'You drove the car to Kidlington and you parked it safely in Quinn's own garage in Pinewood Close, and here again you had a curious combination of good and bad luck. First the good luck. The rain was still pouring down and no one was likely to look too carefully at the man who got out of Quinn's car to unlock his own garage doors. It was dark, too, and the corner of Pinewood Close was even darker than usual because someone—someone, Roope, had seen to it that the street lamp outside the house had been recently and conveniently smashed. I make no specific charges on that point, but you must allow me to harbour my little suspicions. So, even if anyone did see you, hunched up in Quinn's green anorak, head down in the rain, I doubt whether any suspicions would have been aroused. You were very much the same build as Quinn, and like him you had a beard. But in another way the luck was very much against you. It so happened, and you couldn't help noticing the fact, that a woman was standing at the upstairs front window. She'd been waiting a long time, frightened that her baby was going to be born prematurely; she had rung her husband at Cowley several times, and she was impatiently expecting him at any minute. Now, as I say, this was not in itself a fatal occurrence. She'd seen you, of course, but it never occurred to her for a second that the person she saw was anyone but Quinn; and you yourself must have totted up the odds and worked on exactly that assumption. Nevertheless, she'd seen you go into the house, where you immediately discovered that Mrs. Evans — you must have had a complete dossier on all the domestic arrangements — as I say, Mrs. Evans, by a sheer fluke, had not finished the cleaning. What's more, she'd left a note to say she would be coming back! That was bad luck, all right, and yet you suddenly saw the chance of turning the tables completely. You read the note from Mrs. Evans, and you screwed it up and threw it into the wastepaper basket. You lit the gas fire, putting the match you used carefully back into your matchbox. You shouldn't have done that, Roope! But we all make mistakes, don't we? And then — the masterstroke! You had a note in your pocket — a note written by Quinn himself, a note which not only looked genuine; it was genuine. Any handwriting expert was going to confirm, almost at a glance, that the writing was Quinn's. Of course he'd confirm it. The writing was Quinn's. You were hellishly lucky, though, weren't you? The note was addressed to Margaret Freeman, Quinn's confidential secretary. But not by name. By initials. MF. You found a black thin-point biro in Quinn's anorak, and very carefully you changed the initials. Not too difficult, was it? A bit of a squiggle for "rs" after the M, and an additional bar at the bottom of the F, converting it into an E. The message was good enough — vague enough, anyway — to cover the deception. How you must have smiled as you placed the note carefully on the top of the cupboard. Yes, indeed! And then you went out again. You didn't want to take any risks, though; so you went via the back door, out into the back garden, through the gap in the fence and over the path across the field to the Quality supermarket. You had to get out of the house anyway, so why not carry through with the bluff? You bought some provisions, and even as you walked round the shelves your brain was working nonstop. Buy something that made it look as though Quinn was having someone in for a meal that evening! Why not? Another clever touch. Two steaks and all the rest of it. But you shouldn't have bought the butter, Roope! You got the wrong brand, and he had plenty in the fridge, anyway. As I say, it was clever. But you were getting a bit too clever.'
'Like you are, Inspector.' Roope bestirred himself at last. He took out a cigarette and lit it, putting the match carefully into the ashtray. 'I can't honestly think that you expect me to believe such convoluted nonsense.' He spoke carefully and rationally, and appeared much more at ease with himself. 'If you've nothing better to talk about than such boy-scout fancy-dress twaddle, I suggest you release me immediately. But if you want to persist with it, I shall have to call in my lawyer. I refused to do this when you told me of my rights earlier — I knew my rights, anyway, Inspector — but I thought I'd rather have my own innocence at my side than any pettifogging lawyer. But you're driving me a bit too far, you know. You've not the slightest shred of evidence for any of these fantastic allegations you've made against me. Not the slightest! And if you can't do any better than this I suggest that it may be in your own interests, not just mine, to pack in this ridiculous charade immediately.'
'You deny the charges then?'
'Charges? What charges? I'm not aware that you've made any charges.'
'You deny that the sequence of events—'
'Of course, I deny it! Why the hell should anyone go to all that trouble—?'
