Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

The inspector produced the wallet found on the body and took out a photo of a dark-haired woman in a blue blouse holding up a drink. “Is this her?”

Mooney examined it for some time. He eyed the inspector with suspicion, as if he was being tricked. “That wasn’t the lady I saw.”

There was an interval when the buzzing of insects seemed to increase and the heat grew.

“Are you certain?”

“Positive.”

“Take another look.”

“Her with the townie was definitely younger.”

The inspector’s eyebrows lifted. “How much younger?”

“A good ten years, I’d say.”

“Did they come by car?”

“There was always a sports car parked in front of the cottages when he came, one of them BMW jobs with the open top.”

“Just the one vehicle? The lady didn’t drive down in her own?”

“If she did, I’ve never seen it. When can I have my field back?”

“When I tell you. There’s more searching to be done.”

“More damage, you mean.”

Mooney met Bernie Priddle with his dog the same evening, coming along the footpath beside the hedgerow. Bernie had lived in one of the tied cottages until Mooney decided to sell it. He was in his fifties, small, thin-faced, always ready with a barbed remark.

“You’ll lose the whole of your crop by the look of it,” he said, and he sounded happier than he had for months.

“I thought you’d turn up,” Mooney said. “Makes you feel better to see someone else’s misfortune, does it?”

“I walk the path around the field every evening. It’s part of the dog’s routine. You should know that by now. I was saying you’ll lose your crop.”

“Don’t I know it! Even if they don’t trample every stalk of it, they’ll stop me from harvesting.”

“People are saying it’s the townie who was shot.”

“That’s my understanding.”

“Good riddance, too.”

“You want to guard what you say, Bernie Priddle. They’re looking for someone to nail for this.”

“Me? I wouldn’t put myself in trouble for some pipsqueak yuppie. It’s you I wouldn’t mind doing a stretch for, Mooney. I could throttle you anytime for putting me out of my home.”

“What are you moaning about? You got a council house out of it, didn’t you? Hot water and an inside toilet. Where’s your dog?”

Priddle looked down. His Jack Russell had moved on, and he didn’t know where. He whistled.

Over by the body, all the heads turned.

“It’s all right,” Mooney shouted to the policemen. “He was calling his dog, that’s all.”

The inspector came over and spoke to Priddle. “And who are you exactly?”

Bernie explained about his regular evening walk around the field.

“Have you ever seen Mr. White, the owner of the tied cottages?”

“On occasion,” Bernie said. “What do you want to know?”

“Ever seen anyone with him?”

“Last time — the Sunday before last — there was the young lady, her with the long black hair and short skirt. She’s a good looker, that one. He was showing her the building work. Had his arm around her. I raised my cap to them, didn’t speak. Later, when I was round the far side, I saw them heading into the field.”

“Into the field? Where?”

“Over yonder. He had a coat on his arm. Next time I looked, they weren’t in view.” He grinned. “I drew my own conclusion, like, and walked on. I came right around the field before I saw the other car parked in the lane.”

The inspector’s interest increased. “You saw another car?”

“Nice little Jeep Cherokee, it was, red. Do you want the number?”

“Do you remember it?”

“It was a woman’s name, SUE, followed by a number. I couldn’t tell you which, except it was just the one.”

“A single digit?” The inspector sounded pleased. “SUE, followed by a single digit. That’s really useful, sir. We can check that. And did you see the driver?”

“No, I can’t help you there.”

“Hear any shooting?”

“We often hear shooting in these parts. Look, I’d better find my dog.”

“We’ll need to speak to you some more, Mr...?”

“Priddle. Bernard Priddle. You’re welcome. These days I live in one of them poky little council bungalows in the village. Second on the left.”

The inspector watched him stride away, whistling for the dog, and said to one of the team, “A useful witness. I want you to take a statement from him.”

Mooney was tempted to pass on the information that Bernie was a publicity-seeking pain in the arse, but he decided to let the police do their own work.

The body was removed from Middle Field the same evening. Some men in black suits put it into a bag with a zip and stretchered it over the well-trodden ground to a small van and drove off.

“Now can I have my field back?” Mooney asked the inspector.

“What’s the hurry?”

“You’ve destroyed a big section of my crop. What’s left will go over if I don’t harvest it at the proper time. The pods shatter and it’s too late.”

“What do you use? A combine harvester?”

“First it has to be swathed into rows. It all takes time.”

“I’ll let you know in the morning. Cutting it could make our work easier. We want to do a bigger search.”

“What for?”