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:
'JeffMeasor, 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 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
