Dead Heading by Catherine Aird

Investigation Department of ‘F’ Division of the Calleshire County Constabulary, small though it was, and it rankled. On the other hand, what with his appraisal coming up so soon, this was no time to say so to anyone, least of all Superintendent Leeyes.
    It was Crosby, though, who vocalised the sentiment. ‘Who do they think we are?’ he demanded indignantly. ‘Maids of all work?’
    ‘Maids of all police work,’ rejoined the detective inspector crisply. ‘Now get going, Crosby.’
    Canonry Cottage at Pelling was in the middle of the village, the uncut grass in its front garden giving a clear sign to the world of the continued absence of its owner.
    ‘Miss Osgathorp always lets me know when she’ll becoming back,’ said her neighbour, a large woman in a flowery apron. It had been she who had rung the police. ‘Because of getting in the milk and the bread for her.’
    ‘So when …’ began Sloan.
    ‘That’s just it, Inspector,’ said the woman. ‘This time she hasn’t either done that or come back anyway.’
    ‘Ah …’ said Sloan, the thought idly running through his mind that large flowers on the apron would have suited the woman better than the tiny little ones that were there. Daisies, he thought they were. Poppies would have been better. Big, blowsy ones. ‘What about her mobile phone? Have you got the number of that?’
    ‘She wouldn’t have one of them, Inspector. Said she’d spent all her working life answering the telephone for the doctor and she wasn’t going to do any more telephoning than she had to.’
    ‘No word then?’ asked Crosby, already bored.
    The woman shook her head. ‘Not even a postcard and it’s been three weeks since she went now. It’s just not like Miss Osgathorp.’ She pointed towards her fireplace. ‘You can see that I’ve got a lovely row of postcards from her on the mantelpiece over there. Come from all over the place, they have.’
    ‘Where had she been going?’ asked Sloan.
    The woman reached into the pocket of her apron, produced an old envelope and proffered it to the two policemen. On it was a word that began with the letters ‘Carmarthen’ and then trailed off into an almost illegible scribble, finishing with the signature ‘Enid Osgathorp’. ‘Search me. Mind you,’ she added fairly, ‘she doesn’t always tell me where she’s going, me not being someoneto go about much. Proper traveller she’s been since the old doctor died.’ She sniffed. ‘I daresay he left her something.’
    ‘The old doctor?’ queried Sloan.
    The woman looked surprised that he needed to ask. ‘Doctor Heddon, of course. Everyone knew him. Was our doctor out here at Pelling for years and Miss Osgathorp was his secretary and receptionist all the time he was here. Knew everyone, both of them.’
    Sloan paused for a moment, seeking a tactful way to put his next question. He decided there wasn’t one. ‘Did she leave you a key to her house?’
    The woman shook her head, unoffended. ‘No. I was glad about that. She used to say “Norah, you don’t want to be worried about my little old cottage. If it burns down, it burns down, and if burglars get in they won’t find all that much there to take and I’m not leaving a key with anyone else either”.’
    Detective Inspector Sloan forbore to say that that aspect of theft hadn’t deterred a lot of housebreakers he had known. He didn’t mention either the feeling of outrage left behind by intruders, often worse than any loss of valuables. Instead he dispatched Crosby to take a look round the outside of the cottage next door.
    The woman was still going on about her neighbour. ‘Miss Osgathorp always said what you had to concentrate on when you got to her age was not being a nuisance to anyone so she wasn’t going to be, not no-how. She was always one for spending her money on going places, not on buying trinkets that she didn’t need. And that she certainly did, officer. Travel, I mean. If it wasn’t onecountry, it was