Bury in Haste Read Online Free

rarely allowed to see the light of day, that yearned for something more. He peered closely at the cup with something like fondness in his eyes, noting the outline of a perfect greasy thumb print; it was just the kind of evidence you’d expect in a Dick Bland story.
    The tiny hut which served as an office was locked, and the window was too filthy to see through, but Deepbriar soon located the key, hidden under a stone round the back. Inside the hut was a rickety table half covered with papers, a wooden chair, a small filing cabinet, and a cupboard which wasn’t large enough to conceal a child, let alone Joe Spraggs. Deepbriar opened it anyway, careful to touch only the outer edge of the door, but the cupboard only contained a dirty saucepan and an empty bottle, and a heap of mouse droppings. On the window ledge was a cup similar to the one that had been left on the lorry, but cleaner.
    It took several minutes to make a methodical search of the site. Wriggle never threw anything away, and there were weed-covered heaps of half-bricks and broken sinks, scattered between enormous piles of wood, some of it rotting silently into dust. There were also the remains of several old vehicles, most of them so rusted as to be unrecognisable. Eventually the constable was satisfied that Joe Spraggs wasn’t hidden anywhere in Wriggle’s yard, nor was there any evidence of anything untoward having happened. Without really admitting as much to himself, he had been keeping an eye open for such things as freshly dug earth, pools of blood and spent bullet casings.
    But there was Joe’s bike. Deepbriar investigated the saddlebag; it contained a few bread crumbs, scraps of cheese, the dead-spider stems from two tomatoes, and an ancient linen napkin worn thin by years of use, which had evidently been used to wrap some kind of pie. It seemed young Emily had sent her husband off to work well provided.
    Despite the lack of evidence, Deepbriar was happily intrigued. He couldn’t yet be sure that a crime had been committed here, but at the very least he’d walked into the scene of a mystery. He inspected the lane outside the gate, and it was there that he struck gold. True to form, the tyres on Wriggle’s lorry were so worn that the tread had almost gone, yet tracks in the mud showed that a vehicle with much newer tyres had been in the yard. As well as the elderly Atkinson, Wriggle owned an Austin 7, but the tracks were too wide to have been left by that.
    After making some notes in his notebook, Deepbriar added a drawing of the pattern left in the mud by the wheels and measured them, then he followed the tracks, and was intrigued to find they led round behind one of the large stacks of timber.
    Perhaps the car or van had been hidden out of sight when young Spraggs drove in. Had he interrupted a robbery? But then why would he have stopped to make himself a cup of tea? Maybe the fingerprints on the cup didn’t belong to Joe Spraggs at all.
    Reluctantly Deepbriar left the cup untouched. If a crime had been committed here then he could only hope that nobody else would arrive on the scene until he’d reported it. He noted the time in his book. Ten twenty-four. Sergeant Hubbard would want such details when Deepbriar phoned his report to headquarters.
    Even the chance of missing his Sunday roast paled into insignificance beside the prospect of having discovered a major crime. This would make a change from Bert Bunyard’s poaching escapades and children scrumping or playing truant from school.
    Deepbriar wheeled his bike back along the lane, checking the hedges. By the time he arrived at the surfaced road he was sure Joe hadn’t pushed through into the fields or been overcome by some illness and fallen into a ditch. The hedges belonged to the Manor and the Colonel kept them well maintained; they were thick and impenetrable, while the ditch held nothing but mud and an occasional puddle of water. It was a mystery right enough. Had Joe returned from his