Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

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Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day Page 11

by Colin Dexter


  .

  "Do you reckon," he'd asked, 'you could dispose of a body here, in one of

  your, er . . ? "

  "Only in one of the compactor bins that'd be the best bet. You'll be able to

  see for yourself, though. The others are a bit too open, really."

  "Black bag, say? Put a body in it? Just chuck it in?"

  "You'd need a big bag."

  "Well, let's say we've got a big bag."

  "Heavy things, bodies. Ten, twelve stone, say? You couldn't just... well,

  unless you had two people, I suppose."

  "Or cut the body in half, perhaps."

  "Mm. Still a bit awkward, wouldn't you think? Unless it were stiff, of

  course."

  "Yes..."

  "Was it stiff, this body of yours?"

  "Er, no. No, I don't think it was."

  "Or unless it was a pretty small body. Was it small, this body of yours?"

  "Er, no. No. I don't think it was."

  "Well, as I say..."

  "How would you get rid of a body here?"

  "Well, if it were a litd'un, like I said, I'd go for a compactor bin.

  They got ramps that go back and forrard reg'lar like, and everything soon

  gets pushed through into the back o' the bin. Doubt anybody'd notice it

  really not this end, anyway. "

  "There's another end?"

  "Sutton Courtenay, yes, out near Didcot. The bins get driven out there, to

  the landfill-site. Somebody might notice sum mat there, I suppose."

  "Funny, isn't it? Dustmen always seem to notice some things, don't they?"

  "You mean our Waste Disposal Operatives."

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  "They refused to take my little bag of grass cuttings last week."

  "Ah, now you're talking business, sir."

  "Put a human head in the bottom of the bag though ' ' - and you'd probably

  get away with it? Right! But I shouldn't try your grass cuttings again.

  Inspector."

  As he walked around, Morse was impressed by the layout and the management of

  the large area designated there to the various categories of Oxford's

  disposable debris: car batteries; can bank; engine-oil cans; paper bank;

  clothing bank; tools; bottles (green, brown, white); bulky items; scrap

  metal; fridges and freezers; garden waste (green); garden waste (other) . .

  .

  Only the vast

  "Bulky Items' bins seemed to offer any scope so far; and even there a body

  would have lain uncomfortably and conspicuously amid the jagged edges of

  broken tables, awkwardly angled cupboards, tilted mattresses.

  Then Morse stood still for many minutes inspecting what he'd been waiting to

  see: the compactor bins twelve of them in a row. Each bin (Morse attempted a

  non-too-scientific analysis) was a 12-ton, 6 it. X 20 it. " white-bodied

  metal container, a broad green stripe painted horizontally along its middle,

  with a grilled covering at the receiving end which customers could easily

  lift before depositing their car-booted detritus there; and where a ramp was

  ever moving forward and back, forward and back, and pushing the divers

  deposits from the bin's mouth through into some unseen, un savoury interior.

  On the side of each bin were start stop and 'red green' buttons and switches

  which appeared to control the complex operation; and even as Morse watched, a

  site-work- man came alongside, somehow interpreting the evidence and

  (presumably? ) deciding whether any particular bin was sufficiently stuffed

  to get lifted on to one of the great lorries lumbering around, and to get

  carted off to where was it? - Sutton Courtenay.

  Morse tackled the young pony-tailed operative as he was

  tapping one of the bins, rather like a man tapping the upturned hull of some

  stricken submarine to see if there were any signs of life.

  "How long's it take to fill one of these things?"

  "Depends. Holidays and weekends? Pretty quick only a day, sometimes.

  Usually though? Two, three days. Depends, like I said."

  "How many bins have gone today?"

  "Two? No, three, I think."

  "You didn't, er, notice anything unusual about ... about anything?"

  "What sort o' thing, mate?"

  "Forget it, son! And, by the way, I wasn't aware I was one of your mates."

  "An' I wasn't aware you was me fuckin' father, neither!" spat the

  spotty-faced youth, as an outsmarted Morse walked unhappily away.

  It had not been a particularly productive afternoon. Morse hadn't even had

  the nous to bring his little bag of grass cuttings along, to be tossed, with

  full official blessing, into the garden waste (green) depository.

  Back in Cox's office Morse was (for him) comparatively generous with his

  gratitude for the help he'd been provided with. And before leaving, he took

  a last look at the month of May's lascivious self-offering to all who looked

  and longed and lusted after her.

  People like Stanley Cox; like Cox's fellow Waste Disposal Operatives; like

  Chief Inspector Morse, who stood in front of her again and thought she

  reminded him of another woman a woman he'd met so very recently.

  Reminded him of Debbie Richardson.

