Kitabı oku: «Burley Cross Postbox Theft», sayfa 2
Of course the people in charge of these life-and-death decisions (hard to believe they actually have a whole department dedicated to this kind of guff, Rog, manned entirely by the idiot sons and daughters of Police Commissioners, I don’t doubt), always reserve the right to change what we laughably call ‘their minds’ (thereby effortlessly generating yet another skip-load of paperwork), and have apparently resolved to do so in this instance (I honestly don’t know why this might be, or what they can possibly hope to gain by it, Rog, I just try my damnedest to keep my head down, and take all their stupid, petty, pointless – not to mention hugely disruptive – subterranean political manoeuvrings with a very, very generous pinch of salt).
Returning, if I may, to the issue of the theft itself; it might interest you to discover (and this is not something PC Hill made an official note of, but he happened to mention it to me, afterwards) that during his cursory, five-minute perusal of the postbox, he was approached and engaged in conversation/ loudly interrogated/helpfully advised/subtly lampooned/openly insulted (take your pick, Rog) by at least twelve different individuals, including the aforementioned Thorndyke (don’t these crackpots have jobs to go to, Rog? Or lives to lead? Or hedges to trim? Or Raku classes to attend?), who was wearing a T-shirt bearing the legend ‘Your Vehicle is a Loaded Weapon!’ on one side and ‘Watch out World – I’m a Highwayman!’ on the other.
PC Hill said Mr Thorndyke became ‘quite hysterical’ during their brief exchange, and at one point virtually screamed, ‘This is exactly what they wanted! Are you blind?! Can’t you see?! This is exactly what they wanted! If you actually have any serious intention of investigating this crime – and catching the cowardly vandal who committed this atrocity – then stop dawdling around here like a wet weekend, stuffing your face with battered cod, and go and speak to the man behind it! Talk to Trevor Woods! Talk to their henchman, if you’ve got the balls! He’s up to his scrawny neck in all of this!’ (I feel I must just briefly note, in passing, that there have been no actual road fatalities in Burley Cross since 1917, when, according to town records, ‘an inebriated flower-seller – of poor repute – slipped on some filthy cobbles, fell under the wheels of a cart and was instantly killed.’
It should also be noted that Cllr Thorndyke was wearing a T-shirt – and only a T-shirt, in temperatures of 20 degrees and under – during his exchange with PC Hill. PC Hill said, ‘His teeth were chattering as he spoke. It was actually quite difficult to decipher what he was saying at some points. I don’t know why he didn’t just go home and put his coat on.’)
A short while later, as he was climbing into his patrol car, PC Hill apprehended the aforementioned Mr Woods (the source of all this unbridled hysteria), driving up to the box in his postal van. PC Hill said he was ‘to all intents and purposes a broken man, skulking around the place like a beaten dog…’
On being questioned about the theft, Woods was quoted as saying, ‘They can’t pay me enough to do the collection here, mate. They’re nutters. They should have me on danger money. They’re all sodding lunatics.’
Suffice to say, following PC Hill’s initial investigation of the crime scene (and following the discovery of the refuse sack of letters found dumped in a back alley in Skipton – a mere two doors down from the bijou residence of notorious local petty criminal, Timmy Dickson), I contacted all those individuals whose letters now form a part of the official evidence, informing them that their post couldn’t be returned – or forwarded on – until it had been formally declassified as such.
Next, I initiated an official mail-out to the entire village (also enclosed, Rog, translated into the obligatory three languages – I chose Portuguese, Mandarin and Xhosa) to try and discover if anyone had posted a letter on the evening of Dec. 21st, which had not – for some reason – been retrieved in the Skipton cache.
Nobody had, although Rita Bramwell couldn’t be entirely certain. She said she thought she might have sent something, but that she wasn’t sure what it was, or to whom it was addressed (she’s several wires short of the full radio, Rog). As it transpired, she had actually sent something (case letter 13).
When I then asked her if she had received my earlier communication (informing her that exactly such a letter was being held by us, as evidence), she hotly denied that I had sent her one – although her husband, Peter Bramwell, later found it stuffed down the back of a chaise longue, and was kind enough to apologize to me for his wife’s behaviour.
