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‘I’ve run out of petrol near the end of your drive. I was hoping to find some fuel lying around and I’d leave some money; I suppose I should have knocked on the door, but it didn’t seem as though there was anybody at home.’
    The voice behind the gun said, ‘Well you won’t find any in there.’ He used the gun to point the way to another outbuilding and continued, ‘There’s some in a can in that shed over there – you got a tenner?’
    Crane fumbled in his wallet and produced a ten pound note. A hand sprung out from the shadowy figure, took it and backed off.
    â€˜Thanks, I’ll return the can,’ Crane said.
    â€˜Don’t bother,’ the gruff sounding shadowy voice replied, ‘it’s only an old five litre oil can – keep it, it’ll save you running out again.’ And with some emphasis added, ‘And it’ll save you bothering me again!’
    Under the watchful eye of the shadowy figure, Crane removed a can from the shed and walked back down the gravel drive to the road. Footsteps on the loose gravel had followed him and surreptitious glances told him he was being watched as he stood on the grassy lay-by and poured the fuel into the tank of the car.
    When Crane had departed, the shadowy figure pulled out his mobile phone. ‘Bradley, it’s me, Stan. Just after you left a bloke came sniffing around, he was near the barn, said he’d run out of fuel.’
    â€˜Really? I’m intrigued; what did he look like?’ Stan gave a good description of the man he had seen and Bradley responded in a hushed tone, ‘Crane.’

    *

    When Crane arrived back home in Canford, he phoned Penny and told her all that he had found out. She in turn, related her encounter with Bradley.
    â€˜You’ve done well,’ Crane remarked. ‘Phone him up and tell him that I’ve phoned to say that I’ve a few broken ribs and I’m going to claim on my insurance. Hopefully, that may reinforce your trust with him.’
    Crane rang off and thought about his next move. To begin with, he would need to know of any future visitors arriving in Palmers Rise, and so he decided to reinstate an alarm system, one that he had used in the past. It comprised of a pressure switch, set near the end of the lane, which would activate an alarm in his cottage. Upon leaving the lane, he would scatter a layer of cement dust from side to side so that any vehicles entering or leaving the lane would leave an impression of their tyre tracks. Crane had no intention of being caught out again.

    *

    The following morning, Bradley’s curiosity was gnawing at his brain. Questions hung in the air. Who was this guy, Crane? Why didn’t he go to the police? He contacted a private investigator to no avail but it was suggested that he contact another; Toby Finder, based in Southend-on-Sea who might be able to give him information about Crane.
    Finder’s office was dingy, which was not quite what Bradley had expected, however he had been told that Finder was the longest-established private investigator in the area and was well worth checking out.
    â€˜Mr Taylor,’ Finder greeted, offering a limp sweaty hand. ‘What can I do for you?’
    Bradley stood, momentarily transfixed; staring at this gaunt willowy figure with a sallow complexion. Toby Finder was not the suave archetype private detective that the movies led you to believe existed.
    â€˜Do you know anything about a man by the name of Jack Crane?’
    A slight shiver ran through Finder at the mention of that name. ‘Jack Crane, you say?’ he repeated.
    Finder motioned Bradley to a chair by the side of a wide desk. Finder could have told Bradley everything that he wanted to know from personal experience and memory, but he wanted to appear to be earning his fee. He then sauntered across the room towards a large metal filing cabinet, delved through the files, pulled out a sheaf