FEW OF THE BUILDINGS erected in Oxford since the end of the Second World War have met with much approval from either Town or Gown. Perhaps it is to be expected that a public privileged with the daily sight of so many old and noble buildings should feel a natural prejudice against the reinforced concrete of the curious post-war structures; or perhaps all modern architects are mad. But it is generally agreed that the John Radcliffe Hospital on Headington Hill is one of the least offensive examples of the modern design — except, of course, to those living in the immediate vicinity who have found their expensive detached houses dwarfed by the gigantic edifice, and who now view from the bottom of their gardens a broad and busy access road instead of the green and open fields of Manor Park. The seven-storeyed hospital, built in gleaming, off-white brick, its windows painted chocolate brown, is set in spacious, tree-lined grounds, where royal-blue notice boards in bold white lettering direct the strangers towards their destinations. But few are strangers here, for the John Radcliffe Hospital is dedicated to the safe delivery of all the babies to be born beneath the aegis of the Oxfordshire Health Authority, and in it almost all the pregnant mums have suffered their precious embryos to be coddled and cosseted, turned and tested many many times before. Joyce Greenaway has. But with her ('one in a thousand', they'd said) things have not gone quite according to the gynaecological guarantee.
Frank Greenaway had Wednesday afternoon free and he drove into the hospital car park at 1 p.m. He was feeling much happier than he had done, for it now looked as if everything was going to be all right after all. But it still annoyed him that the incompetent nitwit of a foreman at Cowley had not been able to get the message to him the previous Friday evening, and he felt that he had let his wife down. Their first, too! Not that Joyce had been over-worried: when things seemed to her to be getting to the critical stage, she had shown her usual good sense and contacted the hospital direct. But it still niggled a bit; he couldn't pretend it didn't. For when he had finally arrived at the hospital at 9.30 p.m., their underweight offspring — some three weeks premature — was already putting up its brave and successful littie fight in the Intensive Care Unit. It wasn't his fault, was it? But for Frank (who had little imagination, but a ready sympathy) it was something like arriving ten minutes late for an Oxford United fixture and finding he'd missed the only goal of the match.
He, too, was no stranger now. The doors opened for him automatically, and he walked his way confidently down the wide, blue-carpeted entrance hall, past the two inquiry desks, and made straight for the lift, where he pressed the button and, with a freshly-laundered nightie, a box of Black Magic, and a copy of Woman's Weekly, he ascended to the sixth floor.
Both Joyce and the baby were still isolated — something to do with jaundice ('Nothing to worry about, Mr. Greenaway'), and Frank walked once more into Private Room 12. Why he felt a little shy, he could hardly begin to imagine; but he knew full well that he had every cause for continued apprehension. The doctors had been firmly insistent that he should as yet say nothing whatsoever about it. ('Your wife has had a pretty rough time, Mr. Greenaway.') She would have to know soon, though; couldn't help getting to know. But he had willingly agreed to play the game, and the sister had promised to have a word with each of Joyce's visitors. ('The post-natal period can be very difficult, Mr. Greenaway.') No Oxford Mail either, of course.
'How are we then, 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 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.