‘Excited funny? Or lots of exercise funny?’
‘Excited,’ says Mrs Kwalingana, ‘in that way. The way men get.’
Luther writes a note.
‘I just lay there,’ Mrs Kwalingana says, ‘and watched him through a crack in my eyelid.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘Playing with himself.’
‘Excuse me,’ Howie says, ‘I have to ask. Was he exposing himself?’
‘No. He was rubbing it through his trousers. Very slowly. Not’ — she looks at the table — ‘not up and down, but round and round. And he was smiling. Making these breaths.’ She mimes it. ‘And rubbing himself all in circles.’
‘You saw his face?’
‘I saw him smile.’
‘Anything else you noticed about him? Did he have long hair? Short hair?’
‘I don’t remember. Short, I think. He wore a hat.’
‘He was a white man?’
‘White, skinny. Young. But muscles, you know?’
‘How did you see his muscles?’
‘In his forearms as he… jiggled it around.’
‘Did he wear a watch, maybe? Jewellery?’
‘No watch. No jewellery.’
‘Did you notice a tattoo?’
‘He was a thin young man. Quite strong.’
‘Clean shaven?’
‘Yes. None of these goatees.’
‘And while he was… playing with himself, did he say anything?’
‘No.’
‘And he didn’t touch you?’
‘No. I pretended to be asleep and in a minute he went away.’
‘What did he take?’
‘Just my bag. My keys.’
‘Your own keys?’
‘Yes, my own keys.’
‘And only your keys?’
‘No.’
‘What other keys did he take?’
‘Keys from people whose houses I clean.’
‘Mrs Kwalingana,’ says Howie. ‘This is important now. Did those keys have the address on them?’
‘Do I look stupid to you?’
‘No, you don’t look stupid to me.’
‘Good. Well, I’m not.’
‘Do you keep a computer at home?’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Never mind. Do you keep your clients’ addresses written down anywhere?’
She taps her head. ‘No need.’
‘And in the morning, you reported this theft to the police?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened?’
‘I put the kettle on and sat round waiting. And sure enough, they turn up eventually. I tell them what happened, they give me a crime number for insurance. I tell them — these keys, if my boss finds out they’re gone I’m sacked. There’s nothing we can do, the police lady says. I call her a name and she leaves. I never see them again.’
‘And how did your employer respond,’ Luther says, ‘when you told him about the lost keys?’
‘I never did.’
‘All those keys were stolen, and you never told anybody?’
‘Nope.’
He glances at his notes, knows he’s missing something. ‘You need those keys to get into the houses you clean, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Did you have a spare set?’
‘No.’
‘So?’
He sits back. Crosses his arms. Waits.
‘So,’ she says. ‘The keys were stolen on Friday. No cleaning on Saturday. Sunday morning, I get out of bed — can’t sleep, you know. Have to keep checking windows and the doors.’
‘And?’
‘And in the hallway, there’s an envelope.’
‘What’s in the envelope?’
‘My keys.’
Luther glances at Howie.
‘What?’ he says. ‘All of them?’
‘All of them.’
‘He gave you back your keys?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you ever wonder why?’
‘Many times.’
‘Any ideas?’
‘Because they’re no good to him?’
‘So why didn’t he just throw them away?’
‘Perhaps deep down he’s a good boy.’
‘Could be,’ Luther says. ‘Did you tell the police about this?’
‘Yes. They told me they’d get the SAS onto it.’
Luther laughs, liking this woman. He says, ‘I’m sorry you weren’t treated better.’
‘Not your fault. The young gentleman this morning was very nice. He had a kind face. What was his name?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘DS Ripley,’ says Howie.
‘I’ve never met DS Ripley,’ Luther says. ‘But if I do, I’ll be sure to pass on your kind words. Are you sleeping better now?’
‘A little. I’d like a dog.’
‘That’s a good idea.’
‘I’m scared to get one in case I take a fall and can’t feed it.’
Luther tucks away the notebook. ‘You didn’t happen to keep the envelope the keys came in, did you?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘You may have kept it, though? To reuse, pay a bill, send a Christmas card?’
‘It’s not impossible.’
‘Would you mind if I sent an officer home with you to take a look?’
‘He’ll drive me home?’
‘It’ll be a she. And yes.’
‘Then fine. Good.’
