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datatime: 2022-12-02 04:47:54 Author:AdNyZMzk

'We?' said Pooley. 'Where do you get this "we" from? It was your wheelbarrow.'

Up at the bar Norman, who had quietly been reading a copy of the Brentford Mercury, said suddenly, 'Now there's a thing.'

'What's that,' asked Neville.

'But "early arrest", what do you think that means?'

The two men did not wait to see what might happen. They looked at each other, dropped the newspaper and fled.

There are many pleasures to be had in camping out. The old nights under canvas, the wind in your hair and fresh air in your lungs. An opportunity to get away from it all and commune with nature. Days in sylvan glades watching the sunshine dancing between the leaves and dazzling the eyes. Birdsong swelling at dawn to fill the ears. In harmony with the Arcadian Spirits of olden Earth. At night a time for reverie about the crackling campfire, the sweet smell of mossy peat and pine needles. Ah yes, that is the life.

Omally awoke with a start, something was pressing firmly into his throat and stopping his breath. 'Ow, ooh, get off, get off.' These imprecations were directed towards Jim Pooley, whose oversized boot had come snugly to rest beneath Omally's chin. 'Will you get off I say?'

'I don't think the Professor would appreciate that, it might interfere with his plans. Also the police might claim conspiracy because we didn't come forward earlier.'

The two men did not wait to see what might happen. They looked at each other, dropped the newspaper and fled.

Norman prodded at his paper. 'Wheelbarrow clue in double slaying.'

'But there isn't a photograph of the wheelbarrow?'

'I mean we might tell the police about what we saw; it might start an investigation into what is going on in the Mission.'

'I have no other suggestions,' said Jim. 'I can only counsel caution and the maintaining of the now legendary low profile.'

Ornally shook his head. 'Police stations are bad places to break into, this is well known.'

'Yes, I can't see the Mercury's ace reporter getting the journalist of the year award for it.'

'What's that,' asked Neville.

The words were drowned by the scream of a police-car siren. Driven at high speed, the car came through the red lights at the bottom of Haling Road, roared past them and screeched to a standstill a hundred yards further on, outside the Flying Swan. A plainclothes detective and three burly constables leapt from the vehicle and swept into the saloon bar.

'I mean we might tell the police about what we saw; it might start an investigation into what is going on in the Mission.'

'I was just talking about that to Pooley,' said Neville, gesturing towards Jim's table.

'We?' said Pooley. 'Where do you get this "we" from? It was your wheelbarrow.'

Norman's shop was closed for the half day and a few copies of the midweek Mercury still remained in the wire rack to the front door. Jim took one of these and rattled the letterbox in a perfect impression of a man dropping pennies into it. He and Omally thumbed through the pages.

Omally awoke with a start, something was pressing firmly into his throat and stopping his breath. 'Ow, ooh, get off, get off.' These imprecations were directed towards Jim Pooley, whose oversized boot had come snugly to rest beneath Omally's chin. 'Will you get off I say?'

'I don't think the Professor would appreciate that, it might interfere with his plans. Also the police might claim conspiracy because we didn't come forward earlier.'

Norman's shop was closed for the half day and a few copies of the midweek Mercury still remained in the wire rack to the front door. Jim took one of these and rattled the letterbox in a perfect impression of a man dropping pennies into it. He and Omally thumbed through the pages.

Up at the bar Norman, who had quietly been reading a copy of the Brentford Mercury, said suddenly, 'Now there's a thing.'

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