To the local rubbish tip to dispose of a few items surplus to requirements, and to mooch around Cheapskates' Parade for a couple of freebies.Clutching my ill-gotten golf bag to my chest (and discovering from a rapidly-spreading green stain why, exactly, it had been dumped in the first place), I bump into our local beat officer, PC Jackson, struggling toward the household waste skips.
There is the briefest flicker of horrified recognition as I greet him – for being identified in mufti is the greatest fear of the law enforcement officer – and I offer to help heave three large, mis-shapen black plastic sacks into the abyss.
He knows what I'm thinking.
"It's not what you're thinking," he says at length.
I raise an eyebrow, quizzically.
"I should think not," I reply, "Carved up bodies should go in with rubble and hard core."
"Ha ha ha"
"Ha ha ha"
"Ha ha"
"Ha ha ha ha ha hahahaha ha harrrrgh. No, really – it's NOT what you think."
An opportunity.
"Five hundred quid."
"Done."
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