I subsequently sent Mrs Bramwell a photocopy of her own letter (in an attempt to dispel her confusion). Her response was not at all as I had expected it to be. She hotly denied having sent it – in a long and erratic email – making a series of wild, unsubstantiated claims and accusations – one of which was that it had been ‘forged’, and that I myself was ‘in the frame’ as one of the suspects for the crime (we all had a good chuckle at that in the staff canteen)!
Several people were, you will be stunned to discover, Rog, a little peeved by the news that their post would not be immediately returned to them (you may have seen the bilious squall of angry letters in the local rag, Rog), but this is Burley Cross, after all: a tiny, ridiculously affluent, ludicrously puffed-up moor-side village, stuffed to capacity with spoilt second-home owners, southerners, the strange, the ‘artistic’, the eccentric and the retired (most of them tick all of the above boxes, Rog, and several more besides – although I’m sure I don’t have the natural intelligence, fine vocabulary or social acuity to do them all justice here… Matt Endive (Sr) – case letter 4 – who perfectly exemplifies those latent, Burley Cross characteristics of tragic retard and unalloyed fat-head combined, called me a ‘bumped-up little northern grammar-school oik’, only yesterday on the phone, and then, when I laughed him off, said I was ‘tragically out of my depth’ and ‘riddled with contumely’. I responded – quick as a flash, Rog. I said, ‘Are you sure you don’t mean “contumacy,” Mr Endive – from the Latin com = intense + tumere = to swell?’
A long silence followed, Rog, and I don’t mind admitting that I enjoyed every damn second of it – although, in retrospect, I think he probably did mean contumely).
Of course you know better than anybody, Rog, what kind of problems we’re up against here: to say Burley Cross is ‘Little England writ large’, would be like saying Stilton is ‘a dairy product with blue bits running through it’ (i.e. an understatement, Rog, and a considerable understatement at that).
This is, after all, the same place where the local council’s decision not to install a speed-bump last year caused a mini-riot on Pancake Day which was later ‘Recorded for Posterity, that Future Generations Might Read and Weep’, in a seven-hundred-line epic poem, (still pinned up on the notice board outside the local shop, with copies available for sale inside):
The butcher got the worst of it, when spade and axe did fall, The baker put up quite a fight, when caught up in the brawl…
(Ironically, there is no baker in Burley Cross, Rog, and never has been, either, so far as I am aware.)
Before I finally wind up, Rog, here’s a little something extra that might just pique your interest: while nobody was willing to admit to having had a letter stolen during the theft, two people were determined to make it publicly known that the letters written in their names were not penned by their own hands (the first, Rita Bramwell, as mentioned previously; the second, Tom Augustine, whose letter about a little incident at the public toilets I found especially informative, Rog – if deeply unedifying).
A final, brief aside, Rog: I couldn’t help remarking on how many letters had been sent on the day of the robbery. The number seemed unusually high in these text- and email-friendly times (even taking into consideration the pre-Christmas rush). I was about to launch some half-cocked investigations re The Royal Mail (Consignia, et al.) when PC Hill happily set my mind at rest on the issue.
It transpires that an extremely attractive, young lady – Nina Springhill – has recently started work in the post office, and, since her employment there, the volume of post being sent from the village has significantly increased (not only that, but an unprecedented number of pensioners – all male – have reverted to the traditional way of receiving their bi-monthly pay-outs: at the counter, as opposed to having it paid directly into their bank accounts).
I was only too happy to check the veracity of this tip-off myself, Rog, a week or so back, when I dropped into the PO to buy a book of stamps (in fact I bought three – two more on successive visits) which Sandy later came across – on wash day – while going through my pockets.
When I staggered home from work that night, there they all were, formally arranged on the kitchen table, like pieces of evidence – in fact I think there may have been five of them, in total – and Sandy standing next to them, pointing, with a face like thunder, demanding to know who I was planning to write to, and why.
(I mean all this fuss and nonsense over seven little books of stamps, Rog! Whatever next, eh?!)
So that’s pretty much the sum of it, Rog. I do hope my paltry insights have proved moderately useful as I step graciously aside – severing the spell-binding umbilical of this case once and for all – and redirect my energies to solving Skipton’s ever increasing backlog of run-of-the-mill murders, arsons, rapes, indecent assaults etc. (and, of course, in case I ever get too smug and complacent: the perennially fascinating mystery of Mrs Compton-Rees’s nomadic recycling bin; they found it in Hurston on Friday, then, on Sunday, a bemused call from the Laundromat in New Leasey…).
