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First published in Great Britain by
Hodder & Stoughton 1970
Copyright © Francis Durbridge 1970
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Francis Durbridge has asserted his right under the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
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A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008125707
Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008125714
Version: 2015-07-24
Nothing ever happens in Harkdale on a Friday afternoon.
The black Wolseley cruised along the deserted country road because it was part of the schedule. Showing the police car in Harkdale each afternoon was like showing the flag in the outposts of empire, a symbol for the inhabitants that they were being looked after. Police Constable Newby drove through the flat midland countryside without seeing the potato fields or the pine woods; he didnât speak to PC Felton beside him. Newby was a town man and only the smoke and the factory skyline seven miles behind them was real. He thought of becoming a sergeant and recited pages of Moriartyâs Police Law to himself to pass the time. There was nothing else to do.
âThereâs a lorry over there in the lay-by,â said Felton.
Lay-by? He made it sound like the motorway to London. Newby reflected that it was odd for a man called Moriarty to write their basic textbook: Moriarty, the archfiend of Sherlock Holmes. For a bored few seconds he pursued the idea that the archfiend had written it all wrong to throw the law into confusion.
âPull up, Bob,â said Felton. âHe might need help.â
âWho might?â
âThe lorry driver, of course.â
Harry Felton would think of something like that! He was a born country copper, doomed to remain a PC all his life. He told people the time and helped old ladies across the road. The schoolkids in all these outlying villages called him Harry. He was a little undynamic for Bob Newbyâs taste. The police car screeched to a halt.
âSo ask him if he needs help,â sighed PC Bob Newby.
He watched his colleague go over to the lorry. âJoseph Carter & Co.â the legend on the side of the lorry proclaimed. While somebody underneath it was tinkering with the works a fox terrier guarded the dismantled rear wheel. The hub and various parts of the wheel were scattered over the grass verge.
âHello, Jackson,â said the policeman as he bent down to pat the dog. The dog, Jackson, wagged its tail. âAre you having trouble?â Even the damned dogs, Bob Newby realised, knew Harry Felton. âWhereâs your villain of a master?â
The dogâs master looked a villain to PC Newby, but then most people did to PC Newby. The lorry driver didnât look, apart from the way he was dressed, like a lorry driver. He looked an intelligent young man, but he had longish hair; his attitude as he stood up beside the lorry was slightly supercilious. He looked like the kind of student who gets arrested on demonstrations.
âHello, Gavin,â PC Felton said. âFancy seeing you.â
âEnjoying a spot of lunch,â said the young man with a glance at his watch. Then he spoke to the dog: âWe enjoyed our scampi and avocado pear, didnât we, Jackson?â
The dog leaped up at its master as PC Newby strolled across to join them. âYou look as if youâre in trouble, mate,â Newby said, making it sound slightly ambiguous. But Gavin Renson accepted the edge of menace cheerfully.
âIâm always in trouble, arenât I, Harry?â
Felton nodded amiably. âHow long have you been working for Carterâs?â
âJust over a week.â
âAh, temporary, is it?â
âYes,â Gavin Renson agreed with a laugh, âbloody temporary. Look at the lorry they gave me.â
Newby sniffed irritably. As a policeman he knew what he liked, and he didnât like Gavin Renson. âIs there anything we can do for you?â he asked.