‘They’re removing the body.’

A small crowd had gathered at the edge of the greensward as close to the action as they were permitted by the police tape which enclosed an area 100 yards in every direction from the tent. An anonymous black van was having a black bag put in it by two men dressed in black. Within the enclosure white-suited and booted beings were carrying out a cursory search of the area.

‘It’s just a quick look for the obvious at the moment,’ announced a short, fat moustachioed man who seemed to have some knowledge of police procedure he had gleaned from the television. ‘I imagine they’ll do a finger-tip search later.’

‘Finger-tip? Ughhh. Wouldn’t want my finger-tips digging into that grass. Who knows what the people get up to on that turf at night, let alone the dogs during the day.’

‘It’s procedure.’ The moustache affirmed.

‘I wonder how much you can feel through a pair of marigolds.’

‘A pair, I’d want two pairs before I put my fingers through that foliage.’

The conversation departed from crime at this point to discuss the merits of the ribbing on rubber gloves, with a number asserting that too much washing up liquid definitely left them lacking in the grip department.

Moustachio moved away from the group and attached himself to another lingering closer to the council’s toilet block.

‘It’s just a quick look for the obvious at the moment. I imagine they’ll do a finger-tip search later,’ he announced to the new group of watchers..

‘We know. I’ve just told them. I heard you say it five minutes ago with that other mob. I moved on when the talk switched to rubber gloves.’

Moustachio went home to watch a re-re-re-re-run of Midsomer Murders.