Hush, my boy! Hush! What’s that I hear? Is it the trusty rattle of Mrs Spokes’s tea trolley?
Before it arrives, Rog, I should probably alert you to the fact that Timmy Dickson, our main suspect for the crime (this type of activity is right up his street, Rog – or should I say ‘right up his back alley’, Rog? Arf! Arf!), has a perfect alibi. He was bedridden in hospital in Leeds that week, after his electronic tagging device rubbed up against the delicate flesh of his calf, generated a blister, and provoked a nasty case of cellulitis (transpires he’s allergic to penicillin, Rog, and blew up like a balloon when they pumped him full of the stuff!).
Fishing Saturday week, Rog? It’s been too long! How are your shifts? I’m free in the p.m. from one, if that’s any good to you. The following week I’m thinking of heading off to Royal Dornoch for a round or two (they say it has the same latitude as Moscow!) with Richard Usbourne (always useful to have a shrink handy on the links, eh, Rog? Although in your case, a pathologist might be more in order!).
I do think I’ve earned it, Rog, all things considered. PC Hill’s little problem put the kibosh on me joining Sandy on her annual pilgrimage to County Wicklow to lay flowers on her father’s grave (I was planning to join her for the first time this year – possibly taking the opportunity of popping in on Druid’s Glen, afterwards, on the sly!). Sandy’s still bearing quite a grudge after making the trip on her own.
When I mentioned that I might be heading off to Royal Dornoch over breakfast this morning (which, for the record, I made myself – there’s still quite an atmosphere of rancour in the house over the ‘stamps issue’), Sandy suggested that I might enjoy ‘taking a short trip up my own backside’, instead, then added, as a vague afterthought, ‘Although that might be a little difficult, Laurence. I’m not sure if you’ve actually returned from the last one yet.’
Ho ho!
The truths we speak in jest, eh, Rog?
All the best,
Sergeant Laurence Everill
PS To touch, Rog: tango, tangis, tangit, tangimus, tangitis, tangunt…
PPS Hmmn. A lovely warm slice of Treacle Spice Tray-bake and a steaming mug of tea! Yes. That’ll do nicely, thanks.
[letter 1]
For the exclusive attn of
Ms Linda Withycombe –
Environmental Health Technician,
Wharfedale District Council
The Retreat
Saxonby Manor
Burley Cross
21.12.2006
Dear Ms Withycombe1,
Here is the information as requested by yourself on Friday, December 19, during our brief conversation after the public meeting re ‘the proposal for the erection of at least [my itals] two new mobile phone masts in the vicinity of Wharfedale’. (I don’t think it would be needlessly optimistic of me to say that the ’nay’s definitely seemed to have the best of things that day2 – so let’s just hope those foolish mules3 at the phone company finally have the basic common sense to sit down and rethink what is patently a reckless, environmentally destructive and fundamentally ill-conceived strategy, eh?)
Might I just add (while we’re on the subject of the meeting itself) that I sincerely hope you did not take to heart any of the unhelpful – and in some cases extremely offensive – comments and observations made by the deranged and – quite frankly – tragic subject of this letter: Mrs Tirza Parry, widow4 (as she persists in signing herself in all of our correspondence; although on one occasion she signed herself Mrs Tirza Parry, window, by mistake, which certainly provided we long-suffering residents of The Retreat with no small measure of innocent amusement, I can tell you).
Because of her petite stature, advanced years and charmingly ‘bohemian’ appearance (I use the word bohemian not only in the sense of ‘unconventional’ – the white plastic cowboy boots, the heavy, sometimes rather coarse-seeming5, pagan-style jewellery, clumsily moulded from what looks like unfired clay6, the pop-socks, the paisley headscarves – but also with a tacit nod towards Mrs Parry’s famously ‘exotic’ roots, although, as a point of accuracy, I believe her parents were Turks or Greeks rather than Slovaks, Tirza being a derivation of ‘Theresa’, commonly celebrated as the Catholic saint of information which, under the circumstances, strikes me – and may well strike you – as remarkably ironic. NB I am just about to close this scandalously long bracket, and apologize, in advance, for the rambling – possibly even inconsequential – nature of this lengthy aside. Pressure of time – as I’m sure you’ll understand – prohibits me from rewriting/restructuring the previous paragraph, so it may well behove you to reread the first half of the original sentence in order to make sense of the second. Thanks), Mrs Parry has it within her reach to create, if not a favourable, then at least a diverting first impression during fledgling social encounters (I remember falling prey to such an impression myself, and would by no means blame you if such had been your own). There is no denying the woman’s extraordinary dynamism (it’s only a shame, I suppose, that all this highly laudable energy and enthusiasm is being so horribly – one might almost say dangerously – misdirected in this particular instance).
