gave him a
reasonable alibi if things didn't go according to plan. As I say, I don't think
that at this stage there was the remotest intention of planting the torn half of
a cinema ticket on Quinn's body. But remember what happened Martin and
Monica decided to lie about going to the cinema; and Martin himself
gradually began to take stock of the situation. He must have realized that
the elaborate attempt to convince everyone that Quinn was alive and well
at the Syndicate was pretty futile. No one's there to be convinced Bartlett's
not there—he knows that; he himself and Monica are not there, either;
Quinn is dead; and Ogleby is out lunching with the OUP people and may
not go back to the office at all. So. He gets his brainwave: he'll get Roope
to put the cinema ticket in one of Quinn's pockets.'
'But when—?'
'Just a minute. After leaving the cinema—by the way, Martin lied to me
there, and I ought to have noticed it earlier. He tried to stretch his alibi by
saying he left at a quarter to four; but as we know from Monica they both
left just before the film was due to end—at about a quarter past three.
Obviously they'd want to get out before the general exodus—less risk of
being seen. Anyway, after leaving the cinema, they went their separate
ways: Monica went home; and so did Martin, except that on his way he
called in at the Syndicate, at about 3.20, found no one about—not even
Ogleby—and left his own cinema ticket in Bartlett's room for Roope to pick
up.'
'But Roope wouldn't have known—?'
'Give me a chance, Lewis. Martin must have written a very brief note
—"Stick this in his pocket", or something like that—and put it with the ticket
and the keys. Then, about ten minutes later, Ogleby got back, found
everyone else out, and decided that this was as good an opportunity as
he'd get of poking around in Bartlett's room; and he was so puzzled by
what he found there that he copied out the cinema ticket into his diary.'
'And then Martin went home, I suppose.'
Morse nodded. 'And made sure, I should think, that somebody saw him,
especially during the vital period between 4.30 and 5 o'clock, when he
knew that Roope was performing
his
part in the crime. He must have
thought he could relax a bit; but then Roope rang him up from Quinn's
house at just after 5 o'clock with the shattering news that Quinn's charlady
—Well, you know the rest.'
Lewis let it all sink in, and he finally seemed to see the whole pattern
clearly. Almost the whole pattern. 'What about the paperboy? Did Roope
send him with a letter to Bartlett just—'
'—just to make things difficult for Bartlett, yes. Roope must have said he
wanted to have an urgent talk with him about police suspicions—or
something like that. Roope knew, of course, that we were watching him
like a hawk, and so he walked slowly down to the railway station and let us
follow him.'
1'You haven't talked to Bartlett about that?'
'Not yet. After we'd let him go, I thought we ought to give him a bit of a
breather, poor fellow. He's had a rough time.'
Lewis hesitated. 'There
is
just one more thing, sir.'
'Yes?'
'Bartlett will have
something
to explain away, won't he? I mean he
did
go to Studio 2.'
Morse smiled as widely as his swollen mouth would allow him. 'I reckon I
can answer that one for you. Bartlett's as human as the rest of us, and
perhaps it's a long time since he's seen the likes of Inga Nielsson
unbuttoning her blouse. The film started at 1.30, and since he didn't need
to leave for Banbury until about 2.30, he decided to be a dirty old man for
an hour or so. But don't blame him, Lewis! Do you hear me? Don't blame
him. He must have gone in immediately the doors opened, sat there in the
rear lounge, and then, as his eyes accustomed themselves to the
darkness,
he saw Martin come in
. But Martin didn't see
him
; and Bartlett
did what anyone in his position would do—he got out, quick.'
'And that's when Monica saw him?'
'That's it.'
'So he didn't see the film after all?'
Morse shook his head sadly. 'And if you've got any more questions, leave
'em till tomorrow. I've got a treat for you tonight.'
'But I promised the wife—'
Morse pushed the phone over. 'Tell her you'll be a bit late.'
They sat side by side in a fairly crowded gathering, with only the green
'Exit' lights shining up brightly in the gloom. Morse had bought the tickets
himself—rear lounge: after all, it was something of a celebration.
'Christ, look at those!' whispered Morse, as the camera moved in on the
buxom blonde beauty, her breasts almost toppling out over the low-cut
closely-clinging gown.
'Take it off!' shouted a voice from somewhere near the front, and the
predominantly male audience sniggered sympathetically, whilst Morse
settled himself comfortably in his seat and prepared to gratify his baser
instincts. And with only token reluctance, Lewis prepared to do the same.
THE SYNDICATE WAS forced to close down as soon as the autumn examination results
had been issued, and its oversea centres were parcelled out amongst the other GCE
Boards. The building itself has been taken over by a department of HM Inspectorate of
Taxes, and today female clerks clack up and down its polished corridors, and talk of
girlish things in the rooms where once the little Secretary and his graduate staff
administered their examinations.
From her considerable private income, Mrs. Bartlett bought a farm in Hampshire,
where Richard at last found a life which served to soothe his troubled mind, and where
his father's eyes were occasionally seen to blink almost boyishly again behind the
rimless spectacles.
Until Sally had completed her undistinguished school career, 1Miss Height stayed in
Oxford, taking on some part-time teaching. Several times in the months that followed
the conviction of the Syndicate murderers, she had found her way to the Horse and
Trumpet—just for old time's sake, she told herself. How dearly she would have loved
to see him again! She owed him a drink, anyway, and she wanted to square the
account; to make up for things, as it were. But much as she had willed it, she had
never found him there.
More than sufficient evidence was found to justify the immediate disqualification of
Master Muhammad Dubal from all his autumn O-level examinations; and six weeks
later his father, the sheik, was listed among the 'missing' after a 'bloodless' coup within the emirate.
George Bland, though reported to have been seen in various eastern capitals, remains
unpunished still; yet perhaps no criminal can live without some little share of justice.
No 1 Pinewood Close is tenanted again, both upstairs and down; and Mrs. Jardine is
thinking of buying herself a new outfit. As she'd expected, it had been no more than a
few weeks before the notoriety had died down. Life was like that, as she had known.
Just after Christmas, at a christening in East Oxford, the minister dipped a delicate
finger into the font, and in the name of the Holy Trinity enlisted his little charge in the myriad ranks of the great Church Militant. But the water was icy cold and Master
Nicholas John Greenaway squawked stentoriously. In the end, the name had been
Frank's choice: it had sort of grown on him, he said. But as Joyce took the baby in her
arms and lovingly there-thered his raucous cries, her mind ranged back to the day
when Nicholas, her son, was born, and when another man called Nicholas had died.
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