  101

  chapter twenty-three A novel, like a beggar, should always be kept

  'moving on. Nobody knew this better than Fielding, whose novels, like most

  good ones, are full of inns (Augustine Birrell, The Office of Literature) it

  was still only 2. 30 p. m. that same day when Lewis pulled into the small

  car park of the Maiden's Arms, a low-roofed building of Cotswold stone which

  was Lower Swinstead's only public house. A notice beside the entrance

  announced the opening hours for Friday as 12 noon-3 p. m. " 6.30-11 P.M.

  At a table by the sole window of the small bar sat two aged villagers

  drinking beer from straight pint glasses, smoking Woodbines, and playing

  cribbage. Only one other customer: a pale-faced, ear-pierced, greasy-haired

  youth, who stood feeding coin after coin into an unresponsive fruit machine.

  When Lewis asked for the landlord, the man behind the bar introduced himself

  as no less a personage.

  "What can I get you, sir?"

  Lewis showed his ID.

  "Can we talk?"

  Tom Bitten was a square of a man, small of stature and wide of body, his

  weather-beaten features framed with a grizzly beard, a pair of humorous eyes,

  and a single ear-ring in the left lobe. A dark-blue T-shirt paraded

  "The Maidens Arms' across a deep chest.

  Lewis came to the point without preamble: "You know a woman called Deborah

  Deborah Richardson?"

  "Debbie? Oh yeah. Everybody knows Debbie." He spoke with a West Country

  burr, and clearly neither of the card-players was hard-of-hearing, for had

  Lewis had occasion to turn round at that moment he would have noted a

  half-smiling nod of agreement on each of their faces.

  Lewis continued: "Her partner's been released from prison this morning. You

  know Harry Repp?"

  "Harry? Oh yeah! Everybody knows Harry." (The fingers of the card-players

  froze momentarily, and each had stopped smiling. ) "He's not been in this

  morning?"

  Td've seen him if he had, wouldn't I? "

  "It's just that he's not been home yet, that's all. And we want to make sure

  he's OK."

  "Having a noggin or two somewhere, I shouldn't wonder.
That's what I'd be

  doing."

  "How long have you been landlord here?"

  "Let's see now..."

  "Seven year come September, Biff," came an answer from behind.

  "Thank you, Bert!" Biff turned his attention back to Lewis as he held a

  proprietorially polished glass up to the light like a radiographer examining

  an X-ray.

  "You're going to ask me about the murder I know that. There's been things in

  the papers, and we're all interested.

  Can't pretend we're not. Biggest thing ever happened round here. "

  "Lots of rum ours weren't there? You know, about Mrs Harrison. Having a bit

  on the side, perhaps?"

  "Well, it weren't me! And Alf and Bert here, they're both a bit past it now."

  ("Speak for yourself!" - from one of the septuagenarians. ) "Did she ever

  come in here with any men?"

  Biff shook his head indeterminately: "Simon, the boy? Only occasionally

  though. Deaf, see! I 'spect it was a bit dull for him not being able to

  hear the sparkling repartee of my regulars, like Alf and Bert here."

  103

  ("Used to drink Coca-Cola from Alf, or was it Bert?) " What about the

  daughter? "

  "Sarah? Nice pair o' legs, Sarah."

  ("Not the only nice pair o' things!" - sotto voce from behind. ) "With a

  boyfriend in tow, was it?"

  "Sometimes."

  "With her mum?"

  "Nah! Wouldn't have wanted act-around, would she?"

  "Why not?"

  "Well . . . attractive, wasn't she, Sarah? It was her mum had the real

  sex-appeal, though. Could have had most fellahs round here, if they'd had

  ajar or two."

  ("Even if they hadn't!" - from Bert, or was it Alf? ) "Did you ever come up

  with any names?"

  "Names? Nah! Like I said . . ."

  "Must have been rum ours though?"

  "Never heard any me self Biff looked over Lewis's shoulder: "You ever hear

  any rum ours lads?"

  "Not me," said Bert.

  "Nor me," said Alf.

  Lewis felt certain that all three of them were lying. And, according to the

  report, the police on the original enquiry had felt very much the same: that

  the villagers were quite willing to hint that Yvonne Harrison had not exactly

  been the high priestess of marital fidelity; but that when it came to naming

  names, they'd decided to clamp up. En bloc.

  "Drink on the house, sir?"

  Lewis declined, and bade his farewell, nodding to the card- players as he

  walked to the door, where he stopped and turned back towards the landlord,

  pointing to the T-shirt: "Shouldn't there be an apostrophe before the " s"?"

  Biff grinned.

  "Funny you should say that. Fellow in here last night asked me exactly the

  same thing!"

