Passing Strange by Catherine Aird

Smoke poaching villains in his Division without so much as a by-your-leave he’d behaved like a rabid gamekeeper. In the end the Superintendent had reached a complete understanding with his opposite number in the Metropolitan Police District who had been detailed to heal the subsequent breach in good relations: they didn’t speak.
    â€œDo your best, Harry,” he said persuasively. “You must have a good friend somewhere.”
    He had.
    Inspector Harpe came back over the air in record time. “I struck lucky,” he said. “I got on to the right man first time. We Traffic men hang together …”
    â€œNo problem?” asked Sloan. The investigation of murder was not something that should hang upon pleasantries.
    â€œWhen I mentioned Berebury all he said was, ‘That’s where the birds sing, isn’t it? The country. Up here they cough.’”
    Sloan let out a sigh of relief.
    â€œThe car hire people, Swallow and Swallow, have twenty-six red Minis out at the moment from their London branches,” crackled Harpe’s voice over the radio. “They’re pulling a full list for us now. Sixteen are on hire to foreign tourists through a travel agency, five are out to commercial firms – they use the bigger vehicle more – and five are being used by individuals.”
    Sloan pulled his notebook out and balanced it on his knee. “Thanks, Harry.”
    â€œThe individuals are four men and a woman. Was it a woman’s job?”
    â€œIt was murder,” said Sloan briefly.
    â€œThe men’s names are Mortimer, Smith …”
    Sloan said something unprintable about the commonness of the name Smith.
    â€œWilson,” continued Harpe imperturbably, “and Carson. Do you want the woman’s name too?”
    â€œJust for the record,” said Sloan.
    â€œMellows,” said Inspector Harpe. “Miss Richenda Mellows.”

5
    Bourdon
    When Detective-Constable Crosby instituted a search he made a good job of it. Granted he might not be swift but he was undoubtedly thorough. His instructions had been to search the ground round about where the victim lay and this is what he set about doing now. He brought out a length of coloured twine and some pegs from his own particular scenes-of-crime bag.
    â€œWant a mallet?” offered Fred Pearson promptly.
    Crosby took a swift look at the body and another at the hand mallet. No way had Joyce Cooper died from a blow from a blunt instrument.
    â€œThanks,” he said.
    He proceeded to stake out an area of ground well clear of the body. Inside this he marked out a smaller rectangle where the tent had been.
    Ken Walls and Fred Pearson watched him. Norman Burton was crouching down somewhere not far away, trying to sketch out from memory a plan of the layout of the tents and stalls at the Flower Show, but the other two men – Walls and Pearson – looked on, absolutely fascinated by the sight of the policeman at work.
    â€œThat last peg wants pushing out a bit more to the left,” observed Walls presently.
    Crosby obediently pushed the last peg out more to the left. Then he began his examination of the ground within the area outside the smaller square.
    â€œNothing there, is there?” said Pearson a little later.
    â€œNot a thing,” said Detective-Constable Crosby. He did not find it necessary to add that not only was there nothing there but that the ground within this inner patch was also quite dry. The cup of tea that Edward Hebbinge had taken Joyce Cooper at half past three had not been spilled on the grass within the tent.
    â€œThere wasn’t a lot that could be there, was there?” demanded Ken Walls of his friend. “Stands to reason.”
    â€œHe might have found some tea leaves,” said Pearson, standing his ground.
    Detective-Constable Crosby said nothing.
    â€œTea leaves?” echoed Ken Walls. “What would she have been doing with tea