Colin Dexter has won many awards for his novels including the CWA Gold Dagger and Silver Dagger awards. In he was presented with the CWA Cartier. Norman Colin Dexter, OBE, (born 29 September ) is an English crime writer known for his Inspector Morse novels, which were written between and. Colin Dexter - [Inspector Morse 03] - The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn (retail) ( epub) - dokument [*.epub] For Jack Ashley CONTENTS PROLOGUE WHY?.
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Colin Dexter - [Inspector Morse 05] - The Dead of Jericho (retail) (epub) - dokument [*.epub] For Patricia and Joan, kindly denizens of Jericho CONTENTS . The Secret of Annexe 3 Dexter Colin. Category: The Secret of Annexe 3 ( Inspector Morse 7) Colin Dexter. Download (EPUB) or download. Kb, English# Scribd is the world's largest social reading and publishing site.
Specifically, it will undertake to employ in its services a small percentage of persons who are variously handicapped, should the disabilities of such persons prove not substantially to interfere with the proper discharge of the duties entrusted to them. Unfortunately he turned out to have an uncontrollable weakness for stealing toilet rolls, and we-' The rest of the sentence was drowned in a ribald cackle of lavatory laughter, and it was some little while before the Dean could bring the meeting to order again.
He reminded the comittee that paragraph 23 was not, of course, a statutory injunction - merely a marginal recommendation in the interests of normal civilized, er, living. But somehow it was the wrong thing to say. Far wiser to have allowed the Secretary a few more anecdotes about his less-than-fortunate experiences with the unfortunately afflicted few.
As it was, the subtle shift had been made. The man with the handicap was coming into the betting once more, his odds shortening further as Roope pressed his point neatly and tellingly home.
That's all. Mr Roope perhaps isn't fully aware of the vast number of incoming and outgoing telephone calls here, and he must excuse me if I suggest that I know slightly more about this than he does.
It's a very tricky problem when you're deaf-' 'Surely not. There are all sorts of gadgets these days.
You can wear one of those behind-the-ear things, where the microphone is-' 'Does Mr Roope actually know someone who's deaf and who-? The real question is - how much of one? There are meetings - dozens and dozens of 'em a year. A meeting like this one, for instance. You get stuck in a meeting with somebody on the same side of the table, sitting three or four places away.
He was on safer ground, he knew that. He was getting just a little deaf himself. Bartlett was usually a man of wonderfully equable temperament. And he hadn't finished yet: You all saw the audiographs. The fact of the matter is that Quinn is very deaf. Very deaf. But the committee didn't, and it became perfectly clear that Roope had a point. A strong point. The Dean turned again to the Secretary. You know it's amazing that he did seem to hear us so well, isn't it?
Mrs Seth, the Chairman of the Science Committee, thought about her father. He had gone deaf very quickly when he was in his late forties and when she was only a schoolgirl; and he had been dismissed from his job. Redundancy money, and a meagre disability pension from his firm - oh yes, they'd tried to be sympathetic and fair. But he'd had such a clear brain, and he'd never worked again. Confidence irreparably shattered.
He could still have done a whole host of jobs infinitely more efficiently than half the layabouts sitting idling on their backsides on office stools. It made her so very sad and so very cross to think of him. Suddenly she was aware that they were voting. Five hands went up almost immediately for Fielding, and she thought, as the Secretary did, that he was probably the best of the bunch.
She would vote for him too. But for some curious reason her hand remained on the blotting paper in front of her. The Dean began counting from the left: It looks-' And then, slowly and dramatically, Mrs Seth raised her own hand. Quinn has been appointed.
Close vote: But there it is. But, as you say, the committee has made its decision and it's my job to accept that decision. He may have been inwardly gloating over his minor triumph, but his face remained impassive - detached almost.
Ten minutes later the Dean and the Secretary walked side by side down the flight of stairs that led to the ground floor and to Bartlett's office. Make no mistake about that. We have! Above his door was a twin-coloured light, similar to the sort found in hospitals, which was operated from two switches on the desk inside. The first switch turned on a red light, signifying that Bartlett was in session with someone, and did not wish to be and would not be disturbed; a second switch turned on a green light, indicating that one was free to knock and enter.
When neither switch was depressed, no light showed, and the conclusion thence to be drawn was that the room was empty. Since his appointment to the Secretaryship, Bartlett had firmly maintained that if anyone wished to discuss a matter of importance with him, he himself should have the courtesy to ensure an uninterrupted, confidential chat; and his staff fully appreciated and almost invariably observed the arrangement.
On the very few occasions that the rule had been infringed, Bartlett had displayed quite uncharacteristic anger. Once inside the Secretary snapped down the red switch before opening a small cabinet and pouring himself a glass of gin and dry vermouth.
Then he sat down behind his desk, opened a drawer and took out a packet of cigarettes. He never smoked at meetings, but he lit one now, inhaled deeply, and sipped his drink. He would send a telegram to Quinn in the morning: He opened his appointments folder once more and reread the information on Quinn.
They'd picked the wrong fellow - of course they had! All because of Roope, the bloody idiot! He put the papers away neatly, cleared his desk and sat back in his chair - a curious half-smile forming on his lips. He was very fond of dry sherry.
And we shall be having lunch.
If you can tell the waiter we're here? Sitting over there. The name's Quinn. Automatyczne logowanie Zarejestruj. Zaloguj Anuluj.