I’ve often remarked on how wonderfully blue and piercing Tirza Parry’s eyes are; my dear wife, Shoshana, calls them ‘lavender eyes’, which I think describes them most excellently (although, as she has also remarked, and very tellingly, I think, a ‘blueing’ of the eyes can often signify the onset of Alzheimer’s, dementia and other sundry ailments related to the loss of memory/reason in old age. I mean nothing derogatory by this statement – none of us is getting any younger, after all!7).
You will doubtless remember Shoshana (from the aforementioned meeting) as that fearless, flame-haired dominatrix (with the tightly bound arm – more of which, anon) who was acting as temporary secretary that day8, Wallace Simms, who usually fills this role9, having been bedridden by yet another severe bout of his recurrent sciatica.
It briefly occurs to me – by the by – that it may prove helpful at this point (especially in light of some of the wild accusations being thrown around by TP10 herself in the course of said meeting) if I provide you with a short précis of some of the complex, logistical issues currently being employed by that cunning creature as a pathetic smokescreen to obfuscate the real – the critical – subject at the dark heart of this letter. If you – like Mandy Williamson, your charming predecessor11 – are already fully convinced of my impartiality as a witness/ informant on this delicate – and rather distasteful – matter then feel free to skip the next section of this letter and rejoin the narrative in two pages’ time (I have taken the trouble to mark the exact spot with a tiny sticker of a Bolivian tree frog).
The Retreat (please see first document enclosed, labelled Doc. 1) is a charming – although rather Lilliputian – residence situated just inside the extensive grounds of Saxonby Manor (I have circled the residence, and its small garden, on the map provided with a fluorescent yellow marker).
My dear, late wife (Emily Baverstock, née Morrison) inherited said property over seventeen years ago from her great-aunt – the esteemed Lady Beatrix Morrison – who was then resident full-time at Saxonby (although she generally preferred to overwinter in the south of France, where she kept an immaculate, art deco-style penthouse flat in the heart of Biarritz).
When The Retreat was initially built (in the late 1920s) the property’s principal use was as a summer house/changing room (situated, as it was, directly adjacent to a fabulous, heated, Olympic-sized swimming pool – now long gone, alas). It was constructed with all mod cons (i.e. toilet, shower etc.; see second document – Doc. 2 – a photocopy of the original architectural plans) and although undisputedly bijou, The Retreat was always intended to be more than a mere ‘adjunct’. As early as 1933 they added a small kitchen and a bedroom to allow guests to stay there overnight in greater luxury, and it was eventually inhabited – full-time – by a displaced family (the Pringles, I believe12) for the duration of WWII.
After the war it became the home of Saxonby’s gardener, the infamous Samuel Tuggs (he sang and played the washboard with local folk sensations The Thrupenny Bits13), who was subsequently implicated in the mysterious disappearance of his wife’s fifteen-year-old niece, Moira (1974) and – rather sadly for Lady Morrison14 – while he was never formally tried for the crime15, an atmosphere of intense social pressure eventually obliged him to flee the area.
The Retreat’s already fascinating history16 was consolidated further when it was rented out (1981–90) to a writer of books about the science of code-breaking (a fascinating old chap called John Hinty Crew – ‘Hinty’ to his pals – a promiscuous homosexual whose real claim to fame was his inflammatory adolescent correspondence with Anthony Blunt17).
Up until this point the cottage possessed no formal/legal rights as an ‘independent dwelling’. Lady Morrison had – quite naturally – never felt the need to apply for any, and my late wife’s ownership of the property was only ever made explicit by dint of a short caveat in the old lady’s will which forbade the sale of the Manor at any future date without a prior agreement that The Retreat (and its tiny garden) were to remain exclusively in the hands of the Morrison family. Rights of access were, of course, a necessary part of this simple arrangement.
