Free Cobweb by Margaret Duffy

cut, eviscerated, in the living room on a Sunday morning by the woman who lived in the flat directly above him. She had been returning from buying a newspaper when she’d noticed his front door was wide open and there were bloodstains on the step. Tentatively investigating, she had subsequently had to be treated for severe shock.
    As the man had lived on his own and no one could be traced who had visited him or knew him well enough to be able to say if anything had been stolen, it was impossible to discover if any of his possessions were missing other than the obvious; a new television, the receipt for which was discovered in a home file, and his computer. The case was being treated as a burglary that had gone wrong and, in the words of corny crime novels, the trail had gone cold.
    I went out, mulling all this over. Then I found myself thinking about the allotment. Allotments nearly always have sheds and from what I know about men their shed is often a refuge, a place to escape from the world and especially any womenfolk – in short, a holy of holies. I might as well go and have a look at the DI’s allotment on the grounds that probably no one else had thought to. Anyway, temporarily or not, I seemed to be condemned to tinkering and poking about on the edges of these investigations.
    It took several phone calls, as I sat in the car, to find out that Gray’s allotment was one of two dozen or so situated almost right in the centre of Woodhill. The land had apparently originally been part of an estate owned by an eccentric eighteenth-century industrialist with no family, who had left it in his will to be run as a charitable trust, the house as an education centre, the gardens open to the public and the meadow, walled vegetable garden and paddocks turned into allotments for artisans and their families. I was told that at one time the waiting list had been long, one had literally had to wait for people to die or move away from the district to get one, but now local people had apparently lost interest and quite a few of the plots were vacant, although plans were afoot to remedy this. The actual gardens were closed to the general public at the moment as they were being restored, but I could go and view the allotment area if I so wished.
    Eventually, I found them, the directions having been somewhat vague. Now completely hemmed in by houses, the entrance was no more than a horse-drawn-carriage-width lane with a very small signboard directing the visitor to the Benfleet Centre, presumably referring to the house. I soon discovered there was a resident warden who kept a close and severe eye on things from a lodge just inside the gate. He was waiting for me.
    â€˜I understand you’re here on behalf of Woodhill CID,’ said this custodian of the cabbages ponderously. ‘I was called just now by the council’s allotment officer – whose responsibility this place isn’t, of course, as it belongs to the Trust.’
    I introduced myself, regretting the white lie, but if I had started explaining about SOCA it would have taken all morning.
    â€˜I don’t think poor Mr Gray had had a chance to do more than start to prepare the ground. So tragic. You’ll have to leave your car here, I’m afraid, as there isn’t room to park farther in. All available space is taken up by earth-moving machinery, as they’re working on the gardens. You’ll need the keys – just as well I have spares. You might ask for Inspector Gray’s to be returned, by the way.’
    Keys?
    Wending my way between parked diggers in the narrow lane, I soon discovered why. These were very, very special allotments. Each was walled or fenced and had a gate, just like a private garden. Standing on tiptoe and peeping over the tops of a couple of the gates as I walked by, I saw that they had small summer houses painted in shades that are sometimes referred to as ‘heritage’ colours: grey-blue and the palest