The Remorseful Day

Chapter fifty-two

If Lewis’s (Morse-initiated) interview had been a task of some fair difficulty, Morse’s own (self-appointed) mission was wholly straightforward — the single problem being that of finding a parking space in a car-cluttered Warwick Street, just off the Iffley Road.

In the outer office of Radio Taxis were seated two young ladies, their telephones, keyboards, and VDUs in front of them, with maps of Oxford, Oxfordshire, and the UK pinned on the walls around. Morse was ushered through into the inner sanctum, where a six-foot, strongly built man of fifty or so, his short, dark hair greying at the temples, introduced himself:

“Jeff Measor, Company Secretary. How can I help?”

“Flynn, Paddy Flynn, he used to work for you — until you sacked him.”

Yes. Measor remembered him well enough. Flynn had worked for the company for just over a year. It was generally agreed that he’d been a competent driver, but he’d never fitted very happily into the team. There’d been several complaints from clients, including the reported “Just help me get these bitches out of here!” request to the doorman at The Randolph, where three giggly and slightly unstable young ladies were 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 Irish 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. Still 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.