Free Bury in Haste by Jean Rowden Page B

strangers in as well as the regulars, I heard one of them say they’d come from the other side of Belston, just for the performance; fancy that, Minecliff’s getting famous. Bronc’ll turn up, don’t you worry. Got a schedule he has, regular as clockwork. In the old days his next call after The Goose was always The Lodge, but he’d get no welcome there since Mrs Emerson moved in.’
    ‘I suppose not, but I’ll check.’ With a sigh Deepbriar thanked him and set out for home, wondering what sort of reception he’d get from Mary, and heartily wishing he’d never heard of Mrs Emerson, or the Minecliff Amateur Operatic Society.
     
    The week didn’t improve. On Wednesday the night-time marauder visited Quinn’s farm again, turning a tap on in the dairy and causing a flood that made the morning’s milking so late that the milk couldn’t be collected and had to be poured away. Deepbriar spent an hour investigating the crime, if crime it was, with Ferdy Quinn bellowing at him the whole time. He came away no wiser.
    When a gate was left open in the early hours of Thursday morning, and a dozen bullocks strayed on to the arterial road over a mile away, the consequences could have been very serious, but luckily a couple of men heading for the early shift at the Falbrough paint works stopped and herded the bewildered animals into a vacant paddock nearby.
    Once the loss was discovered, Alan, the cowman, was despatched with old Bob to fetch the beasts home. Faced with compensating the owner of the paddock and buying the factory workers a pint, Quinn drove into Falbrough and spent an hour haranguing Sergeant Hubbard, who in turn gave Deepbriar a dressing down on the telephone. As a result the constable endured a cold and damp Thursday night riding his bicycle along the lanes surrounding Quinn’s farm.
    Things were bad on the home front as well. Mary seemed determined not to forgive him, and meals were eaten in silence, nor did the significance of their content escape the constable. There was cold beef, the remains of Sunday’s burnt offering, on Tuesday, not the usual hot cottage pie. On Wednesday he made no comment when there was tripe for dinner, although he disliked it. Next day he sat down to a plate of pigs’ trotters, which he liked even less.
    On Friday morning, summoned to report to his superiors, Deepbriar cycled, yawning widely, to Falbrough, his thoughts on little but his bed. Unimpressed by his lack of progress, Sergeant Hubbard urged him to double his efforts to track down Quinn’s raider.
    ‘Maybe you ought to hide yourself on the farm,’ he suggested, ‘be ready for him.’
    ‘It’s too big an area,’ Deepbriar protested. ‘The fire wasn’t even in sight from the farmhouse, nor were the gates that were left open.’
    ‘Well, you’d better think of something. Mr Quinn’s got influence. He’s threatening to go to the Chief Constable if we don’t get something done, and I wouldn’t put it past him.’
    ‘I’m doing my best, Sarge,’ Deepbriar said, stifling another yawn. ‘But a man’s got to sleep sometimes.’
    They were interrupted then, a constable calling for Sergeant Hubbard to help at the front desk. ‘It’s this woman,’ he said. ‘Reckons her husband’s gone missing. I was looking for Sergeant Jakes, but there’s nobody in the CID office.’
    ‘Is there ever?’ Hubbard grumbled, getting to his feet. ‘That’s all we need, another flipping Walkingham. All right, Thorny, go home and get your head down, we want you fresh as a daisy out on watch tonight.’
    Detouring to the canteen for a cup of tea, hoping it would wake him up for the journey home, Deepbriar passed the interview room, where the door had been left ajar. He could hear Hubbard’s voice, raised to frustration pitch. ‘Look, I’ve told you, we can’t go rushing around looking for a man who may have just decided to go AWOL for a few days holiday.’
    Deepbriar paused, enjoying Hubbard’s discomfort.
    ‘I’ve