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 feet × 20 feet, 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, unsavory 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 workman 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 ponytailed 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.
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 oneother customer: a pale-faced, ear-pierced, greasy-haired youth, who stood feeding coin after coin into an unresponsive fruit machine. When Lewis asked for
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 feet × 20 feet, 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, unsavory 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 workman 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 ponytailed 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.
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 oneother customer: a pale-faced, ear-pierced, greasy-haired youth, who stood feeding coin after coin into an unresponsive fruit machine. When Lewis asked for
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