Читать книгу Of Things Gone Astray - Janina Matthewson - Страница 13

MRS FEATHERBY HAD BOILED THE kettle four times whilst waiting for the police constable to arrive. Although she told herself she wanted to be prepared, she also wanted to avoid being the spectacle she knew she’d become. The kitchen was out of sight of the absent wall.

People were beginning to walk along the footpath and, as she had expected, they were staring. Those walking in pairs stopped and muttered to each other. She saw a few take pictures. She wanted to move out of their sight permanently, to live out the rest of her life in the back of the house, but she was afraid of missing the policeman when he arrived. It wasn’t as if he would be able to ring the doorbell, after all. She pursed her lips and moved to the kitchen to boil the kettle once more.

When he did eventually arrive he stood on the footpath for what must have been a full two minutes, staring, saying nothing. He didn’t seem to notice Mrs Featherby at all until she stepped out into the garden and said, ‘Good morning, Constable.’

She supposed constable was still the correct term to use, although, in all honesty, he didn’t look much like her idea of a constable. He was of an age at which, according to Mrs Featherby’s ideas, a policeman ought to be married, but he was not wearing a ring. He seemed to be suffering from hay fever or a severe head cold, but he was neglecting to use a handkerchief. He arrived with a sandwich in one hand and continually took bites from it as he talked, inconsistently remembering to swallow.

He introduced himself as PC Grigson, gave a hearty sniff, whistled towards the general vicinity of Mrs Featherby’s house and said, ‘Not sure what I’m going to be able to do for you, love; it’s a builder you’re going to need.’

Mrs Featherby felt her brow furrow involuntarily at being called ‘love’, but she decided not to comment.

‘Obviously I shall need a builder to fix it, young man. You are here to tell me how it happened. You are here to find out who is responsible and see that the person, or persons, are brought to justice.’

‘Right,’ said Grigson, running a wrist under his streaming nose. ‘So you think we should be looking for a perpetrator?’

‘Naturally I think you should be looking for a perpetrator. There has been a theft. Someone has stolen the front wall of my house. I wish to see that person found and held to account.’

‘Only thing is, pet, I just don’t see how someone can have stolen a whole wall of a house.’

‘No, Constable, I’m sure you do not. No more do I. But I believe part of your job consists of investigating how mysterious occurrences have, in fact, occurred. You must find it out.’

‘Right,’ he sniffed again. ‘Sure. Tell you what, I’m going to give you the name of a builder. He’s my ex-wife’s cousin, as a matter of fact, but he is actually pretty good anyway, and quite reliable, did my bathroom a few months back, and if I give him a call to let him know you’re in need, he’ll bump you up the list.’ He paused and glanced at the gaping hole in the side of the house. ‘And I’ll have a look through recent records, see if any similar, ah, thefts have occurred in the area.’

‘So what am I to do?’

‘Oh, you know. Let us know if you think of any other information. If you remember seeing anyone suspicious hanging around, or if you see someone in the future.’

Mrs Featherby didn’t quite know how to point out that none of this was in any way useful to her or other potential victims. She elected not to offer PC Grigson a cup of tea.

The copper gave a final sniff, said a non-committal goodbye, and headed back to his car. Mrs Featherby stood alone in her fractured home, vainly attempting to disregard the whispers and stares of her passing neighbours.