Yaxley Farcett wrinkled his nose, with something approaching distaste, as Brian Worthington had a chat with Prescott the Pig. They were standing in the yard of ‘Hurst Farm’, that the Worthington family now used as a store shed and home to their flock of pigs (or what ever the collective name is). Brian slapped Prescott on the hind quarters and he trotted back to join his porcine pals at the slubby end of the yard. It was a bright sunny Cup Final morning and the pigs were having a good wallow. Yaxley felt rather envious. ‘Right’ shouted Brian, above the grunting and squealing, ‘What are we doing here Yax ? bearin’ in mind that kick off is only three and three quarter hours away’. Farcett spread his arms wide and shouted back, ‘We’ve got nothing to go on in the Dixon case, so I thought we’d find out what caused your John’s pigs to go ape crazy last night. They were 
obviously doped somehow’. Farcett walked round to the side of the farmhouse where the sheds had been added on. ‘Is this where they kip then Bri ?’ Worthington nodded. ‘And where do they eat ?’ continued Farcett. Worthington indicated that the pigs stuck their noses in the collective trough down at the bottom end of the yard, which they were doing at that moment. Farcett stepped through the front door, ignoring the warning sign which Brian’s brother John had hung there.
obviously doped somehow’. Farcett walked round to the side of the farmhouse where the sheds had been added on. ‘Is this where they kip then Bri ?’ Worthington nodded. ‘And where do they eat ?’ continued Farcett. Worthington indicated that the pigs stuck their noses in the collective trough down at the bottom end of the yard, which they were doing at that moment. Farcett stepped through the front door, ignoring the warning sign which Brian’s brother John had hung there. The house was basically four walls and a roof which let more in than it kept out. Along one wall were piled straw bales six deep and along another wall there were all manner of boxes, tea chests, spare tyres, parts of cars and bits and pieces of agricultural machinery that would have been better off in a museum. Farcett wiped a cobweb from his face, ‘Bloody hell Brian. This place is a death trap. Don’t you ever chuck anything out ?’ The two men had a look around what was the kitchen and living room of the old house, Yaxley eyeing the ceiling nervously. It was close to collapse and the old style straw and wood structure looked about to land on him. Brian, however, wandered about without taking much interest. He had been in the house a thousand times, to fetch food, fertiliser and various other items that his brother and father had stored in there.
Yaxley squeezed between a huge metal grain hopper and an almost bald tractor tyre. 'What's behind here at the back' he asked Brian. Brian peered into the gloom beyond Yaxley and replied, 'Dunno Yax. I've never been down there. John keeps all the stuff we use at this end. That's all the old junk that hasn't been used for years'. You’re telling me, thought Yaxley, as he bashed his shins against bicycle frames, old shovels and discarded pieces of furniture. He reached the back of the living room and there was an old oily tarpaulin sheet draped over something. He bent down, grasped the sheet in his hand and pulled it away. Beneath the tarpaulin, covered in dust, cobwebs and crawling with ants were three beer barrels. All had the name ‘Quangleroot’ burnt into the end in large letters with ‘Throbbinson’s Brewery’ in smaller letters at the bottom. The barrel at the right hand side, closest to the wall, had obviously leaked and run dry. Yaxley realised that the floor was soaking around his feet. The liquid had run along and out through a hole in the wall where the brickwork had crumbled away. Yaxley bent down and grabbed the wooden tap on the barrel. It was loose and had obviously been turned fully on by someone, causing the flood of liquid. Farcett continued to unscrew the tap until it came off in his hand. He put the tap in his pocket and turned to shout across to Brian. 'They eat in their sometimes you said, didn't you' as he pointed to the far wall of the house. Brian nodded. 'Well in that case, I think we've found our Opium Den'. Yaxley scooped some of the sodden dust into a bag from the floor and passed it Brian along with the tap. 'I think we need the assistance of Dr. Coggles again Brian. I'll drop you off at Ealham Police station and you can get Stumpsfield to send these off. I want the liquid analysed and prints taken off that tap. Some one knew what was in those barrels, and it isn’t Quangleroot !' ‘What are yew goin’ to do while I’m in Ealham then Yaxley’ asked Brian. Farcett thought for a moment and replied, ‘I’m going to Chestnut Farm. I need to find out more about Reg Dixon’.
