Bury in Haste by Jean Rowden

already told you,’ the woman replied, shrilly, ‘my Joseph’s not the sort to go away without telling me! He wouldn’t—’
    ‘Deepbriar!’ Inspector Martindale came shooting out of his office as if on springs. Deepbriar jumped guiltily, thinking he’d been caught eavesdropping.
    ‘The very man!’ The inspector thumped him on the back. ‘Come in here a moment, will you?’
    ‘Yes sir,’ Deepbriar said, obediently following his senior officer, his heart sinking, and the image of his welcoming bed vanishing before his eyes. ‘Something I can do for you?’
    ‘More like something I can do for you,’ Martindale said cheerfully. ‘Chance for a bit of overtime, not to mention being a bit more interesting than chasing poachers, or whatever it is you’ve been up to. They’ve got a crisis over at Belston, flu epidemic. Half their men are down with it. I told them I’d send some of our chaps to fill in. You’ll have heard about the trouble they’re having with the drivers at Rondvale’s depot; that strike shows signs of turning nasty. Fact is, we’re a bit pushed here as well. That’s why I thought I’d pull in one or two of you village bobbies.’ He laughed. ‘Not as if you’ve got much serious crime on your hands, eh?’
    ‘But I’m working nights, trying to catch this man who’s been up to mischief on Quinn’s farm,’ Deepbriar objected.
    ‘Mmm. Tell you what, I’ll see if we can send one of our new patrol cars, it’ll give them something to do once the pubs have turned out and it’s gone quiet, taking a run round Minecliff. You never know, two pairs of eyes instead of one and all that, could be the case will be solved by the time you get back. You keep watch tonight, then I’ll see they take over on Saturday.’
    Martindale smiled, taking Deepbriar’s arm and steering him back to the door. ‘Make sure you get a rest on Sunday, there’s a good chap, won’t do to have you getting sick too. Report to Sergeant Parsons here at seven on Monday morning. We’re arranging transport to Belston.’
    An hour later Deepbriar dropped on to his bed with a groan, and was instantly asleep. He woke, starving hungry, and went downstairs, but he was in for the cruellest blow of the week when he sat down to his dinner. Instead of the usual tasty battered cod served with a heap of hot chips, he found himself facing a pallid dish of steamed plaice and mashed potato.
    Enough was enough. He pushed the meal away untasted. ‘Can’t seem to fancy that,’ he said. ‘Always makes me think of being ill when I was a boy; invalid food, my father called it. I’ve people to see at the pub, maybe Phyllis Bartle will have time to make me a sandwich.’ Mary heard him out without comment, merely nodding as he pushed his chair back from the table. He made a last bid for her sympathy. ‘I’ll be out half the night again, up at Quinn’s farm.’
    ‘It’s a hard life,’ Mary offered, starting on her own meal. ‘We all have our cross to bear. I suppose you’ve forgotten about what happened to Bella? She’s quite upset about it. You were going to help sort through the props to see what’s missing, but I suppose somebody opening gates up at Quinn’s farm is more important than a robbery at the village hall.’
    ‘A robbery?’ Deepbriar snorted. ‘Far as I heard there was nothing missing. Mrs Emerson left the door open, so it’s her own fault if a couple of youngsters got in, and anyway there didn’t seem to be any harm done. I never offered to go and help, either, I suggested she might get a few members of the Operatic Society to do it.’
    ‘That’s not what Bella says. Did you know the thief pushed her over when he escaped? Imagine if she’d confronted him! She might have been seriously hurt.’
    ‘Not likely. I bet it was just a couple of 10-year-olds.’ Deepbriar refrained from saying that it might have been a music lover hoping to put Mrs Emerson out of action before the performance of Madame Butterfly