The Big Over Easy

RED HERRING USE TO BE CONTROLLED

Blatant red herrings and overused narrative blind alleys could land a detective in hot water if the Limited Narrative Misdirection bill becomes law later this year. The controversial new law called for by readers’ groups has few friends among the Guild of Detectives, which still maintains that there is “no problem” and that self-regulatory guidelines prepared in 1904 are “more than adequate.” “We’re not asking much,” explained a representative of the twenty-million-member readers’ lobbying group TecWatch. “We just want to see good investigations—not routine rubbish padded out with inconsequential nonsense.” The bill follows the successful passing of the so-called surprise assailant act last year, which outlawed the publication of investigations where the murderer is suddenly revealed two pages from the end without a single mention in the previous one hundred thousand words.

—Extract from The Owl, October 1, 1979

Spongg Villas was only a ten-minute walk from Reading Central, and by the time they got back, there had been a development.

“We’ve just had an anonymous phone call with info on Humpty’s car,” said Gretel, talking to Jack but looking at Brown-Horrocks.

“Who from?”

“They didn’t say. Male caller from a phone box in Charvil. Gave the information and then rang off.”

“Headway at last. Whereabouts?”

They stepped closer to the Reading and District wall map, which had to be hung sideways as it was the only way it would fit on the tiny wall.

“They said it could be found…” muttered Gretel, looking at the address on the piece of paper and finally jabbing a finger perilously close to the edge of Andersen’s Wood. “Here.”

Jack looked at the place Gretel had indicated. There were no houses within a mile in any direction.

“Right. Mary and I are going out to have a look. Check out the owners of the closest houses and see if you can spot any link.”

The crossroads where they’d been told they could find the Zephyr was in a rural setting to the west of the city, from where they could easily see Andersen’s Wood on the next hill. A single signpost with peeling paint sat forlornly at the roadside, and there was no evidence of habitation in any direction. After the bustle of the town over the past few days, the peace of the country was a welcome diversion. The roar of the M4 had been soothed into a gentle rumble by the distance, and for once it wasn’t raining.

They stopped the car and got out. Brown-Horrocks had been in the passenger seat, but the small car had not been designed to fit his lanky frame, and he had sat the whole journey with his knees almost around his ears.

“When do you get your vintage Rolls-Royce back from the garage?” he asked. “I don’t think much of their loaner.”

“Next week,” replied Jack as he pulled on a coat against the wind and looked up and down the empty road. “I don’t see a car anywhere.”

“Hoax?”

“Could be. But let’s be sure. You take that road, I’ll take this one. Search as you go.”

They went their separate ways, with Brown-Horrocks walking behind Jack and asking occasional questions.

“Are you an alcoholic or a reformed alcoholic?”

“Reformed… but with occasional lapses,” said Jack, hazarding a guess as to what would be most acceptable to the Guild.

“Good,” said Brown-Horrocks, making another note.

It was Mary who made the discovery. A rickety-looking Quonset hut in a field that was mostly overgrown by brambles. She called Jack over, opened the gate and walked over to the hut. Its doors had sagged and were fastened with a rusty hasp that was secured by a tent peg. Jack carefully lifted out the peg and let the doors swing open. The hut was dry and the floor made of compacted soil; the brambles that covered the outside had also forced holes in the corrugated iron roof and were now starting to take over the interior as well. Sitting in the middle of the hut and looking as clean and new as when it was built was the Zephyr.

Mary delicately tried the doors. “Locked.”

“He had no car keys on him,” said Jack. “Try the tailpipe.”