Mistress Murder by Bernard Knight

the time of the crash?’ hazarded Burrell.
    â€˜How … there was no hedge there? The car came down the road, through a wire fence and over the grass bank – no bushes anywhere near. This is a hazel branch.’
    They adjourned to the station yard and leant over the twisted remains of the red Sunbeam. The engine had been pushed back in the frame by the impact, but the twin carburettors were undamaged.
    â€˜The stick was jammed under here,’ explained Johnson, indicating the gap between the butterfly control arm and the venturi tube of the rear carburettor.
    Burrell studied the front of the scuttle which separated the engine compartment from the inside of the car.
    â€˜Look, see those scratches … they could have been caused by the other end of the stick.’
    On the flat partition, which was undamaged, there were several wavering lines gouged in the coating of black grease. These were at the same level as the butterfly control.
    Johnson nodded excitedly.
    â€˜If the stick was longer, it would reach from there to the carburettor.’
    The inspector, a lifelong sceptic, straightened his back.
    â€˜But it isn’t, is it?’ he said.
    Burrell took the stick from Johnson and looked at the broken end again. ‘If we could find the other bit that matched this … and if it was the right length … and if it had grease on the end …’ His voice trailed off.
    The inspector moved. ‘Come on, my car’s over there,’ he said.
    Within five minutes of starting to search the bank of the culvert on Cuckoo Hill, Johnson had found the missing twig. It was directly under the parapet, in the centre of the skid marks. It was half as long as the first piece, it had black grease on one end and the other end had broken in such a way as to make it clear to the most obstinate juror that it had once been continuous with the bigger twig.
    â€˜This is it,’ enthused Johnson. ‘Some bloody jiggery-pokery here all right.’
    The inspector took it more soberly.
    â€˜You mean our troubles are just beginning. I’m already wishing I’d never heard of you, Johnson.’
    The practical sergeant was studying the two bits, which he held end-to-end. ‘If it’s the right length, that will add a bit more weight to our argument.’
    They drove back to Oldfield and visited the local Rootes agent. The mystified owner led them to a new Alpine in his showroom and watched them while they vanished under the bonnet. To Johnson’s delight, the total length of the two twigs exactly fitted the distance between the scuttle and the throttle control.
    They went back to the police station and held a council of war.
    â€˜I’m going to speak to Headquarters about this,’ decided the inspector. ‘This is going to be a London job, through and through. If our chaps have got any sense, they’ll give it to the Yard straight away. No point in the County arsing about with it; all the background is going to be up in Town.’
    Johnson looked as if his pension prospects had been snatched away from him, but the inspector’s forecast was quite right. Before lunch, the Divisional Detective Chief Inspector had been down to verify the facts and after speaking to the chief constable on the phone, had rung the Central Office of the Metropolitan Police to ask for assistance.
    At four thirty, the Yard men arrived, a chief inspector and a detective sergeant.
    The senior man was the well-known Archie Benbow, known to the Met as Admiral Benbow. He was a thickset man with bulbous features, bearing a startling resemblance to Mr Khrushchev.
    His assistant, Alan Bray, was a very young sergeant, recently made up from detective constable. He was bursting with enthusiasm and his appearance generally reminded the cynical Sergeant Burrell of a keen country curate.
    The two newcomers went over the car again and studied the pieces of stick, which Johnson was guarding as if they were the