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‘You see, we can’t find Miss Osgathorp,’ explained Detective Inspector Sloan, keeping his thoughts on the Third Degree to himself.

‘Oh, I know her,’ said Charmian Lingard, surprised. ‘She was the funny old biddy who worked at the doctor’s. What do the police want her for? Has she done something wrong?’ She raised her eyes dramatically. ‘Don’t say she’s a drug dealer?’

‘She’s been reported missing,’ said Sloan baldly. ‘And what we would like to do is to take some DNA material from your car, Mr Berra. With your permission, of course.’

‘Sure,’ said Berra. He waved an arm. ‘It’s over there.’

‘How would that help,’ intervened Charmian Lingard, ‘if you haven’t found her?’ She examined Sloan’s face. ‘You haven’t found her, have you?’

‘No, madam. Not yet. We will, of course.’

‘And I gave her a lift to the station,’ said Anthony Berra to Charmian Lingard, abandoning his spade and leaping back onto the grass. ‘And told the police so. She dumped her luggage on the front seat and sat on the back seat behind it. I think,’ he said solemnly, ‘she may have felt safer there. She has, I may say, always struck me as the archetypal spinster.’

‘You can’t be too careful if you’re a woman on your own,’ chanted Crosby sententiously. ‘That’s what we always teach the ladies.’ 

‘That’s what I tell my future intended too,’ said Anthony Berra. He grinned. ‘Not that she listens, I’m sure.’

‘Where did you go after you’d dropped Miss Osgathorp off, sir?’ asked Sloan.

The garden designer wrinkled his nose in recollection. ‘A bit of shopping and then the bank, I think. Yes, of course, that’s why I was going into Berebury that day anyway.’

‘That would be the Calleshire and Counties, would it?’ asked Crosby. ‘On the Parade?’

‘It would,’ said Berra. ‘My worldly wealth, such as it is, is in their hands.’

‘Then where on earth did you manage to park?’ asked Crosby with genuine professional curiosity.

‘You may well ask, constable. In the Bellingham Hotel car park, actually,’ said Berra. ‘It’s about the only free place but if you park there you have to eat there, so I did.’

Detective Constable Crosby nodded knowledgeably. ‘That’s what the notice in the car park says. “Park here, eat here”.’

‘So I did both,’ said Anthony Berra neatly.

Detective Inspector Sloan raised something else on his agenda. ‘Mrs Lingard, we are also looking into the
break-in
at Jack Haines’ nursery. Just for the record, do you know of anyone who would have had a vested interest in the plants being raised for you not being available in time to be planted out properly?’

‘I haven’t offended anyone here that I am aware of,’ she said stiffly, ‘and Oswald’s first wife is dead, if that’s what you’re getting at.’ 

Detective Inspector Sloan denied that it was.

‘People can be quite jealous,’ she went on with surprising bitterness, ‘and of course one never knows with the old guard in any village.’

Sloan wasn’t listening. He was concentrating on the meaningful look that Anthony Berra had cast in Oswald Lingard’s direction at his wife’s last remark. That old soldier, though, was taking good care not meet the other man’s eye.

Detective Inspector Sloan was still sitting in his office when Charlie Marsden, ‘F’ Division’s Chief Scenes of Crime Officer, arrived back at the police station from Canonry Cottage at Pelling. Both Superintendent Leeyes and Detective Constable Crosby had long gone off duty. When Sloan had rung his wife, Margaret, to say he would be late back from work she had pointedly enquired the whereabouts of the other two.

‘Gone home,’ he admitted. ‘Both of them.’

‘The man in the middle,’ she said, ‘that’s all you are, Christopher.’

‘Someone’s got to carry the can for the top and the bottom,’ he responded, half-joking.

‘Oppressed by those above and depressed by those below, if you ask me,’ said his wife.

‘So call me Common Man,’ he said lightly.

‘Have it your own way,’ Margaret Sloan said, adding resignedly, ‘it’s a casserole, anyway.’