[eBook] The Remorseful Day
Opublikowany Komentarze do: Dodaj komentarz. It was no use pretending. Go away, my pretty one! Go away and take your fill of flirting from that lecherous young Adonis over there! She lifted her glass of wine to her lips and then circled the third finger of her left hand smoothly round the inner rim at the point from which she had sipped.
I wanted to keep you all to myself.
But then I'm a selfish begger. He's not-? He's no friend of mine. In fact, I don't really know anyone here.
But they're all such bores - did you know that? Lancashire, perhaps?
There's, er, there's fresh fruit salad; there's cream gateau; there's some sort of caramel whatnot-' But as he made to rise she laid her hand on the sleeve of his jacket. I never seem to be able to eat and talk at the same time - like others can. I expect hundreds of fellers have told you the same, haven't they? It's not your fault. The Almighty just happened to fashion you wondrously fair - that's all.
Why not accept it? It's just the same with me: I happen to be blessed with the most brilliant brain in Oxford. I can't help that either, can I? I thought-' 'When you said you found me attractive, it wasn't just what you said. It was - it was the way you said it. Sort of - well sort of nice, somehow, and sort of sad at the same time. But I'll shut up if you want me to. You see where honesty gets you?
I tell you I find you attractive. You know why? Because it does me good to look at you, and to sit next to you like this. And shall I tell you something else? I reckon you're getting more attractive all the time. Must be the wine. Slip in between the sheets. Ta very much! But there can be more to it all than that, can't there? I'm no expert on that sort of thing.
Wish I were! She had slipped her right hand under the table and he felt the long soft fingers slowly curling and entwining themselves with his own.
Why the hell shouldn't we sit together all night? Just tell me that, my girl! It's what I want. And if it's what you-' 'Which it is - as you know! So why not stop pretending, and go and get me some of that gateau?
And here! And she told him. She'd been born in Rochdale, had been a hardworking and clever girl at school, and had won a place at Lady Margaret Hall to read modern languages. With a good second-class honours degree behind her, she had left Oxford and worked as the sole foreign sales rep of a smallish publishing company at Croydon, a company started from scratch a few years previously by two bright and reasonably ambitious brothers and dealing with textbooks in English as a foreign language.
Just before she'd joined the company an increasing number of contracts had been coming in from overseas, and the need for some more effective liaison with foreign customers was becoming ever more apparent. Hence the appointment. Pretty good job, and not bad money either - especially for someone without the slightest experience in business matters. It had involved a good deal of necessary and occasionally unnecessary travel with the elder of the two brothers Charles, the senior partner , and she had stayed in the job for eight years, enjoying it enormously.
Business had boomed, the payroll had increased from ten to over twenty, new premises were built, new machinery downloadd; and during this time, amid rumours of expenses fiddles and tax avoidance, the workforce had witnessed the arrival of the inevitable Rolls Royce, first a black one, then a light blue one; and, for a favoured few, there was a spanking little beauty of a yacht moored somewhere up at Reading. Her own salary was each year - sometimes twice a year - increased, and when three years ago she had finally left the company she had amassed a nice little nest egg of savings, certainly enough for her to envisage a reasonably affluent independence for several years to come.
Why had she left? Difficult to say, really. Eight years was quite a long time, and even the most enjoyable job becomes a little less challenging, a little more - more familiar was that the word? It didn't much matter what they grew!
It was far simpler than that: So she'd had a change. At Oxford she'd read French and Italian, and through her work with the company she'd become comprehensively fluent in German. So she'd joined the staff of a very large eighteen hundred!
The school was far rougher than she could have imagined. The boys were doubtless good enough at heart, but were blatantly and impertinently obscene, not infrequently she suspected exposing themselves on the back rows of their classes.
But it was the girls who had been the real trouble, seeing in their new teacher a rival intruder, likely enough to snatch away the coveted affections of the boys and the male staff alike. The staff? Oh, some of them had tried things on a bit with her, especially the married ones; but they weren't a bad lot, really. They'd certainly been given a Herculean task in trying to cure, or at least to curb, the pervasive truancy, the mindless vandalism, and the sheer bloody-mindedness of those truculent adolescents to whom all notions of integrity, scholarship, or even the meanest of the middle-class virtues were equally foreign and repugnant.
Well, she'd stuck it out for four terms; and looking back she wished she'd stuck it longer. The boys and girls in her own form had clubbed together generously to download her an utterly hideous set of wine glasses; and those glasses were the most precious present she'd ever had! She'd cried when they made the presentation - all of them staying behind after final assembly, with one of the boys making a stupidly incompetent, facetious, wonderful little speech.
Most of the girls had cried a bit, too, and even one or two of the inveterate exposers had been reduced to words of awkward farewell that were sad, and mildly grateful, and quite unbearably moving. Oh dear! Well, she'd tried one or two other things and, finally - two years ago that is - she'd come back to Oxford, advertised for private pupils, got rather more offers than she could cope with, bought a small house - and well, there she was!
Last Bus to Woodstock
There she was at the party.They must be' he'd forgotten what they must be 'er, getting on a bit now. Email this Article. I thought-' 'When you said you found me attractive, it wasn't just what you said. The character remembers himself as a youngster, travelling around his local area with a book about churches and noting all the interesting features.
Mrs Murdoch, a large, forcefully optimistic woman in her late forties, was now pleasantly but firmly directing her guests towards the food set out on tables at the far end of the large lounge, and the man took his opportunity as she passed by.
You know what I mean: That leaves Fielding, and he's the man I'd go for every time: Then he sat down behind his desk, opened a drawer and took out a packet of cigarettes.
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