love?'
'Fine.'
'And the little one?'
'Fine.'
They kissed, and soon began to feel at ease again.
'Has the telly-man been yet? I meant to ask you yesterday,'
'Not yet, love. But he'll fix it—have no fear.'
'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 anyw1here, 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 No 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
'Fine.'
'And the little one?'
'Fine.'
They kissed, and soon began to feel at ease again.
'Has the telly-man been yet? I meant to ask you yesterday,'
'Not yet, love. But he'll fix it—have no fear.'
'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 anyw1here, 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 No 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
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