concealment. But the thing I like most about Marian (excuse me again if this sounds odd) is her malleability, her pliancy; the feeling I get that I could mould and remodel her (she must have learnt a thing or two at that physiotherapy clinic), contort and distort her, parcel her up and stretch her into all kinds of shapes, but, just as you can work a piece of clay a thousand times but still have left the same piece of clay, she would still, at the end of it all, be Marian. Marian.
[4]
When Quinn called me in yesterday I should have taken my opportunity to confront him about the missing files. When he said, ‘We don’t want things to get mislaid, do we?’ and gave that knowing smile, that was surely a hint. I should have taken my cue and said, ‘Talking of mislaid files …’ What a cowardly man I am.
But let me tell you what passed between us before Quinn mentioned my promotion. We were discussing the report I had brought in, which merely required his approval before being sent off. I won’t bore you with details. When we discuss such things we talk in a sort of code (people, when you think about it, spend a lot of their time talking in code). Quinn sat in his black leather, brass-studded chair, I stood at his shoulder. A band of sunlight spread from the window, and I was tempted to say, ‘The cherry tree is looking nice, sir’ – the sort of chirpy, fatuous remark that is really unthinkable in our office. Quinn’s hair smelt very slightly of some sort of lotion. On the wall, behind his desk, above a black filing cabinet, is a photograph showing several lined-up army officers – one of which I assume to be Quinn, though I have never had the chance to look that closely – and dated April ’44. It’s about the only personal item in Quinn’s entire office. Quinn approved of my report and pushed it briskly to one side. He sniffed vigorously and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Now what about C9? How are you getting on with that?’ (C9 is the reference numberof a case I am currently working on; it’s not the real number, of course – I couldn’t tell you that.)
Now C9 happened to be one of those cases for which Quinn himself had given me instructions but in which certain of the file items proved to have virtually no connexion at all. For example, File B in the series contained information relating to X (now deceased), a former civil servant, sacked for alcoholic incompetence and later arrested for a number of petty frauds and sexual offences, who had made allegations against a certain Home Office official, Y – allegations subsequently investigated (without Y’s knowledge, either of the allegations or the investigation) and found to be false. X died of a heart attack while undergoing trial. File C in the series contained no reference to X or Y, but was a report on another Home Office official, Z, apparently unconnected, professionally or personally, with Y (or X), who had committed suicide (by stepping in front of an Underground train) shortly after the secret investigations on Y. This death was subsequently thoroughly investigated, with negative results as far as officialdom was concerned – but with great distress to the unfortunate widow, who had to reveal, under pressure, intimate details about her and her husband’s personal life: the mess of their marriage, his sexual incompetence, his cruelty to her, his attempting once to sleep with his nineteen-year-old daughter, an assault on his son with a garden knife, etc., etc. File D in the series was even remoter from X and Y, and File E was not on the shelves. As for the reasons for the C9 inquiry – some new evidence which had come retrospectively to light – Quinn was hanging on to this himself.
When Quinn asked me about C9 I think I looked at him for signs of madness.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m having some difficulty in connecting some of the items. If I could –’
I knew what was coming. When you are in Quinn’s office you are the luckless
[4]
When Quinn called me in yesterday I should have taken my opportunity to confront him about the missing files. When he said, ‘We don’t want things to get mislaid, do we?’ and gave that knowing smile, that was surely a hint. I should have taken my cue and said, ‘Talking of mislaid files …’ What a cowardly man I am.
But let me tell you what passed between us before Quinn mentioned my promotion. We were discussing the report I had brought in, which merely required his approval before being sent off. I won’t bore you with details. When we discuss such things we talk in a sort of code (people, when you think about it, spend a lot of their time talking in code). Quinn sat in his black leather, brass-studded chair, I stood at his shoulder. A band of sunlight spread from the window, and I was tempted to say, ‘The cherry tree is looking nice, sir’ – the sort of chirpy, fatuous remark that is really unthinkable in our office. Quinn’s hair smelt very slightly of some sort of lotion. On the wall, behind his desk, above a black filing cabinet, is a photograph showing several lined-up army officers – one of which I assume to be Quinn, though I have never had the chance to look that closely – and dated April ’44. It’s about the only personal item in Quinn’s entire office. Quinn approved of my report and pushed it briskly to one side. He sniffed vigorously and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Now what about C9? How are you getting on with that?’ (C9 is the reference numberof a case I am currently working on; it’s not the real number, of course – I couldn’t tell you that.)
Now C9 happened to be one of those cases for which Quinn himself had given me instructions but in which certain of the file items proved to have virtually no connexion at all. For example, File B in the series contained information relating to X (now deceased), a former civil servant, sacked for alcoholic incompetence and later arrested for a number of petty frauds and sexual offences, who had made allegations against a certain Home Office official, Y – allegations subsequently investigated (without Y’s knowledge, either of the allegations or the investigation) and found to be false. X died of a heart attack while undergoing trial. File C in the series contained no reference to X or Y, but was a report on another Home Office official, Z, apparently unconnected, professionally or personally, with Y (or X), who had committed suicide (by stepping in front of an Underground train) shortly after the secret investigations on Y. This death was subsequently thoroughly investigated, with negative results as far as officialdom was concerned – but with great distress to the unfortunate widow, who had to reveal, under pressure, intimate details about her and her husband’s personal life: the mess of their marriage, his sexual incompetence, his cruelty to her, his attempting once to sleep with his nineteen-year-old daughter, an assault on his son with a garden knife, etc., etc. File D in the series was even remoter from X and Y, and File E was not on the shelves. As for the reasons for the C9 inquiry – some new evidence which had come retrospectively to light – Quinn was hanging on to this himself.
When Quinn asked me about C9 I think I looked at him for signs of madness.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m having some difficulty in connecting some of the items. If I could –’
I knew what was coming. When you are in Quinn’s office you are the luckless
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