aggrieved.
‘How were the Renshaws, by the way?’ said Kitchens.
‘Difficult. I don’t think they’re ever going to accept the possibility that their daughter is dead. They’re living in a fantasy world, in which they expect Emma to turn up home at any moment. That makes it very hard to talk to them.’
‘Mrs Renshaw has gone a bit nutty, I’m afraid. And she doesn’t
90
realize it. We call it the Daft Old Biddy syndrome around here.
DOBs, they are. Daft Old Biddies and Daft Old Blokes. We get plenty
of them phoning the station. The control-room staff are like saints/
‘I could use a few saints/ said Fry. ‘All I have is Gavin Murfin/
The man with the walking stick recognized a sympathetic listener when he saw one. He had news of crimes to pass on to Ben Cooper every week, even though he could have no idea that Cooper was a police officer. Most of his stories were culled from the newspapers, and were therefore inaccurate. But, occasionally, he had one of his own from the Edendale neighbourhood of Southwoods, where he lived.
‘Do you know, some of the old girls up my way won’t open their doors to anybody now, except Meals on Wheels/ he said as Cooper tried to squeeze past him by the dairy products. They’re too frightened, see. They had another lot of those blokes round the other day, who pretend to want to check your gas supply for leaks. So some old dear lets them, because she’s worried about being gassed during the night, or her bungalow blowing up. Then one bloke keeps her talking, while the other goes through the house and pinches her purse and stuff/
‘Distraction burglaries/ said Cooper.
‘It’s disgusting. It’s always the old folk they go for, you know/
‘Yes, I know/
‘It’s because they think we’re all stupid. Mind you, some of those old dears are stupid/
They target anybody who’s vulnerable,’ said Cooper.
‘I’m not vulnerable. They have to show me identification if they want to get in my house. And I phone the council or whatever to check they’re who they say they are. They don’t like it, some of them, but I make them wait/
That’s very sensible/
‘And if I ever see one of them make a wrong move, I’ll clobber him with my stick/
That’s not so sensible/
‘Why not?’
‘Well, first of all, you might get seriously hurt if they hit you back/
‘I don’t care/
‘And you might find yourself on a charge of assault, if you use unreasonable force/
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‘I don’t care about that either.’
If you have any suspicions, the best thing to do is to call the police.’
‘Bollocks. What would they do? They don’t turn up until long after the buggers have gone, and then all they want to do is give you a number to claim on your insurance.’
Cooper’s mobile phone rang for a third time when he was in the frozen food section, jostling with his fellow shoppers for the pick of the items from the refrigerated cabinets.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake/ he said.
A woman standing nearby, with her trolley nudging his, gave him a funny look. He had noticed her before. He always seemed to encounter her in the frozen food aisles, where their trolleys had a regular rendezvous.
He answered the phone, and heard another familiar voice.
‘Oh, it’s you, Diane.’
The woman with the trolley chose that moment to lean past him towards the frozen Chinese meals for one.
‘Sorry,’ said Cooper as he moved out of the way.
‘Ben, is someone there with you?’ said Fry.
‘Oh - just someone wanting to get into the freezer.’
‘To what?’
The woman was waving a packet at him. Spicy noodles.
‘I find these very good when you live on your own/ she said, and smiled.
‘Oh, thanks.’
Fry’s voice was as chilly as the air rising from the lid of the freezer cabinet.
‘What’s she doing now, Ben? Offering you an ice cube?’
‘Some noodles.’
‘You’re at the supermarket, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
