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But naught, however, remained to signal that either Jim Pooley or John Omally had ever been there, naught but for two half-consumed pints of Large going warm upon the table and a saloon-bar door which swung quietly to and fro upon its hinge.

'I was just talking about that to Pooley,' said Neville, gesturing towards Jim's table.

Ornally shook his head. 'Police stations are bad places to break into, this is well known.'

The two men did not wait to see what might happen. They looked at each other, dropped the newspaper and fled.

Ornally shook his head. 'Police stations are bad places to break into, this is well known.'

'We?' said Pooley. 'Where do you get this "we" from? It was your wheelbarrow.'

'Where you have been for the last two days, in my bloody allotment shed.'

'I was just talking about that to Pooley,' said Neville, gesturing towards Jim's table.

Omally awoke with a start, something was pressing firmly into his throat and stopping his breath. 'Ow, ooh, get off, get off.' These imprecations were directed towards Jim Pooley, whose oversized boot had come snugly to rest beneath Omally's chin. 'Will you get off I say?'

Norman prodded at his paper. 'Wheelbarrow clue in double slaying.'

Up at the bar Norman, who had quietly been reading a copy of the Brentford Mercury, said suddenly, 'Now there's a thing.'

'I don't think the Professor would appreciate that, it might interfere with his plans. Also the police might claim conspiracy because we didn't come forward earlier.'

The words were drowned by the scream of a police-car siren. Driven at high speed, the car came through the red lights at the bottom of Haling Road, roared past them and screeched to a standstill a hundred yards further on, outside the Flying Swan. A plainclothes detective and three burly constables leapt from the vehicle and swept into the saloon bar.

Ornally shook his head. 'Police stations are bad places to break into, this is well known.'

The two men did not wait to see what might happen. They looked at each other, dropped the newspaper and fled.

But naught, however, remained to signal that either Jim Pooley or John Omally had ever been there, naught but for two half-consumed pints of Large going warm upon the table and a saloon-bar door which swung quietly to and fro upon its hinge.

There are many pleasures to be had in camping out. The old nights under canvas, the wind in your hair and fresh air in your lungs. An opportunity to get away from it all and commune with nature. Days in sylvan glades watching the sunshine dancing between the leaves and dazzling the eyes. Birdsong swelling at dawn to fill the ears. In harmony with the Arcadian Spirits of olden Earth. At night a time for reverie about the crackling campfire, the sweet smell of mossy peat and pine needles. Ah yes, that is the life.

'Where you have been for the last two days, in my bloody allotment shed.'

'I don't think the Professor would appreciate that, it might interfere with his plans. Also the police might claim conspiracy because we didn't come forward earlier.'

'We might simply make a clean breast of it,' said John.

'I was just talking about that to Pooley,' said Neville, gesturing towards Jim's table.

Pooley jerked himself awake. 'Where am I?' he groaned.

Pooley groaned anew. 'I was having such a beautiful dream. I can't go on here,' he moaned, 'I can't live out my days a fugitive in an allotment shed, I wish Archroy had never rebuilt it. You must give yourself up, John, claim diminished responsibility, I will gladly back you up on that.'

'No, either the reporter had no film in his Brownie or the police didn't think it necessary.'

'I have no other suggestions,' said Jim. 'I can only counsel caution and the maintaining of the now legendary low profile.'

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