Free Cobweb by Margaret Duffy Page A

of greens. Pretty tables and chairs were set outside these and there were spring flowers everywhere. Number 16 was right down at the end. The large key turned easily in the lock and I went in.
    This, then, had been John Gray’s little bit of private heaven. He had done more work than the warden had thought, the neat beds raked smoothly, not a stone in sight, lavender newly planted to border the paths. My eyes misted as I beheld the brand new canes erected to support runner beans that he would never sow, rows of peas and broad beans that he would never taste just emerging from the soil. A watering can stood full, ready to water them. I watered them.
    There was no summer house, just an ordinary small shed in a far corner that was well maintained and had a large barrel on one side to collect rainwater. As I got closer I could see that repairs had been carried out to part of it and the roof had recently been refelted. The window had been replaced at some stage with an old leaded-glass one, the kind that was used in front doors during the thirties and forties, giving the whole structure a strange kind of charm. I unlocked the door with the other key on the ring and entered.
    As neat as a new pin, the interior had shelves fitted to the rear wall that held plant pots, washed, a few seed trays, ditto, packets of seeds, small tools and gardening magazines, the other walls being devoted to a potting bench beneath the window and clips that held the shafts of larger tools. Just inside the door on the right-hand side was a metal cupboard, the sort that might have seen service in an office. This was secured by a sturdy padlock.
    I reached for my mobile.
    Twenty minutes later I met Patrick at the main entrance and it was obvious that he was not pleased with me.
    â€˜I know, I know, you can’t be expected to come rushing over at my every whim,’ I said.
    I got a long-suffering look.
    â€˜I haven’t whimmed in your direction for ages,’ I pointed out.
    â€˜What do I have to do?’
    â€˜Open a padlock.’
    He sighed and retraced the few paces he had walked from the car to rummage in the cubby box. I do possess a set of keys that will open some locks, but they’re no match for modern padlocks. I don’t know where Patrick acquired his – probably from a thoroughly modern safe-breaker.
    The padlock surrendered after a couple of minutes of careful work, which was gratifying, as we are always reluctant to use bolt cutters and it would have meant finding some. The door seemed slightly ill-fitting but grated open.
    A stainless-steel spade, fork and edging tool, a brush cutter, and a pair of new green wellington boots were arrayed before us. That was all.
    â€˜Why on earth did he keep his wellies locked up in a cupboard?’ I said to cover my disappointment and, it must be admitted, embarrassment.
    Patrick shrugged. ‘They’re incredibly posh and expensive ones, that’s why. Can I go now?’
    I lifted them out and looked at them. There was something rolled up in the right-hand one: papers. I pulled them out, uncoiled them and saw that it was several pages of handwritten notes stapled together.
    â€˜It seems to be about cases that Derek Harmsworth had worked on,’ I reported after quickly reading part of the top sheet. ‘Cases that resulted in trials and people being sent to prison.’ I handed the bundle to Patrick. ‘Gray
must
have thought Harmsworth was murdered – by someone he’d put in jail, by the look of it.’
    â€˜One must assume it is his work,’ Patrick murmured. ‘It shouldn’t be too difficult to find a sample of his handwriting at the nick.’ He shot me a sideways glance. ‘This is a real stroke of luck. Sorry for being such a pain in the neck.’
    â€˜What will you do with this?’
    â€˜That’s a good question. It doesn’t actually have anything to do with Special Branch, as I’ve discovered this