  Lewis walked slowly round to the car park, noting the plaque on the

  side-wall: Parking strictly for customers. Other vehicles will be clamped.

  Release fee 25 Need more than that, thought Lewis, to un-clamp a small

  community which was so clearly still maintaining its conspiracy of silence.

  But Lewis was wrong.

  As he took out his car-keys, he saw the youth who had just been feeding the

  fruits of his lab ours into the fruit machine. Waiting for him. Beside the

  car.

  "Police, aincha?"

  "Yes?"

  "You was asking about things in there."

  "I'm always asking about things."

  "Just that somebody else was asking them same sort o' questions, see?

  Couldn't help hearing, could I? And this fellah - he was asking me a few

  things. About Mrs Harrison. About if I'd ever seen her with any fellah in

  the pub. But I couldn't quite remember. Not at the time. "

  "You remember now, though?"

  "Right on the nail, copper. Told me to give 'im a buzz if I suddenly

  remembered something. Said, you know, it might be worthwhile like."

  "Why didn't you ring him?"

  "That's just it, though. I'd seen her with the fellah that asked me, see?

  Same bleedin fellah!"

  "You mean ... it was him you'd seen with Mrs Harrison?"

  "Right on the nail, copper."

  "What did he look like, this fellow?"

  105

  "Well, sort of ... I can't really . . ." "He gave you his name?"

  "No. Gave me 'is phone number though, like I said." The youth produced a

  circular beer-mat from his pocket. Lewis looked down at a telephone number

  written above the red Bass triangle, written in the small, neat hand he knew

  so well: the personal ex-directory telephone number of Chief Inspector Morse.

  chapter twenty-four In many an Oxfordshire Ale-house the horseshoe is hung

  upside- down, in the form that is of an Arch or an Omega. This age- old

  custom (I have been convincingly informed) is not to allow the Luck to run

  out but to prevent the Devil building up a nest therein.

  (D. Small, A Most Complete Guide to the Hostelries of the Cotswolds) As he

  stood amid the wilderness of waste, a High Vizjacket over his summer shirt

  and a red safety helmet on his head, Chief Inspector Morse realized that he

  had miscalculated rather badly. But he'd had to check it up.

  It had always been the same with him. Whenever as a young boy reading under

  his bedside lamp he'd come across an unfamiliar word, he'd known with

  certainty that he could never look forward to sleep until he'd traced the

  newcomer's credentials and etymology in Chambers' Dictionary, the book that

  stood alongside The Family Doctor (1910), A Pictorial History of the First

  World War, and The Life of Captain Cook, on the single short shelf that

  comprised his parents' library.

  His father (sadly, almost tragically) had been a clandestine gambler.

  And Morse was fully aware that this time he himself had put his money on a

  rank outsider: the possibility that someone had murdered Harry Repp; had

  disposed of his body in the Redbridge Waste Disposal Centre; had disposed of

  this hypothetical body in a particular part of that Centre 107

  specifically

  in one of the compactor bins perhaps: further, that the said and equally

  hypothetical bin had been, was being, or was about to be, driven out in a

  hypothetical black bag to Sutton Courtenay.

  And, above all, that somebody might have observed such a hypothetical

  deposit. Ridiculous! William Hill or Ladbrokes would probably have offered

  odds of 1,000,000-1 against any such eventuality.

  On impulse Morse had driven down the A34, thence along the A4130, to the

  land-fill site on the outskirts of Sutton Courtenay. Where, after a series

  of telephone calls from the temporary (permanent) Portakabins, the management

  had finally acknowledged the bona fides of their dubious visitor.

  It was in a Land-rover that (finally) Morse had been driven out to the

  tipping area, where virtually continuous convoys of lorries from the whole of

  Oxfordshire were raising the telescopic legs of container-cargoes to some 45

  degrees as they began to dp their loads; moving forward in disjunctive jerks

  as they ensured the contents were fully discharged, and leaving behind a

  distinctive trail of their own particular type of rubbish As a rather

  dispirited Morse watched these operations, he imagined that perhaps when

  viewed from
some hovering helicopter each truck would seem like an artist's

  brush, with the trail of the gradually extending rubbish like a stroke of

  variegated paint being smeared across the canvas of the land- scape.

  But Morse accepted the more prosaic truth of the situation immediately: the

  truck drivers themselves would very seldom, if ever, have occasion to notice,

  let alone to examine, the contents of the loads they were emptying.

  He voiced his thoughts.

  "If a driver dumped a body .. . well, he wouldn't really know much about

  it, would he?"

  Colin Rice, the site manager, hesitated awhile before replying - not because

  he had the slightest doubt about the answer to this question, but because he

  felt reluctant immediately to disappoint his somewhat melancholic inquisitor.

 

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