Not introspective, he decided that this did describe his state quite well. It described Common Man even better. Charlie Marsden, though, another man late for his supper tonight, could only be described as an enthusiast. Sloan found him cheering to listen to.

‘Interesting little trip, Seedy,’ reported the Scenes of Crime Officer, one professional to another. ‘Challenging too. Gave the boys something to get their teeth into.’

‘Tell me more, Charlie,’ invited Sloan, leaning forward. ‘All we had was a quick look.’

The man pulled up a chair and sat down opposite Sloan. ‘You were quite right about there having been two entries. I can confirm that there have also been two quite separate searches in that cottage too, big time. With gloves on. That’s what made it so interesting.’

‘Big time for what, Charlie?’

‘At a guess I should say papers of some sort. No sign of much disturbance in what we call domestic goods except that they’ve obviously been turned over by someone looking for papers. No ripping of sofas or cushions apart or anything flashy like that as you know …’

‘Carpets not lifted?’

‘Not that we could see but I would say that every single book has been opened and shaken about and then been put back on the shelf quite carefully by one of the intruders. Must have had plenty of time.’

‘I think he or she …’

‘They …’ 

‘They probably had as much time as they wanted, Charlie, which is a worry in itself,’ he admitted.

‘Someone got in there with a key,’ agreed Charlie Marsden tacitly.

‘But you found no sign of actual theft, did you, any more than we did?’

‘Not that we could spot. Nothing all that much worth taking there I should say …’

‘Unless it’s gone already,’ put in Sloan automatically. ‘We can’t be too sure about that.’

‘True, but there was nothing to suggest that there might have been great valuables there in the first place. You can always tell, you know.’

Detective Inspector Sloan did know. You only had to step into a house to get the feel for its owners. Just as his friend, Inspector Harpe, from Traffic Division, could tell a lot about the driver from a look at the car, he himself could usually tell what a house owner was like from the garden too. He leant back in his chair. ‘So what was your take on the bungalow itself, then, Charlie?’

The SOCO considered this. ‘I think it was lived in by one not-so-young but not-really-old party – I mean the place hadn’t been grannified, if you know what I mean – no handles in the bath, no walking sticks, no special aids – none of that sort of thing but there was nothing very new there either and hadn’t been for years, I should say. A bit on the shabby side but not so you’d notice. Lots of books about foreign parts and gardens. I’d say the owner was into travel – not one of those who devoted themselves to housework or collecting things.’ Charlie Marsden knew about the downside of that way of life. His wife collected
fine china and the big man was nervous about moving about in his own sitting room.

‘There must have been something very valuable to the two people who went in there,’ mused Sloan. ‘Or that they had reason to believe was valuable, of course.’

‘I can tell you a little about both of them,’ said Marsden. ‘Whoever came in through the pantry window was a bit careless …’

‘We spotted the blood.’

‘Better than that. A few hairs on the broken window. Useful stuff, hair.’

‘Bully for you,’ he said, metaphorically rubbing his hands. The hair of the dog that bit you had nothing on a single strand of human hair with its follicle still attached for the assistance it could sometimes provide in an investigation.

‘His head must have touched the broken glass as he came in.’ Charlie Marsden looked justifiably pleased. ‘And, of course, we’ve taken the missing party’s DNA from a hairbrush in her bedroom. Routine, these days.’

Sloan nodded. ‘Good going, Charlie.’

‘Thought you’d be pleased.’ Charlie Marsden grinned.

‘And I’ve got some DNA said to be hers from a car in which she was given a lift.’ He corrected himself. ‘In which she was said to have been given a lift.’

‘And that’s not all,’ went on the Scenes of Crime man.

‘Surprise me.’

‘He who came through the front door with a key …’ He paused and shot Sloan a quick glance. ‘The male embraces the female and all that guff, you understand.’

‘He or she is implied,’ agreed Sloan solemnly. The
feminists at the police station were not women to be trifled with.

‘He was very careful indeed. Not a single fingerprint or anything else anywhere but he carried out a very thorough search of the place all the same. We couldn’t find a safe and presumably neither could either of them. If there had been any locked box then one or other of them took it away with them.’

