The Silent World Of Nicholas Quinn

'I should hope so. I shan't be in here much longer — you realize that, don't you?'

'Don't you worry about that.'

'Have you put the cot up yet?'

'I keep telling you. Stop worrying. You just get on your feet again and look after the little fellah — that's all that matters.'

She smiled happily, and when he stood up and put his arm around her she nestled against his shoulder lovingly.

'Funny, isn't it, Frank? We'd got a name all ready, if it was a girl. And we were so sure it would be.'

'Yeah.'I been thinking, though. What about "Simon"? Nice name, don't you think. "Simon Greenaway" — what about that? Sounds sort of — distinguished, if you know what I mean.'

'Yeah. Perhaps so. Lots of nice names for boys, though.'

'Such as?''

'WeIl. You know that chap downstairs — Mr. Quinn? His name's "Nicholas". Nice name, don't you think? "Nicholas Greenaway." Yeah. I quite like that, Frank.' Watching his face closely, she could have sworn there was something there, and for a second she felt a surge of panic. But he couldn't know. It was just her guilty conscience: she was imagining things.

The Horse and Trumpet was quite deserted when they sat down in the furthest corner from the bar, and Lewis had never known Morse so apparently uninterested in his beer, over which he lingered like a maiden aunt sipping homemade wine at a church social. They sat for several minutes without speaking, and it was Lewis who broke the silence. 'Think we're getting anywhere, sir?'

Morse seemed to ponder the question deeply. 'I suppose so. Yes.'

'Any ideas yet?'

'No,' lied Morse. 'We've got to get a few more facts before we start getting any fancy ideas. Yes. . Look, Lewis. I want you to go along and see Mrs. What's-her-name, the cleaner woman. You know where she lives?' Lewis nodded. 'And you might as well call on Mrs. Jardine — isn't it? — the landlady. You can take my car: I expect I'll be at the Syndicate all afternoon. Pick me up there.'

'Anything particular you want me to—?'

'Christ, man! You don't need a wet nurse, do you? Find out all you bloody well can! You know as much about the case as I do!' Lewis sat back and said nothing. He felt more angry with himself than with the Inspector, and he finished his pint in silence.

'I think I'll be off then, sir. I'd just like to nip in home, if you don't mind.'

Morse nodded vaguely and Lewis stood up to go. 'You'd better let me have the car keys.'

Morse's beer was hardly touched and he appeared to be staring with extraordinary intensity at the carpet.

Mrs. Evans had been cleaning the ground floor of № 1 Pinewood Close for several years, and had almost been part of the tenancy for the line of single men who had rented the rooms from Mrs. Jardine. Most of them had been on the lookout for something a little better and had seldom stayed long; but they'd all been pleasant enough. It was chiefly the kitchen that would get so dirty, and although she dusted and hoovered the other rooms, her chief task always lay in the kitchen, where she usually spent half an hour cleaning the stove and another half-hour ironing the shirts, underwear and handkerchiefs which found their weekly way into the local launderette. It was just about two hours' work — seldom more, and often a little less. But she always charged for two hours, and none of the tenants had ever demurred. She liked to get things done whilst no one was about; and, with Quinn, 3–5 p.m. on Fridays was the regularly appointed time.

It was about poor Mr. Quinn, she knew that, and she invited Lewis in and told him the brief story. She had usually finished and gone before he got back home. But the previous Friday she had to call at the Kidlington Health Centre for Mr. Evans, who had bronchitis and was due to see the doctor again at 4.30 that day. But the weather was so dreadful that she thought he ought to stay in. So she went herself to get Mr. E another prescription, called in at the dispensing chemist, and then went home and got the tea. She got back to Quinn's house at about a quarter past six and stayed about half an hour to do the ironing.

'You left a note for him, didn't you, Mrs. Evans?'

'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?'