Marks answered after two rings. “Yes?”
“Ian Morgan, detective…”
“What do you want?”
“Someone threw a brick through our window a few minutes ago.”
“And?”
“Well, it’s a crime isn’t it?”
“I’m with the National Counter Terrorism Security Office. It’s is a local police matter. Not my problem.”
“Can you call them?”
Marks snorted. “Do it yourself. And please, don’t call me unless it’s related to a terrorist offence.”
“Sorry to have troubled you, detective. But I need to point out this is your fault.”
“Why is that, Mr Morgan?”
“If you hadn’t been so public when arresting Alice, this would never have happened. Now people know where she lives.”
“Look, you’re selling the house. Move out if you're that worried.”
“Well…” The phone beeped. Marks had disconnected.
Ian dialled 999, and the operator put him through to the police call handler who refused to rate the situation as requiring an immediate response.
“But it’s a physical attack on my house.”
“I’m sorry, Sir. Whoever did this is likely long gone.”
“Supposing they’re not?”
“I’ll rate it as prompt which means you should have someone with you within 60 minutes. If there’s someone in the area, it may be quicker.”
“What am I meant to do until then?”
“Board up your window with something.”
Ian sighed and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Wonderful. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
While he waited for the police to arrive, Ian put on a pair of shoes and cleaned up the broken glass. In a crammed kitchen drawer, he dug out masking tape and the scissors. There were cardboard boxes storing junk in the utility room, and he upended one onto the floor, kicking the contents into a corner. He ripped the box apart and brought it into the lounge where he taped it over the shattered window.
Back in the kitchen, he stashed the scissors and tape and made a coffee. Before he drank the coffee, he felt brave enough to check the street outside. As he went to open the hall door, he noticed something on the floor which he had missed earlier. He saw it was a drip mat from a pub, and some bastard had written ‘Fuck off back to Mecca’ on it. Probably the same bastard who broke the window.
Then he noticed the wet patch by the door. At first, he stepped back, thinking it might be petrol or another accelerant, then he got down on his knees, sniffed it and shook his head. He had a fair idea of what it might be.
There was no sign of anyone on the street outside. The police call handler was right, whoever did it legged it when the alarm sounded, so Ian went back inside and drank the coffee. He cursed the fact he had to travel to Frankfurt in the morning. Now he'd have to change the flight and get the window fixed.
Over an hour later, the doorbell rang, and two uniformed police officers stood on the step.
“Hello. I’m Constable Stephanie Moore and this is Constable Aaron McNulty. We received several calls about an alarm and a broken window. May we come in?”
“Uh... Yeah.”
“What’s your name?”
“Ian Morgan. I live here with my girlfriend, but she’s away.” He thought he saw a flicker of recognition in their faces. No doubt they knew who lived here. Everyone else seemed to.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m unharmed. Somebody threw a brick through the window. It broke the glass and set off the alarm. They also put a drip mat through the letterbox. It says, ‘Fuck off back to Mecca’.” He pointed at the carpet by the front door. “He pissed through the letterbox too.”
“Lovely. Is it all right if I check around the house?” McNulty asked.
Ian shrugged. “I suppose.”
Stephanie Moore picked up the beer mat and studied it before putting it into a cellophane bag she produced from her utility belt. “Which window?”
“In here.” Ian led her into the lounge. “What do you think?”
Moore looked around and spread her arms. “I hate to say this, but it’s probably linked to recent events.”
“Alice had nothing to do with the attack. Turns out the terrorist came on to her last year, she brushed him off, and then he implicated her as an act of revenge.”
Moore nodded. “I guess shit happens.”
“People are saying terrible things on Twitter and other social media platforms. Aren't they illegal?”
“We’d have to arrest a hell of a lot of people.”
Ian sighed. “I don't mean to be rude or anything, but that’s not very helpful.”
“Sorry. But there isn't a lot we can do unless there’s an imminent physical threat.”
“Surely a rape threat counts?”
“She’s not here, is she?”
“No. She’s in Copenhagen.”
“No imminent physical threat then, is there?”
Ian shrugged. “But what happens when she comes back next week?”
“The mob will have moved on by then. Their attention span is short, and they get bored easily. Especially if there’s no-one to argue with.”
McNulty stomped down the stairs and entered the lounge. “No-one else here.” He looked around the room, then he nodded at the photograph above the mantelpiece. “Now that’s a big photo. Nice.” He moved closer. “Very nice.” He appeared to study it for a moment before he turned to Moore, “What do you reckon?”
She raised an eyebrow at him and nodded towards the frame. “The photo?”
“No.” He waved an arm around. “This. The broken window.”
“Retaliation for South Ken,” Moore said. “Considering the note through the door saying, ‘Fuck off back to Mecca’ and possible urine on the carpet.”
McNulty nodded. “We’ll write it up, check for CCTV around here.” He turned to Ian. “Don’t expect too much. When emotions run high, the opportunists pick on easy targets. We’ll do the prints and see if there’s any DNA. They won’t be back tonight. Keep your alarm on at all