It is, I’m afraid, this worryingly fluid and vague ‘rights of access’ issue that is the source of all our current heartache.
As you will no doubt have already observed on the map provided, The Retreat was actually constructed within a short walking distance of an arched, medieval gate in the outer wall of the larger estate, and this gate has always been used as an entrance/exit (into the village of Burley Cross beyond) by the inhabitants of said dwelling (rather than the main entrance to the Manor, which lies approximately 500 yards – again, see Doc. 1 – to its right18).
It goes without saying that many times over the years my wife(s) and I have applied for some kind of permanent, formal, legal right of way, if only to establish the property as an independent dwelling (so that we might pay rates, raise a mortgage, or even consider selling19 at some future date, perhaps).
Unfortunately, the current owners of the Manor (the Jonty Weiss-Quinns20) have never been keen to support this application. The chief plank in their Crusoe-esque-style raft of objections21 is that the land that lies between The Retreat and the gate was once the site of an old monastery (see Doc. 1 – I have used a pink pencil to shade in the area) which is considered by – among others – the National Trust22 and English Nature to be ‘an important heritage site’.23
Were you to come along – in person – and take a good look at what actually remains of this ‘Old Monastery’, I think you would be astonished (as, indeed, are we24) that so much fuss could be generated by what basically amounts to a scruffy pile of broken stones (approx. three feet in diameter – aka the ‘Old Cloister’) and a slight dip or indentation in the ground (just to the left of the gate) which is apparently all that’s now left of the ‘Old Monk’s Latrine’(!).
As I’m sure you can imagine, Shoshana and I have grown rather depressed and frustrated by this unsatisfactory legal situation, not least because our non-payment of council tax has allowed less sympathetic/imaginative members of the Burley Cross community25 to accuse us of tight-fistedness and a lack of social/fiscal responsibility26. Much of this unnecessary hostility (as you are probably no doubt already fully aware) centres around the disposal/collection of rubbish.
The situation has recently developed to such a pitch of silliness and pettiness27 that the local bin men have been persuaded28 to ignore the black bin bags deposited outside our gate. This means that we are now obliged to skulk around like criminals at dawn on collection day, furtively distributing our bags among those piles belonging to other – marginally more sympathetic – properties in the local vicinity. Worse still, many of these sympathetic individuals – while perfectly happy to help us out – must live in constant terror of incurring the (not inconsiderable) wrath of TP, who has tried her utmost to transform this mundane issue into what she loves to call a ‘point of principle’.
As I’m sure you can now understand more fully, this complex situation re the disposal/collection of our rubbish feeds directly into the severe problems the village is currently experiencing with TP and her borderline obsessive interest in matters surrounding dog fouling.
You mentioned (during our brief exchange after the meeting) that I might benefit from reading the latest pamphlet on this subject published by EnCams: Dog Fouling and the Law: a guide for the public) which your department usually distributes free to interested parties (although due to recent budget cuts you regretted that you had yet to acquire any for general distribution – or even, you confessed, to become better acquainted with the finer details of said document yourself). I didn’t get a chance to tell you at the time that I already possess several copies of this useful booklet (and have – as you will doubtless have already noticed29 – taken the liberty of enclosing one for your own, personal use30).
Among the more fascinating details contained therein are the extraordinary statistics that (p. 2) the UK’s population of approximately 7.4 million dogs produces, on average, around 1,000 tonnes of excrement/day.
Burley Cross (human population: 210; dog population: 33; cat population: 47)31 certainly produces its fair share of the above, but, thanks to a – by and large – very responsible, slightly older32 population, the provision of two special poop-scoop bins within the heart of the village and the wonderful, wide expanses of surrounding heath and moorland lying beyond, the matter had never – until TP’s sudden arrival in our midst33 – become an issue of serious public concern.34
I confess that I have walked35 Shoshana’s pedigree spitz, Samson36, morning and evening, regular as clockwork, for almost five years now37, and during that time have rarely – if ever – had my excursions sullied by the unwelcome apprehension of a superfluity of dog mess. If Samson – in common with most other sensible dogs I know – feels the urge to ‘do his business’, then he is usually more than happy to ‘perform’ some short distance off the path (his modesty happily preserved by delicate fronds of feathery bracken) on the wild expanses of our local moor. Here, dog faeces – along with other animal faeces, including those of the moorland sheep, fox and badger – are able to decompose naturally (usually within – on average – a ten-day period, depending, of course, on the specific climatic conditions). If Samson is ‘caught short’ and needs to ‘go’ in a less convenient location then I automatically pick up his ‘business’ and dispose of it accordingly.
