The Remorseful Day

Chapter twenty-three

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 Biff en 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 earring 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 cardplayers 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 cardplayers froze momentarily, and each had stopped smiling.)

“He’s not been in this morning?”

“I’d’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 rumors, 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.”

(“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 her 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 a jar 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 rumors though?”

“Never heard any meself.” Biff looked over Lewis’s shoulder: “You ever hear any rumors, 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 inquiry 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 cardplayers as he walked to the door, where he stopped and turned back toward 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 sidewall:

Need more than that, thought Lewis, to unclamp 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 labors 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?”

“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.