'Whoever murdered Quinn had to try to establish an alibi. And he did. A very clever alibi. You see all the. indications in this case seemed to point to Quinn being alive on Friday evening, certainly until the early evening, and it was vital—'
'You mean Quinn wasn't alive on Friday evening?'
'Oh no,' said Morse slowly. 'Quinn had been dead for several hours.'
There was a long silence in the small room, broken finally by Roope. 'Several hours, you say?'
Morse nodded. 'But I'm not quite sure exactly when Quinn was murdered. I rather hoped you might be able to tell me.'
Roope laughed aloud, and shook his head in bewilderment. 'And you think I killed Quinn?'
'That's why you're here, and that's why you're going to stay here — until you decide to tell me the truth.'
Roope's voice suddenly became high-pitched and exasperated. 'But — but I was in London that Friday. I told you that. I got back to Oxford at four-fifteen. Four-fifteen! Can't you believe that?'
"No, I can't,' said Morse flatly.
'Well, look, Inspector. Let's just get one thing straight. I don't suppose I could account for my movements — at least not to your satisfaction — from, let's say, five o'clock to about eight o'clock that night. And you wouldn't believe me, anyway. But if you're determined to keep me in this miserable place much longer, at least charge me with something I could have done. All right! I drove Quinn's car and did his shopping and God knows what else. Let's accept all that bloody nonsense, if it'll please you. But charge me with murdering Quinn as well. At twenty past four — whenever you like, I don't care! Five o'clock. Six o'clock. Seven o'clock. Take your pick. But for Christ's sake show some sense. I was in London until three o'clock or so, and I was on the train until it reached Oxford. Don't you understand that? Make something up, if you like. But please, please tell me when and how I'm supposed to have murdered the man. That's all I ask.'
As Lewis looked at him, Morse seemed to be growing a little less confident. He picked up the papers in front of him and shuffled them around meaninglessly. Something seemed to have misfired somewhere — that was for sure.
'I've only got your word, Mr. Roope' (it was Mr. Roope now) 'that you caught that particular train from London. You were at your publishers', I know that. We've checked. But you could—'
'May I use your phone, Inspector?'
Morse shrugged and looked vaguely disconsolate. 'It's a bit unusual, I suppose, but—'
Roope looked through the directory, rang a number, and spoke rapidly for a few minutes before handing the receiver to Morse. It was the Cabriolet Taxis Services, and Morse listened and nodded and asked no questions. 'I see. Thank you.' He put down the phone and looked across at Roope. 'You had more success than we did, Mr. Roope. Did you find the ticket collector, too?'
'No. He's had the flu, but he'll be back at work this week sometime.'
'You've been very busy.'
'I was worried — who wouldn't be? You kept asking me where I was, and I thought you'd got it in for me, and I knew it would be sensible to try to check. We've all got an instinct for self-preservation, you know.'
'Ye-es.' Morse ran the index finger of his left hand along his nose — many, many times; and finally came to a decision. He dialled a number and asked for the editor of the Oxford Mail. 'I see. We're too late then. Page one, you say? Oh dear. Well, it can't be helped. What about Stop Press? Could we get anything in there?. . Good. Let's say er "Murder Suspect Released. Mr. C. A. Roope (see page 1), arrested earlier today in connection with the murder of Nicholas Quinn, was released this afternoon. Chief Inspector—" What? No more room? I see. Well, it'll be better than nothing. Sorry to muck you about. . Yes, I'm afraid these things do happen sometimes. Cheers.'
Morse cradled the phone and turned towards Roope. 'Look, sir. As I say, things like this do—'
Roope got to his feet. 'Forget it! You've said enough for one day. Can I assume I'm free to go now?' There was a sharp edge on his voice.
'Yes, sir. And, as I say. .' Roope looked at him with deep contempt as the feeble sentence whimpered away. 'Have you a car here, sir?'
'No. I don't have a car.'"
'Oh no, I remember. If you like, Sergeant Lewis here will—'
'No, he won't! I've had quite enough of your sickening hospitality for one day. I'll bus it, thank you very much!'