Further to a series of in-depth discussions with a significant number of the dog owners in this village (and its local environs), I think it would be fair to say that the model I follow with Samson is the model that most other reasonable people also adhere to, i.e. the collection of dog mess is only appropriate within an ‘urban/residential’ setting, in public parks (where people are liable to picnic, stroll, relax, and children play) and finally – under very special circumstances – where your animal might be perceived to have ‘despoiled’ a well-used moorland path to the detriment of other walkers’ enjoyment of it (although this last requirement is not legally binding but simply a question of community spirit).
I believe I am correct in saying that all of the above criteria tally perfectly with the procedures formally established by local government, and that – up until TP chanced to throw her very large (very filthy!) spanner into the works – these procedures were generally held to be not only just, but successful, necessary and universally beneficial.
With the arrival of TP, however, this fragile consensus was attacked, savagely mauled and rent asunder.38 TP, as you may well know, owns four large German shepherds and prefers – rather eccentrically – to take them on long walks on the moor in the moonlight (I say ‘them’, although so far as I am aware she only ever walks one dog at any given time39). These four large dogs are usually kept confined inside a concrete ‘compound’40 in the back garden of Hursley End – her dilapidated bungalow on Lamb’s Green.
It was initially – she insists – due to the difficulties she experienced in negotiating/avoiding random dog faeces during these night-time hikes that her bizarre habit of bagging other people’s dogs’ faeces and leaving them deposited on branches, walls and fence posts – apparently as a warning/admonishment to others less responsible than herself – commenced.41 This activity continued for upwards of six months before anyone either commented on it publicly or felt the urge to root out/apprehend the strange individual in our midst who had inexplicably chosen to enact this ‘special service’ on our behalf.42
Given the idiosyncratic nature of the bags employed (TP prefers a small, pink-tinged, transparent bag43 – probably better adapted for household use, i.e. freezing meat44 – instead of the usual, custom-made, matt-black kind45) it was easy, from very early on, to understand that the person bagging up and ‘displaying’ these faeces was not only happy, but almost keen to leave some kind of ‘signature’ behind.
When the bags were eventually identified as belonging to none other than TP (and she was calmly – very sensitively – confronted with her crimes), rather than apologizing, quietly retreating, or putting a summary halt to her bizarre activities, she responded – somewhat perversely – by actively redoubling her poop-gathering efforts! In fact she went still one stage further! She began to present herself in public46 as a wronged party, as a necessary – if chronically undervalued – environmental watchdog, as a doughty, cruelly misunderstood moral crusader, standing alone and defenceless – clutching her trademark, transparent poo-bag to her heaving chest – against the freely defecating heathen marauder!
And it gets worse! She then went on the offensive (see Docs. 3+4 – copies of letters sent to the local press), angrily accusing the general body of responsible dog owners in Burley Cross of actively destroying the picturesque and historic moor by encouraging our animals to ‘evacuate’47 there.
One occasion, in particular, stands out in my mind. I met her – quite by chance – on a sunny afternoon, overburdened by shopping from the village store48. I offered to take her bags for her and during the walk back to her home took some pains to explain to her that there was no actual legal requirement for dog owners to collect their dog’s faeces from the surrounding farm and moorland (The Dogs Fouling of Land Act, 1996). Her reaction to this news was to blush to the roots of her hair, spit out the word ‘justifier!’, roughly snatch her bags from me49 and then quote, at length, like a thing possessed (as if reciting some ancient biblical proverb50) from the (aforementioned) EnCams publication on the subject.51
To return to this useful document for just a moment, in Dog Fouling and the Law, EnCams provide an invaluable ‘profile of a dog fouler’ (p. 4 – when you read it for yourself you will discover that it is an extremely thorough and thought-provoking piece of analysis). Apparently the average ‘fouler’ enjoys watching TV and attending the cinema but has a profound mistrust of soap opera, around half of them have internet access – mainly at home – but ‘are not particularly confident in its usage’, and they are most likely to read the Sun and Mirror (but very rarely the Daily Mail or the Financial Times).52
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