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Authors: Colin Dexter
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through his pockets, though.' He turned
again to the surgeon. 'You do it, will you, doc?'
'You getting squeamish, Morse? By the way, did you know he wore a hearing aid?'
At one minute to two, Morse got to his feet and looked down at Lewis.
Time for another if you drink that up smartish.'
'Not for me, sir. I've had enough.'
'The secret of a happy life, Lewis, is to know when to stop and then to go that little bit further.'
'Just a half, then'
Morse walked to the bar and beamed at the barmaid. But in truth he felt far from happy.
He had long since recognized the undoubted fact that his imagination was almost
invariably fired by beer, especially by beer in considerable quantities. But today, for
some reason, his mind seemed curiously disengaged; sluggish even. After the body
had been removed he had spent some time in the downstairs front room, used by
Quinn as a bedroom-cum-study; he had opened drawers, looked through papers and
folders, and half-stripped the bed. But it had all been an aimless, perfunctory exercise, and he had found nothing more incriminating than the previous month's copy of
Playboy ; and it was whilst sitting on the uncovered mattress scanning a succession of naked breasts and crotches that Lewis, after completing his tedious inventories, had
found him.
'Anything interesting, sir?'
'No.' Morse had guiltily returned the magazine to the desk and fastened up his
overcoat.
Just as they were about to leave, Morse had noticed the green anorak on one of the
clothes pegs in the narrow hallway.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BARTLETT KNEW THAT the man had been drinking and found himself feeling surprised
and disappointed. He had been expecting the call all the afternoon, but it had not
come through until half past three. The four of them had been seated in his office since
lunchtime (the red light on outside) talking in hushed voices amongst themselves
about the shattering news. Graphically Martin had recounted again and again the
details of his morning discovery, and had taken some muted pleasure, even in these
grim moments, at finding himself, quite unprecedentedly, at the1 centre of his
colleagues' attention. But invariably the conversation had reverted to the perplexing
question of who had been the last to see Quinn alive—and where. They all agreed, it
seemed, that it had been on Friday, but exactly when and exactly where no one
seemed able to remember. Or cared to tell . . .
Monica Height watched the Inspector carefully as he came in, and told herself, as they
were briefly introduced, that his eyes held hers a fraction longer than was strictly
necessary. She liked his voice, too; and when he informed them that each would be
interviewed separately, either by himself or by Sergeant Lewis (standing silently by
the door), she found herself hoping that in her case it would be him. Not that she need
have worried on that score: Morse had already mentally allocated her to himself. But
first he had to see what Bartlett could tell him.
'You've locked Quinn's door, I hope, sir.'
'Yes. Immediately I got your message.'
'Well, I think you'd better tell me something about this place: what you do, how you do
it, anything at all you think may help. Quinn was murdered, sir—little doubt about that;
and my job's to find out who murdered him. There's just a possibility, of course, that his murder's got nothing at all to do with this place, or with the people here; but it seems
much more probable that I may be able to find something in the office here that will
give me some sort of lead. So, I'm afraid I shall be having to badger you all for a few
days—you realize that, don't you?'
Bartlett nodded. 'We shall all do our best to help you, Inspector. Please feel
completely free to carry out whatever inquiries you think fit.'
'Thank you, sir. Now, what can you tell me?'
During the next half-hour Morse learned a great deal. Bartlett told him about the
purpose, commitments, and organization of the
again to the surgeon. 'You do it, will you, doc?'
'You getting squeamish, Morse? By the way, did you know he wore a hearing aid?'
At one minute to two, Morse got to his feet and looked down at Lewis.
Time for another if you drink that up smartish.'
'Not for me, sir. I've had enough.'
'The secret of a happy life, Lewis, is to know when to stop and then to go that little bit further.'
'Just a half, then'
Morse walked to the bar and beamed at the barmaid. But in truth he felt far from happy.
He had long since recognized the undoubted fact that his imagination was almost
invariably fired by beer, especially by beer in considerable quantities. But today, for
some reason, his mind seemed curiously disengaged; sluggish even. After the body
had been removed he had spent some time in the downstairs front room, used by
Quinn as a bedroom-cum-study; he had opened drawers, looked through papers and
folders, and half-stripped the bed. But it had all been an aimless, perfunctory exercise, and he had found nothing more incriminating than the previous month's copy of
Playboy ; and it was whilst sitting on the uncovered mattress scanning a succession of naked breasts and crotches that Lewis, after completing his tedious inventories, had
found him.
'Anything interesting, sir?'
'No.' Morse had guiltily returned the magazine to the desk and fastened up his
overcoat.
Just as they were about to leave, Morse had noticed the green anorak on one of the
clothes pegs in the narrow hallway.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BARTLETT KNEW THAT the man had been drinking and found himself feeling surprised
and disappointed. He had been expecting the call all the afternoon, but it had not
come through until half past three. The four of them had been seated in his office since
lunchtime (the red light on outside) talking in hushed voices amongst themselves
about the shattering news. Graphically Martin had recounted again and again the
details of his morning discovery, and had taken some muted pleasure, even in these
grim moments, at finding himself, quite unprecedentedly, at the1 centre of his
colleagues' attention. But invariably the conversation had reverted to the perplexing
question of who had been the last to see Quinn alive—and where. They all agreed, it
seemed, that it had been on Friday, but exactly when and exactly where no one
seemed able to remember. Or cared to tell . . .
Monica Height watched the Inspector carefully as he came in, and told herself, as they
were briefly introduced, that his eyes held hers a fraction longer than was strictly
necessary. She liked his voice, too; and when he informed them that each would be
interviewed separately, either by himself or by Sergeant Lewis (standing silently by
the door), she found herself hoping that in her case it would be him. Not that she need
have worried on that score: Morse had already mentally allocated her to himself. But
first he had to see what Bartlett could tell him.
'You've locked Quinn's door, I hope, sir.'
'Yes. Immediately I got your message.'
'Well, I think you'd better tell me something about this place: what you do, how you do
it, anything at all you think may help. Quinn was murdered, sir—little doubt about that;
and my job's to find out who murdered him. There's just a possibility, of course, that his murder's got nothing at all to do with this place, or with the people here; but it seems
much more probable that I may be able to find something in the office here that will
give me some sort of lead. So, I'm afraid I shall be having to badger you all for a few
days—you realize that, don't you?'
Bartlett nodded. 'We shall all do our best to help you, Inspector. Please feel
completely free to carry out whatever inquiries you think fit.'
'Thank you, sir. Now, what can you tell me?'
During the next half-hour Morse learned a great deal. Bartlett told him about the
purpose, commitments, and organization of the
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