A Quarter Past Dead. TP Fielden

was in no hurry to leave. He wandered out of the management block into the sunshine and took a deep breath. Everywhere there were smartly blazered staff marching in earnest with fixed smiles on their faces. Given the stiff south-westerly wind which was blowing up, their apparent joy seemed misplaced – but obviously they’d all taken their happy pill with breakfast.

      In robust denial of the elements the holidaymakers milled about the sports field, tennis courts and bowling greens dressed as if a tropical heatwave was only just around the corner. Their faces, however, puckered at each new gust of wind, and the ladies hugged their cardigans tighter. None looked as though their spirits would be raised by a visit from an archbishop.

      Terry was wandering towards the funfair with no apparent purpose in mind when he felt the back of his jacket being tugged, hard. He turned to see the pink-cheeked Baggs.

      ‘What’re you doin’?’ said the under-manager, his tone not friendly.

      ‘Just taking a look around,’ said Terry, ‘it’s a free country.’

      ‘Not exactly. You have to have a pass. Otherwise we’d have every Tom, Dick and Harry from Temple Regis poking their noses in. People save all year to have their holiday here, you know, it’s not a free show.

      ‘You come with me,’ said Baggs, and holding on to Terry’s coat pulled him towards a low chalet with a sign hanging outside. It said ‘The Sherwood Forest’.

      ‘In ’ere,’ ordered Baggs. Terry obliged.

      ‘Usual,’ said Baggs to the barman. ‘And whatever ’e’s ’avin’.’

      ‘Now,’ he said, ‘what was you doin’ earwiggin’ my conversation with Mr Bunton? I saw you listenin’ in.’

      ‘Not me,’ said Terry.

      ‘Yes you was. I was watchin’ you in the mirror.’

      ‘I was waiting to give Mr Bunton the prints of him and Fluffles.’

      ‘Oh, yes? Where are they, then?’

      ‘In the car. I told him.’

      Baggs leaned forward. His breath revealed this was not the first glass of usual he’d swallowed this morning.

      ‘Listen. This is a very tricky time for Mr Bunton, what with this murder on his property and the Archbishop due any time. Business is good down here in Devon, but it can turn on a sixpence with just the wrong word in the Press. As it is, we’re waiting for the Fleet Street mob to turn up and make a nuisance of theirselves, so we don’t need any more grief from the likes of you.’

      Terry just smiled. Baggs saw he was failing to make his point.

      ‘Look,’ he said aggressively. ‘You’ve had your fun ‘ere. You’ve got all the pictures you need. Mr Bunton has been very generous with his time, and now I want you to scarper, get it?’

      ‘You’re asking me to leave?’ said Terry.

      ‘Moochin’ round ’ere, snoopin’.’ A fresh glass of the usual had been put before the under-manager, though nothing for Terry. ‘I want you to ‘oppit, otherwise something nasty might occur.’