The mystery over the death of Frank the Gardener at 23 The Crescent deepened, and the police appeared baffled.
They gathered at the end of the street with a force of new recruits determined to leave no stone unturned in discovering Frank’s killer.
They knew it was some cold-blooded person as Frank’s garden shears had been found in his back.
The Sergeant gathered his troops before him.
“Beware of Red Herrings,” he said, “people will tell you anything, old grievances will rise to the surface, and you have to be alert to what people are saying to you. Is that understood?”
There was a mumbled agreement among the bored group of constables who joined up for the action of being a police officer not the boredom of a door to door.
They moved off as one force and engaged the people of The Crescent.
The Sergeant had been right. The young constables had an awakening, a learning of the ins and outs of suburbia.
There were accusations of peeping toms, snowdroppers and theft of milk bottles along with perversions many of the young constables had never heard of. But they duly noted everything they had been told.
One house was owned by a man who gave his name as Red Herring and that only confused the issue.
In the end, not a lot of information was gleaned that was considered useful. Though the Sergeant did look suspiciously at the Red Herring report and decided the man in question would need further investigating.
Meanwhile, in the morgue, the body of Frank the Gardener cooled as it awaited news as to the perpetrator of its death.