Detective Inspector Sloan nodded. ‘That figures.’

Charlie Marsden said, ‘I guess that whoever the intruders were, they both had the same idea about where ladies keep their treasures. Well, their gin, anyway.’

‘Back of the wardrobe,’ said Sloan promptly.

‘Too right. Both had had a rummage round there. No gin, though, but …’

‘But what?’

‘What looked like a very valuable book indeed on orchids. That had been thumbed through too, but with gloves on, of course.’ He looked up. ‘I think that’s about all. It’s a missing person case, I think you said?’

‘With knobs on, Charlie. So did you find what I asked you to look for?’

‘A spare key?’ Charlie Marsden shook his head. ‘No.’

‘That’s what’s worrying,’ said Sloan. ‘The neighbour is adamant that she didn’t ever leave one with anyone …’

‘Which could mean,’ the Scenes of Crime man finished the sentence for him, ‘that whoever went in there with one took it off her.’

‘I’m very much afraid so,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan soberly. He swept his papers into a drawer and locked it. ‘Not that I can do anything more about that
tonight but I’ve got another job for you, Charlie. Just as interesting but different.’

‘Surprise me again.’

‘I want to know what was in a bonfire lit this morning in the garden of a house in Pelling called The Hollies. The name’s Feakins.’

‘We’ll be round there first thing,’ promised Charlie Marsden, making a note.

‘Just give me time to get you a search warrant before you go,’ said Sloan, ‘and for heaven’s sake keep a low profile. Make sure that the only pictures that get taken are yours – the last thing we want is the press publishing photographs of an old bonfire. Not at this stage, anyway. I want them to have one of the missing person first.’

‘Another search warrant, Sloan?’ barked Superintendent Leeyes the next morning. ‘Whose house is it for this time?’

‘It’s not for a house, sir,’ Sloan said quickly, the superintendent never being at his best first thing in the morning. ‘It’s for a bonfire – or rather the remains of one – in a garden belonging to one of the customers of Jack Haines at Pelling. He’s one of those who have lost plants at Haines’ nursery, which is interesting.’

‘Don’t say that they’ve started burning people at the stake out there,’ Leeyes said, heavily sarcastic. ‘Or that your missing person’s gone up in smoke.’

‘I don’t know what has been burnt,’ replied Sloan seriously, ‘but there is a man there who was prepared to have a bonfire in spite of being bent double and in great pain from backache. He can hardly stand and yet he got himself out into the garden somehow yesterday afternoon
to light it and scuttled back out there again pretty smartly after he thought we’d left.’

‘And burn what exactly?’

‘That is what we don’t know yet, sir. Not until we’ve got a warrant and had a good look. All we do know is that it was not long after he and his wife got back from seeing their solicitor.’

Superintendent Leeyes, no fan of the Defence Counsel branch of the legal profession, gave a snort. ‘You take their advice and they take your money.’

‘There is something else,’ ploughed on Sloan gamely. ‘This man Benedict Feakins also got quite agitated when the name of the missing person was mentioned and as soon as we were out of his sight …’

‘But not out of yours, I take it, Sloan?’

‘No, sir. Crosby drove the car away while I kept watch.’

‘And?’

‘And Feakins staggered back out into the garden straightway,’ said Sloan, ‘and started raking about in the remains of the bonfire like a madman.’

‘Hm.’ Leeyes drummed his fingers on his desktop. ‘Anything else to report?’

‘We’ve been checking on other leads, sir.’

‘Such as?’

‘Crosby has confirmed Anthony Berra’s story – he’s the last person known to have seen Enid Osgathorp alive. He did visit the Berebury branch of the Calleshire and Counties Bank and he did have lunch at the Bellingham, just as he said he did. We’re checking the street CCTV cameras now. No joy from the railway people though – they can’t help us at all. No sighting of the missing person
on their cameras at all and though she had a pre-booked ticket there is no trace of it having been checked or handed in.’

