Inspector Morse 13 The Remorseful Day

"Poor sod!  Bet he was looking forward ..  .  you know.  Attractive woman,

our Debbie!"

"Yeah."  The builder took a deep draught of his bitter.

"Did you goto the crem?"

"No.  Like you said .  .  ."

"Have you seen her at all since .  .  .  ?"

"No.  Like you said .  .  ."

"The police've been round, they tell me."

"Yeah.  Came in- when was it?  -- Tuesday."

"What'd they want?"

Doubtless the builder would have been enlightened immedi- lately had not two

further customers entered at that point: an elderly, back-packing, stoutly

booted couple.

"Two glasses of orange juice, please!"

"Coming up, sir."

"Beautiful little village you've got here.  So quiet.  So peaceful.

"Far from the madding crowd" - you'll know the quotation?  "

The landlord nodded unconvincingly as he passed over the drinks.

"And you serve meals as well!"

 The couple walked over to the corner furthest from the fruit machine: she

consulting the hostelry's menu; he plotting a possible P.  M.  itinerary from

Family Walks in the Cotswolds.

"Quiet and peaceful!"  mumbled the landlord, as one of the elders stepped

forward with two empty straight glasses.  Words were clearly superfluous.

"You were saying?"  resumed the builder.

"Saying what?"

"About the police?"

"Ah, yes.  That sergeant came in and asked some of us about Harry and Debbie."

"But you hadn't seen either of them?"

"Right!  But, I would've done, see would've seen her, anyway, if it hadn't

been for them for the police.  That Sat'day night I thought I'd just nip over

and take 'em a bottle o' Shampers, like give 'em both a bit of a celebration.

Well, I'd just parked the car and I was just walking along when I saw this

police car driving slowly round and the fellow inside making notes of Reg

numbers by the look of it."

"What'd you say?"

"Didn't say nothing, did I?  Just waited till the coast was clear, then

buggered off back here smartish.  They'd seen the num- her , though.  So not

much point in .  .  ."

"Good story!"

"Bloody (rug story, mate!"

The builder finished his pint.

"Beer's in good nick.  Biff."

"Always in good nick!"

("Is it fuck!"  came sotto voce from the region of the cribbage board  )

"Summar else too," continued the landlord as he pulled the builder a second

pint.

"The police tell me there was a phone call for Debbie that Sat'day night from

the pay-phone here."

"Could have been anybody."

"Yeah."

"Any ideas?"

"Sat'day nights?  Come off it!  Full up to the rafters, ain't we?"

The elderly lady now came to the bar and ordered gammon- and-pineapple with

chips for two; and during this transaction the builder turned round and, with

a fascination that is universal, watched the unequal struggle at the fruit

machine.

From outside came the jingle of an ice-cream van as happy a noise as any to

the youngsters of Lower Swinstead that sunny lunchtime; almost as happy a

noise as that clunk-clunk-clunk of coins falling into the winnings-tray of a

fruit machine.

Conversation at the bar was temporarily suspended, since several noisy

customers were now arriving, including three members of the highly

unsuccessful Lower Swinstead Cricket Club.  There was therefore a

comparatively large audience for the seemingly endless music of the machine:

clunk-clunk clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunkc

unk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk; and an even larger audience as

the impassively faced youth pressed the "Repeat' button successfully with a

further twenty 1 coins duly clanking into the winnings-tray.

"Nearly enough for that honeymoon," said the builder.

"Nonsense!  He'll be putting it all back," said one of the cricketers.

But he wasn't.

With a temporary lull in business, the landlord resumed the conversation.

"Business still pretty good, John?"

"Plenty o' work, yeah.  Having to turn some things down."

"What you got on at the minute?"

"Job in Burford in Sheep Street: bit o' roofing, bit o' pointing, bit o'

painting."

"High up, is it?"

"High enough.  I'll need a coupla extensions on the ladder."

Biffen screwed up his face and closed his eyes.

"You'd never get me up there."

"You're OK, so long as things are firm."

"Not if you get vertigo as bad as me."

 The coins bulged proudly in his trouser-pocket as the bride- groom

designate walked out of the bar.  Once in the passage that led to the

toilets, he lifted the receiver from the pay- phone there, inserted 20p, and

dialled a number.

But what he said, or to whom he spoke, not even the keen- eared elders could

have known.

178

chapter thirty-eight All persons are puzzles until at last we find in

some word or act the key to the man, to the woman; straightway all their past

words and actions lie in light before us (Emerson, Journals) for much of the

week Lewis had been working three- quarters of the way round the clock; but

on Sunday, the day following the events described in the previous chapter, he

felt refreshed after a good sleep and arrived at Kidlington Police HQ at 8.

45 a.  m.  No sign of Morse.  But that mattered little.  It had been facts

that were required.  Not fancies.  Not yet, anyway.  And as he sat taking