As The Pig Turns

that got to do with us?’
    ‘It’s a long shot,’ said Simon. ‘We feel we might be dealing with a bent copper. Now, he might just have spent some of his ill-gotten gains on a flash car. Can you remember anyone like that?’
    The assistant hesitated and looked around. The showroom was quiet. A secretary was working away in one corner. Another assistant was sitting staring moodily at a computer. Simon produced a roll of a hundred pounds.
    ‘Put that away!’ hissed the assistant. ‘It’s just about my lunch hour. Let’s go to a pub.’
    In the pub, it transpired his name was Wilfred Butterfield. Simon bought them drinks and found a quiet table in a corner.
    ‘I’ll take the money now,’ said Wilfred.
    ‘I’ll see if the info is worth it,’ said Simon.
    ‘Well, we did have one chap. We joked afterwards that maybe he was a copper checking up on us. He had that look. Hard eyes, shiny black shoes, you know. He took one car after another out for a spin and then said, “Maybe I’ll be back.” Wasted a whole morning.’
    ‘What did he look like?’
    ‘Thickset. Scottish accent. Fair hair.’
    Simon passed over the money. ‘Anyone else?’
    ‘Nobody like that. Oh, we’ve sold cars, but all to reputable people.’
    ‘I wish I could have a look at your sales book.’
    ‘No. Absolutely not. That’s going too far. Aren’t you going to buy me lunch?’
    ‘No,’ said Simon. ‘I’ve given you enough to buy your own.’
    On his way back to Mircester, Simon suddenly remembered there were several group photographs of police decorating the dingy Mircester police reception area. He headed straight for police headquarters and asked to speak to Bill Wong. He was told he was out.
    ‘I might wait a bit and see if he comes back,’ said Simon. He strolled round, studying the photographs. Near the centre of one group was a burly man with sergeant’s stripes and fair hair.
    ‘Why!’ he exclaimed. ‘I know this chap. Isn’t that Henry James?’
    The policeman on duty at the desk leaned over and peered at the photo. ‘Naw, that’s our sergeant Billy Tulloch.’
    ‘Odd, that,’ said Simon. ‘Looks just like Henry James. I won’t wait for Bill after all.’
    Simon waited in the car park outside all day, feeling hungrier and hungrier, but determined to get a look at Sergeant Tulloch. Then he saw him at nine o’clock in the evening. The sergeant got on to a powerful motorbike and set off. Simon followed in pursuit. At times he thought he had lost him because the sergeant cut down several winding side streets, but at last Simon saw him park outside a fairground on the outside of the town. Tulloch entered the fairground, and Simon followed him.
    And then all at once he lost him among the fairground rides and booths.
    He was standing, irresolute, when he felt something hard pressed into his side and heard a Scottish voice say, ‘This is a gun. Do as I say and nothing will happen to you.’
    He urged Simon towards a ride called the Haunted House. ‘Get in,’ muttered Tulloch. ‘Pay the fare.’
    Simon did as he was told. ‘Help me!’ he mouthed at the man taking the money.
    The man burst out laughing, thinking Simon was joking. The car jerked forward into the gloom. Halfway through the ride, a fake skeleton placed on a chair lurched forward. Tulloch drove a knife into Simon’s side. The car stopped a moment before jerking forward. There was no one in the cars behind. Tulloch tore the skeleton from its chair and hauled Simon out on to the thin ramp used by the fairground engineers. He shoved Simon into the chair and then walked along the ramp to where there was a break in the canvas tent that covered the exhibit. He let himself out into the fairground and disappeared in the crowds.
    Patsy Broadband and her boyfriend, Terry Kelly, climbed, giggling, into a car at the Haunted House. ‘We seem to be the only people here,’ said Patsy.
    ‘Good,’ said Terry. ‘We can have a bit o’ fun.’
    ‘Oh, go on! You are a one, ain’t you? Just you be keeping your hands to yourself.’
    Halfway through the journey, Terry complained, ‘This is the least scariest place I’ve ever been in. Nothing but screeches and bits o’ painted plastic.’
    The chair lurched to a halt. The chair holding Simon tipped forward and his body landed on top of them. Patsy screamed and screamed, ‘Get him offa me!’
    ‘Better not. Get him out o’ here,’ said Terry. ‘He’s fainted or something.’
    The car lurched out into