Хилари Боннер - The Cruellest Game

I switched the big fridge back on and replaced any food that could be retrieved from the mess. Like packets of bacon that had been frozen, now defrosted but surely come to no harm in such a brief period, packaged sliced bread, a tub or two of butter, packets of cheese and so on.

The rest of it, including the smashed remains of a box of half a dozen eggs (I was thankful that at least there were no more), I binned. I used my vacuum cleaner, which fortunately was one of those that dealt with liquid, to suck up the worst of the mess left by broken eggs and spilt milk and wine. Then I let Florrie back into the house, gave her a handful of her breakfast biscuits and checked my watch. It was still only just gone seven o’clock. Too early to begin the phone calls I wanted to make.

In spite of everything my stomach reminded me that I was hungry. I’d eaten nothing since a school lunch of dubious merit the previous day. And a lot had happened since then.

I opened a packet of bacon, and lay five rashers across the base of one of my selection of iron frying pans, something else more or less impervious to any sort of damage. When the bacon started to frizzle up I moved it to the side of the pan and added two slices of bread. After both bacon and bread were cooked to my satisfaction — I liked my bacon very crispy and the bread too — I let the pan cool a little then ate directly from it. But then, I didn’t have a lot of choice. It seemed that there wasn’t an unbroken plate in the kitchen.

By the time I’d finished, and made and drank a couple of double espressos, thankful at least that the built-in espresso machine had escaped the wrecker’s attention, it was approaching eight o’clock, and certainly an hour that would be considered respectable by Tom Farley, to whom Saturdays I knew were just another working day.

Our number one local handyman was an unflappable sort of chap invariably willing to take on almost any job. Above all, he drove a large white van. Even Robert had liked and respected Tom, and sometimes, I’d thought, actually quite enjoyed his company when Tom had helped him with work on the house. On the very rare occasions when we took a few days’ holiday — Robert always said there wasn’t a better place in the world than Highrise so why would he want to go away? — it was to Tom we gave a key to the house so that he could keep an eye on the place and water the indoor plants. I couldn’t help reflecting a moment on those days. In the summer we would occasionally rent a little coastguard’s cottage virtually on the beach just outside Padstow in Cornwall, walk for miles along the cliffs, barbecue fresh fish, and bathe in the sea when the weather allowed. We never went abroad. Of course, I knew why now, didn’t I? Robert’s passport would almost certainly be in the name of Rob Anderton, wouldn’t it? I suddenly realized I had never seen his passport and didn’t even know if he had one. He really had been so duplicitous and I, it now seemed, had been so ridiculously trusting.

I shook myself out of my reverie and dialled Tom’s number.

There was a distinct note of sympathy in his voice when I told him who was calling.

‘What can I do for you, Mrs Anderson?’ he asked.

I’d noticed that Tom had been at Robbie’s funeral. He and his wife had briefly paid their respects as Robert and I had left the cemetery, awkwardly muttering condolences, though I didn’t remember seeing either of them at the pub afterwards. But Tom worked all hours. He’d probably had a job to do.

I explained that Robert had returned to work, that our house had been wrecked by a person or persons unknown, and that I needed help to clear up the mess, take irreparable items away and so on.

He wondered what the world was coming to, asked who on earth would do something like that to a woman in my situation, and said that under the circumstances he’d come round that very afternoon.

‘I’ve got a job on this morning I can’t put off,’ he said. ‘But I should be able to make it about one. And I’ll ’ave our Eddie with me. Good as a man now, that lad.’

I thanked him, ended the call, and removed my iPad from my schoolbag, grateful that I was in the habit of taking it to school with me or it would surely have been destroyed or stolen. I knew I might be closing the stable door after the horse had bolted, and in a way rather hoped that I was, but I’d already decided that I wanted more security if I was going to stay at Highrise. I looked up burglar alarm companies which supplied systems linked to some kind of security service — an unconnected bell, however strident, would be no use at all, alerting only the birds and the beasts of the moors to any intrusion. I called the most likely looking one, Top Alarm Security, based in Exeter, hoping fervently that they operated on a Saturday. They did. I told them I needed my case to be treated as an emergency. They offered to send an advisor to give me an estimate later that day. I told them I just needed some sort of alarm system to be fitted straight away, and I would accept whatever their standard charges were. They warned there would be an extra charge for Saturday, and they might not be able to complete a full installation. Ultimately we agreed that two of their engineers would arrive at 4 p.m., thus giving the Farleys and me time to clear up the worst of the mess.

Then I decided to have one last crack at convincing the police that I was a victim of crime, not a perpetrator of senseless destruction as I thought they believed.

I called DS Jarvis to tell him what had been going on. I quite expected, however, to be patched through to Heavitree Road again, and was mildly surprised when the detective sergeant himself answered almost at once. I got the impression, though, that he had been expecting another call and had not looked at his phone’s display panel before answering. But he seemed quite pleasant and helpful. At first anyway.

‘Yes, I do know about it,’ he said when I began to explain the events of the previous night.

‘It is the second incident,’ I persisted.

‘I know that too,’ he said.

‘Right. So is anyone actually doing anything about it?’

‘Of course, Mrs Anderson. Inquiries are proceeding, and we are doing all we can.’

‘But the two policemen who came round yesterday gave every impression that they thought I imagined the first break-in, then trashed my house myself,’ I said. ‘It’s ridiculous.’

There was a pause.

‘I’m really not aware of that, Mrs Anderson,’ he answered patiently. ‘This force takes all incidents of burglary and damage to property very seriously indeed...’

There was another pause.

‘Look, hold on a minute will you.’

I could vaguely hear him talking to someone else. When he returned he did not sound quite so patient.

‘Look, Mrs Anderson, we have two officers investigating the incidents you have reported,’ he said. ‘It’s their case, not mine now. I really cannot help you any further and—’

‘Please listen to me,’ I said. ‘Something is going on that I don’t understand. It’s not burglary, that’s for certain. Hardly anything’s been taken. It’s some sort of attack on me, and maybe my husband too. And I feel sure it must be connected to Robbie’s death. I don’t know how, but it just must be. Robbie’s death is your case, isn’t it? And you told me to call you any time.’

DS Jarvis sighed.

‘Actually, to be honest, Mrs Anderson, we are, of course, awaiting the inquest and the coroner’s verdict, but we feel it is unlikely that we can take your son’s case any further,’ he said. ‘As for the other matter, the two incidents at your home, as I told you, our inquiries are proceeding and we are doing all that we can.’

He sounded weary. And no longer that interested.