‘And what now?’ grunted Leeyes.

‘Now, sir, I’m going to check on the recent death of Benedict Feakins’ father,’ said Sloan, ‘just to be on the safe side, and then have another word with the old admiral. He made no secret of not liking the missing person but he wouldn’t say why.’

PC Edward York, the Coroner’s Officer, was very much a family man. Grey-haired and distinctly on the elderly side for a police constable, he had the bedside manner of an old-fashioned family doctor. Exuding muted sympathy, he attended to the bereaved with a skill honed over the years on the losses suffered by other people.

He was rather more forthright in the presence of Detective Inspector Sloan and Detective Constable Crosby. ‘Feakins, did you say? Oh, yes, he came my way all right. An old boy who was found dead in his greenhouse out at Pelling not all that long ago?’

‘That’s him,’ said Sloan.

‘Usual thing – milk not taken in, newspapers piled up,’ said York. ‘Always a great help. I think it was the postman who went looking around the place for him the next morning and found him on the greenhouse floor.’

‘Nice way to go,’ remarked Crosby, who was only now getting used to seeing the bodies of people who hadn’t gone in a nice way.

‘Natural causes?’ asked Sloan.

‘Oh, yes,’ said the Coroner’s Officer immediately. ‘
Post-mortem
but no inquest. Heart packed up, if I remember rightly. All quite straightforward – from my point of view, anyway. Family very upset, naturally, but they lived away. The usual story – the parent didn’t want to be a nuisance and the younger generation didn’t want to seem overly concerned because the old man was so keen on keeping his independence for as long as he could.’

‘A common problem,’ nodded Sloan. His own mother wasn’t frail yet but would be one day and perhaps would be like that too.

PC York said, ‘The son told us that a regular telephone call every Sunday evening was about all that his father would agree to.’

‘Solomon Grundy died on Saturday, buried on Sunday,’ remarked Crosby inconsequentially.

Detective Inspector Sloan scribbled a note to himself. ‘No sign of the son being overcome by remorse or anything like that?’

The Coroner’s Officer, a man experienced in these matters, shook his head. ‘His reaction seemed perfectly normal to me or I would have remembered. He was shaken, naturally, but he identified him in the ordinary way.’

‘Thanks, Ted,’ said Sloan. ‘That’s been a help.’ He shuffled some papers about on his desk until a copy of the photograph of Enid Osgathorp at her retirement presentation surfaced. ‘By the way, should this old lady ever come into your view …’

‘Dead or alive,’ interposed Crosby.

Sloan decided to rise above this and carried on. ‘Let me know pronto, will you, Ted? She’s gone missing.’ 

PC York regarded the picture with interest. ‘Will do. Haven’t seen her yet.’ He tapped the photograph with his finger. ‘I can tell you, though, who the clergyman in this snap is. I saw quite a lot of him not all that long ago. That was at Pelling too. Name of Beddowes.’

‘The one whose wife committed suicide,’ nodded Sloan. ‘Yes, that’s him at her retirement presentation handing over something to Enid Osgathorp. We’ve already seen him.’

‘Very unfortunate, that suicide was, what with the daughter’s wedding pending at the time.’ He frowned. ‘I think I heard that they went ahead with the ceremony after the inquest but that it was a very quiet do in the end.’

‘Understandable,’ said Sloan.

‘Lot of gossip out there at the time, of course,’ said York, a man used to working with gossip. ‘It goes with the territory.’

‘Small villages are like that,’ opined Sloan.

‘It didn’t amount to anything,’ said York, ‘because of course I looked into it. The gossip, I mean.’

‘Naturally.’ Detective Inspector Sloan, mentor, made a mental note to talk to Crosby sometime about the importance of policemen properly evaluating gossip without spreading it – but not here and not now.

‘The daughter blamed herself for wanting a proper wedding reception and honeymoon and all the works but I must say there didn’t seem anything very out of the ordinary about their plans to me.’ PC York had three married daughters and knew the scenario well. ‘Quite the opposite, actually.’