The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (16 page)

branch), showing a current account balance of £114.40. That was the lot, and Morse

arranged each item neatly before him and sat surveying them for minutes, before

finally taking a sheet of notepaper and listing each item carefully. Ye-es. The thought

had flashed across his mind a few minutes earlier. Decidedly odd . . . Next he picked

up the anorak and took a further selection of objects from each side pocket: another

grubby handkerchief, car keys, a black key case, two ancient raffle tickets, a further

23p, and an empty white envelope addressed to Quinn, with the word 'Bollox' written

on the flap in pencil. 'Well, well,' mumbled Morse to himself. His randy rabbits could

have a field day with
that
, but he decided to give them no chance. Again he listed each item with great precision and again sat back. It was just as he had thought, but it

was too late to go back to the lonely rooms in Pinewood Close that night. A bit too

creepy, anyway.

Having completed a synoptic review of the evidence before him, Morse systematically

tackled each item severally. The wallet first: a driving licence, RAC membership card,

Lloyds Bank cheque card, an outdated NHS prescription for Otosporon, the previous

month's pay-slip, a blue outpatients' appointment card for the ENT department at the

Radcliffe Infirmary, one five-pound note, three one-pound notes, and a Syndicate

acknowledgement card on which were written two telephone numbers. Morse picked

up the phone and dialled the first, but his ears were greeted only by a continuous high-

pitched monotone. He dialled the second.

'Hello? Monica Height here.'

Morse hastily put down the receiver. It was naughty of him, he knew, but he had the

feeling that Monica would not be. very happy with him for the moment. Or with

Constable Dickson. Yet it made him wonder exactly what the pattern of cross-

relationships in the Syndicate had been.

It was the buff-coloured right-hand half of the cinema ticket which next attracted

Morse's attention. Across the top were the numbers 102, beneath them the words

'Rear Lounge', and along the right edge, running down, the numbers 93550. On the

back of the ticket was the design of a pentagram. Somebody must know which cinema

it was, he supposed. Job for Lewis, perhaps . . . And then it struck him. Fool of a fool. It wasn't 102 across the top at all. There was just the slightest gap between the o and

the 2 and Morse saw the name of the cinema staring up at him: STUDIO 2. He knew

the place—in Walton Street. Morse had bought a copy of the previous day's
Oxford

Mail
(wherein the Quinn murder had been briefly reported) and he turned the pages and found that Tuesday was the critics' day for reporting to the citizens of Oxford on

the quality of the entertainments currently available. Yes, there it was:

It is all too easy to see why
The Nymphomaniac
has been retained for a

further week at Studio 2. The aficionados have been flocking to see the

Swedish sexpot, Inga Nielsson, dutifully exposing her 40" bosom at the

slightest provocation. Flock on.

Morse read the review with mixed feelings. Clearly, the critics hadn't yet gone metric,

and this particular aficionado couldn't even spell the word. Yet big Inga seemed to

Morse a most invitin1g prospect; and doubtless to many another like him. Especially

perhaps when the boss was away one Friday afternoon . . .? He flicked through the

telephone directory, found the number, and asked to speak to the manager who

surprisingly turned out to be the manageress.

'Oh yes, sir. All our tickets are traceable. Buff, you say? Rear circle? Oh yes. We

should be able to help you. You see all the blocks of tickets are numbered and a

record is kept at the start of each matinee, and then at six o'clock, and then at tea

o'clock. Have you got the number?'

Morse read out the number and felt curiously excited.

'Just one minute, sir.' It turned into three or four, and Morse fiddled nervously with the directory. 'Are you there, sir? Yes; that's right. Last Friday. It's one of the first tickets issued. The doors opened at 1.15 and the programme started at 1.30. The first rear

lounge number is 93543, so it must have been issued in the first five or ten minutes, I

should think. There's usually half a dozen or so waiting for the doors to open.'

'You quite sure about this?'

'Quite sure, sir. You could come down and check if you wanted to.' She sounded

young and pretty.

'Perhaps I will. What film have you got on?' He thought it sounded innocent enough.

'Not quite your cup of tea, I don't think, Inspector.'

'I wouldn't be too sure about that, miss.'

'
Mrs.
. But if you do come, ask for me and I'll see you get a free seat.'

Morse wondered sadly how many, more gift horses he'd be looking in the mouth. But it

wasn't that at all really. He was just frightened of being seen. Now if she'd said . . .

But she said something else, and Morse jolted upright in his chair. 'I think I ought to

mention, Inspector, that someone else asked me the very same sort of thing last week

and . . .'

'
What?
' He almost screamed down the phone, but then his voice became very quiet.

'Say that again, will you, please?'

'I said someone else had—'

'When was this, do you remember?'

'I'm not quite sure; sometime—let's see, now. I ought to remember. It's not very often—'

'Was it Friday?' Morse was excited and impatient.

'I don't know. I'm trying to remember. It was in the afternoon, I remember that, because

I was doing a stint in the ticket office when the phone rang, and I answered it myself.'

'Beginning of the afternoon?'