Before Morse could say more, he had left the room and was walking briskly across the courtyard in the bright and chilly afternoon.
During the last ten minutes of the interview Lewis had felt himself becoming progressively more perplexed, and at one stage he had stared at Morse like a street-idler gaping at the village idiot. What did Morse think he was doing? He looked again at him now, his head down over the sheets of paper on the table. But even as Lewis looked, Morse lifted his head, and a strangely self-satisfied smile was spreading over his face. He saw that Lewis was watching him, and he winked happily.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE MAN INSIDE the house is anxious, but reasonably calm. The phone rings stridently, imperiously, several times during the late afternoon and early evening. But he does not answer it, for he has seen the post-office van repairing (repairing!) the telephone wires just along the road. Clumsy and obvious. They must think him stupid. Yet all the time he knows that they are not stupid, either, and the knowledge nags away in his mind. Over and over again he tells himself that they cannot know, can only guess; can never prove. The maze would defeat an indefatigable Ariadne, and the ball of thread leads only to blind and bricked-up alleyways. Infernal phone! He waits until the importunate caller has exhausted a seemingly limitless patience, and takes the receiver off its stand. But it purrs — intolerably. He turns on the transistor radio at ten minutes to six and listens, yet with only a fraction of his conscious faculties, to the BBCs City correspondent discussing the fluctuations in the Financial Times index, and the fortunes of the floating pound. He himself has no worries about money. No worries at all.
The man outside the house continues to watch. Already he has been watching for over three and a half hours, and his feet are damp and cold. He looks at his luminous watch: 5.40 p.m. Only another twenty minutes before his relief arrives. Still no movement, save for the shadow that repeatedly passes back and forth across the curtained window.
If sleep be defined as the relaxation of consciousness, the man inside the house does not sleep that night. He is dressed again at 6 am. and he waits. At 6.45 am. he hears the clatter of milk-hordes in the darkened road outside. But still he waits. It is not until 7.45 a.m. that the paper boy arrives with The Times. It is still dark, and the little business is speedily transacted. Uncomplicated; unobserved.
The man outside the house has almost given up hope when at 1.15 p.m. the door opens and a man emerges and walks unhurriedly down towards Oxford. The man outside switches to 'transmission' and speaks into his mobile radio. Then he switches to 'reception', and the message is brief and curt: 'Follow him, Dickson! And don't let him see you!'
The man who had been inside the house walks to the railway station, where he looks around him and then walks into the buffet, orders a cup of coffee, sits by the window, and looks out onto the car park. At 1.35 a car drives slowly past — a familiar car, which turns down the incline into the car park. The automatic arm is raised and the car makes for the furthest corner of the area. The car park is almost full. The man in the buffet puts down his half-finished coffee, lights a cigarette, puts the spent match neatly back into the box, and walks out.
At 2.00 p.m. the young girl in the maroon dress can stand it no longer. The customers, too, though they are only few, have been looking at him queerly. She walks from behind the counter and taps him on the shoulder. He is not much above medium height. 'Excuse me, sir. Bu' have you come in for a coffee, or somethin'?'
'No. I'll have a cup o' tea, please.' He speaks pleasantly, and as he puts down his powerful binoculars she sees that his eyes are a palish shade of grey.
It is just after five when Lewis gets home. He is tired and his feet are like ice.
'Are you home for the night?'
'Yes, luv, thank goodness! I'm freezing cold.'
'Is that bloody man, Morse, tryin' to give you pneumornia, or somethin'?'
Lewis hears his wife all right, but he is thinking of something else, 'He's a clever bugger, Morse is. Christ, he's clever! Though whether he's right or not. .' But his wife is no longer listening, and Lewis hears the thrice-blessed clatter of the chip pan in the kitchen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
IN THE SYNDICATE building on Wednesday morning, Morse told Bartlett frankly about the virtual certainty of some criminal malpractice in the administration of the examinations. He mentioned specifically his suspicions about the leakage of question papers to Al-jamara, and passed exhibit № 1 across the table.
3rd March