Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

"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.

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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,