'No, it was much later than that. Just a minute. I think it was . . . Just a minute.' Morse heard some chattering in the background, and then the manageress's voice spoke in

his ear once more. Inspector, I think it was in the late afternoon, sometime. About five, perhaps. I'm sorry I can't—'

'Could have been Friday, you think?'

'Ye-es. Or Saturday, perhaps. I just—'

'A man, was it?'

'Yes. He had a nice sort of voice. Educated—you know what I mean.'

'What did he1 ask you?'

'Well, it was funny really. He said he was a detective-story writer and he wanted to

check up on some details.'

'What details?'

'Well, I remember he said he'd got to put some numbers on a ticket his detective had

found, and he wanted to know how many figures there were—that sort of thing.'

'And you told him?'

'No, I didn't. I told him he could come round to see me, if he liked: but I felt a bit—well, you know, you can't be too careful these days.'

Morse breathed heavily down the phone. 'I see. Well, thank you very much. You've

been extremely kind. I think, as I say, I shall probably have to bother you again—'

'No bother, Inspector.'

Morse put down the phone, and whistled softly to himself. Whew! Had someone else

found Quinn's body and the cinema ticket before Tuesday morning? Long before?

Saturday; the manageress had said it might have been Saturday. And it couldn't have

been Friday, could it? About five, she'd said. Morse looked quickly again at the
Oxford
Mail
and saw the times:
The Nymphomaniac
. 1.30 to 3.20 pm. Until twenty past three on Friday Quinn had been feasting his eyes on Inga Nielsson's mighty bosom and few

things, surely, would have dragged him out of Studio 2 before the film had finished.

Unless, of course . . . At long last it struck him:
the pretty strong probability that Quinn
had not been sitting alone in Studio 2 that Friday afternoon
.

AS MORSE STOOD with Lewis in Pinewood Close at 2 p.m. on the following afternoon,

awaiting the arrival of Mrs. Jardine, he tried with little success to draw a veil over the harrowing events of the morning. Mr. and Mrs. Quinn had trained down from

Huddersfield, and somewhere amid the wreckage of their lives, somewhere amid the

tears and the heartbreak, they had managed to find reserves of quiet dignity and

courage. Morse had accompanied Mr. Quinn senior to the mortuary for the formal

identification of his son, and then spent over an hour with them both in his office,

unable to tell them much, unable to offer anything except the usual futile words of

sympathy. And as Morse had watched the tragic couple climb into the police car for

Oxford, he felt great admiration—and even greater relief. The whole interview had

upset him, and apart from a few brief minutes with a reporter from the
Oxford Mail
, he had not been in the mood to grapple with the perpetually multiplying clues to the last

hours lived by Nicholas Quinn.

Two men were repairing the street lamp in front of No 1, and Morse strolled over to

them. 'How long before they come and smash it up again?'

'You never know, sir. But, to be truthful, we don't get too much vandalism round 'ere,

do we, Jack?'

But Morse had no chance of hearing Jack's views on the local yahoos, for Mrs. Jardine

drew up in her car and the three of them disappeared into the house, where for half an

hour they sat together in the front room. Mrs. Jardine told them as much as she knew

about her former tenant: about his coming to see her in mid-August; about her chat

with Bartlett (Quinn's choice as referee)1; about his tidy habits and his punctuality in

paying his rent; about his usual weekend routine; and about any and every thing

Morse could think of asking her that might add to his picture of Mr. Quinn alive. But he

learned nothing. Quinn had been a model tenant, it seemed. Quiet, orderly, and no

gramophone. Girlfriends? Not that she knew of. She couldn't stop that sort of thing, of

course, but it was much better if her tenants—well, you know,
behaved
themselves.

The others—upstairs? Oh, they got along well with Mr. Quinn, she thought, though she

couldn't really
know
, could she? What a good job Mrs. Greenaway hadn't been there on Tuesday, though I You could never tell—with the
shock
. Yes, that had been a real blessing.

It was another chilly afternoon, and Morse got up to light the fire, turning the automatic switch on the side as far as he could. But nothing happened.

'You'll have to use a match, Inspector. Those things never seem to work. How the

manufacturers get away with it—'

Morse struck a match and the fire exploded into an orange glow.

'Do you make any extra charge for gas and electricity?'

'No. It's included in the rent,' replied Mrs. Jardine. But as if to dispel any possible

suspicion of excessive generosity, she nastily added that the tenants had to share the

telephone bill, of course.

Morse was puzzled. 'I don't quite follow you.'

'Well, there's a shared line between them, you see. There's a phone upstairs in the

Greenaways' bedroom and one here in this room.'

'I see,' said Morse quietly.

After the landlady had left them, Morse and Lewis went into the room where Quinn had

been found. Although the curtains were now drawn back, it seemed no less sombre

than when they were in it last; and certainly colder. Morse bent down and tried turning

the switch on the gas fire. He tried again; and again. But nothing.

'Probably no batteries in it, sir.' Lewis unfastened the side panel, and produced two

stumpy Ever Ready batteries, now covered with a slimy, mildewed discharge.

The same Thursday morning Joyce Greenaway had been moved—from the Intensive