Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

attempting to alight.  And, yes, a few other complaints about his

less-than-sympathetic rejoinders to clients when sometimes (quite inevitably

so) traffic-jams had caused his cab to be late.  But Flynn had been a

punctual man himself, invariably clocking in on time one of those dedicated

night- drivers who far preferred the 6 p.  m.  -2.  30 a.  m.  shift.  He'd

known Oxford City and the surrounding area well a big factor in taxi work;

and there'd been no suspicion of his driving innocent clients on some

roundabout route just to jump up the fare.

"Could he have fiddled a few quid here and there?"

"Not so easy these days.  Everything's computerized in the cab.  But I

suppose ..."

"How?"

"Well, let's say if he's cruising around the City Centre and gets a fare and

doesn't clock it in.  Just takes the cash and then goes back to cruising

round as if he's been doing nothing else all the time .

"" Did he do that sort of thing?  "

"Not that I know of."

Morse was looking increasingly puzzled.

"He seems to have been a reasonably satisfactory sort of cabbie, then."

"Well..."

"So why did you sack him?"

"Two things, really.  As I said, he wasn't a good advertisement for the

company.  We always tell our drivers about the importance of friendliness and

courtesy; but he wasn't quite ... he always seemed a bit surly, and I doubt

he ever swapped a few cheerful words with any of his passengers.  Man of few

words, Paddy Flynn.  Not always though, by all accounts."

"No?"

"No.  Seems he used to do the rounds of the pubs and clubs - Oxford, Reading

and so on with a little group.  Played the clarinet himself, and introduced

things with a bit of Trish blarney.  Quite popular for a while, I think,

'specially in those pubs guaranteeing music being played as loud as possible."

Morse looked pained as Measor continued: "Anyway, he just didn't fit in here.

No one really liked him much.  Simple as that!"

"Two things though, you said?"  prompted Morse gently.

For the first time the articulately forthright Company Secretary was somewhat

hesitant: "It's a bit difficult to explain but ..  .  well, he never quite

seemed up to coping with the radio side of the job.  Sdll very important, the

radio side is, in spite of all this latest technology You know the sort of

thing: we'll be phoning from the office here and asking one of the drivers if

he's anywhere near Headington or Abingdon Road or wherever .  .  .  Mind you,

Inspector, the radio's not all that easy: distortion, interference, crackle,

feedback, traffic-noise .  ..

You've certainly got to have your wits about you and, well, he just couldn't

quite cope with it well enough.  "

"It doesn't seem all that much of a reason for sacking him, though."

"It's not exactly like that, Inspector.  You see, I don't myself employ

drivers directly.  They're contracted out to me.  And so if I say to any

owner of a taxi, or a group of taxis,

"Look, there's no more work for you here" - well, that's it.  It's like

sub-contracting work on a building site.  If I want to sack one of my staff

here though, in the office, I'll have to give one verbal recorded and two

written warnings.  "

"No problems with Flynn, then?"

"Oh, no.  And glad to see the back of him.  Everybody was.  One day he was

here .  .  ."

'.  .  and the next day he was gone," added Morse slowly, as he thanked the

Company Secretary and felt that long familiar shiver of excitement along his

shoulders.

chapter fifty-three At which period there were gentlemen and there were

seamen in the navy.  But the seamen were not gentlemen; and the gentlemen

were not seamen (Macaulay, History of England) for morse, that early evening

followed much the same old pattern: same sort of bundle of ideas abounding in

his brain; same impatience to reach that final, wonderfully satisfying,

penny-dropping moment of insight; same old pessimism about the future of

mankind; same old craving for a dram of Scotch that could make the world, at

least for a while, a kindlier and a happier place; same old chauffeur Lewis.

It was just after 6.  30 p.  m.  when they were shown up a spiral flight of

rickety stairs to the small office immediately above the bar of the Maiden's

Arms.  Around the walls, several framed diplomas paid tribute to the

landlord's expertise and the cleanliness of his kitchen, although the untidy

piles of letters and forms that littered the desk suggested a less than

methodical approach to the hostelry's paperwork.

"Quick snifter.  Inspector?"

"Later, perhaps."

"Mind if I, er .  ..?"  Biffen reached behind him and poured out a liberal

tot of Captain Morgan.

"You make me feel nervous!"  Knocking back the neat rum in a single swallow,

he smacked his lips crudely: "Ahh!"

"Royal or Merchant?"  asked Morse.

"Bit o' both."  But Biffen seemed disinclined to discuss his earlier years at

sea, and came to the point immediately: "How can I help you, gentlemen?"

So Morse told him: for the moment the village seemed to be at the centre of

almost everything; and the pub was at the centre of village life and gossip;