Free Passing Strange by Catherine Aird Page B

everyone who had been at the Flower Show, of drafting in men from all over the county to knock on every door, to sit and make lists, to crosscheck statement against statement: but he didn’t want to do it. It went down very well with the press and the public – and very badly indeed with the policemen and women who were required to do it.
    It was easier to find out this way.
    â€œThe Esdaile Homes man,” said Walls. “We saw him, didn’t we, Fred?”
    â€œDid you know him, then?” enquired Sloan. Businessmen didn’t usually like to show themselves when there was opposition to their plans and projects. They sent their Public Relations men into the field instead as a rule. To bat for them, you might say.
    â€œMiss Tompkins held a meeting in the school,” explained Fred Pearson. “Her and her precious Society.”
    â€œMr Esdaile came to that,” said Ken Walls.
    â€œSo did about three hundred other people,” said Burton crossly.
    â€œA bit of fun, that was,” remarked Ken Walls reflectively. “I enjoyed it.”
    â€œAn indignation meeting,” said Burton severely. “That’s what it was. Neither more nor less. And not properly convened either.”
    â€œThe fur did fly a bit,” admitted Pearson.
    â€œI thought it might,” said Ken Walls simply. “That’s why I went.”
    Sloan let the chat ripple round him while he studied Norman Burton’s sketch-plan. Something about it teased his mind … there was something there he should take note of somewhere … Try as he might, though, he couldn’t pin it down. Perhaps it would come if he didn’t think about it too much.
    He turned back to the police side of things.
    Detective-Constable Crosby, Acting Temporary Scene of Crime Officer, was ready and waiting for him with some neatly labelled plastic bags.
    â€œFind anything, Crosby?”
    â€œYes, sir. A drinking straw, some binder twine, two empty cigarette packets …” Crosby turned the plastic bags over one by one.
    â€œNo empty can?” said Sloan. One thing was certain. They weren’t going to need an Exhibits Officer on this case. Not for that lot and a length of thin wire – deodand or not.
    â€œEmpty can, sir?” Crosby looked blank.
    â€œTo go with the drinking straw.” Even Crosby wouldn’t have overlooked a can.
    His face cleared. “No, sir. No empty can.” He resumed his inventory. “And an old horse-shoe nail.”
    â€œA battle was lost for the want of one of them,” remarked Sloan absently. He’d just noticed a thick-set man who had walked self-confidently through the Priory gates and was beckoning to Norman Burton.
    â€œYes, sir,” said Crosby phlegmatically.
    â€œAnything else unusual?” Now Norman Burton was walking across to the newcomer.
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œWe’ve got company,” announced Ken Walls as Burton turned and brought the man back with him.
    â€œThe lad himself,” observed Fred Pearson enigmatically.
    â€œThis is Mr Cedric Milsom of Dorter End Farm, Almstone, Inspector,” said Norman Burton punctiliously. “He’s come to find out what’s happening about his lorry.”
    Sloan acknowledged the introduction with interest. He was glad to meet any tenant of the Priory estate just now, though meeting the rightful owner would suit him even better.
    The farmer said, “The tents are due back with the hire firm tonight, Inspector. That’s why I came down.”
    â€œThey can all go back except the one,” said Sloan.
    â€œYou can tell them there’s one missing,” intervened Burton fussily, the schoolmaster in him coming to the fore again, “but that it’s safe enough.” He frowned. “I’ll give the driver a note for them. Yes, I think that that would be the right thing to do.”
    Sloan let him get on with that. There were always those