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
