The Girl Who Stole the Apple

Ashcroft, the Rottweiler, joined in, baring his teeth. ‘Something must have happened to cause her to come out of the shop,’ he snarled. ‘What was it?’’

Maggie considered her options. What was it safe to say? She needed to throw them a morsel, a bone which the two of them could chew on or fight over. ‘A girl in a Snow White costume had stolen an apple. She had come into the shop, picked up an apple from the fresh produce area and then taken a bite out of it and run off.’

‘And?’

‘That was it. That was all she could talk about, the girl dressed as Snow White and the explosion. How loud it was. How frightened she was.’

DS Ashcroft made a noise that sounded like a growl. ‘We don’t believe you, darling.’

Maggie glared back at him. She wasn’t going to be bullied by any man and certainly not by one who called her “darling.” ‘That’s your problem, Sergeant.’

Ashcroft growled another question, ‘I’d still like to know why you visited this man during a work shift. Couldn’t you have gone afterwards?’ Ashcroft had the bone now.

Maggie tried not to react. Dogs can always sense fear. ‘I told you. He wasn’t answering the phone,’ she said deliberately. ‘That was unusual. I was worried about him. That’s why.’

Ashcroft bared his uneven teeth. ‘Very fortunate for you, darling, to be out of the shop when the bomb went off. Convenient even. A more sceptical person than me might come to the conclusion that you were out of the shop because you knew that there was going to be an explosion.’

Maggie felt anger flare. She stood up. ‘Do you think I would have gone and left Mrs Gupta in the shop if I was expecting it to be fire-bombed? What sort of person do you take me for?’

‘It was merely an observation,’ Reid interrupted quickly.

‘No, it damned well wasn’t. And I’m not going to answer any more questions without a solicitor present.’

Ashcroft growled. He hadn’t finished. He snapped. ‘Tell us the name of your War Horse chum, darling.’

She eyeballed him. ‘What, so that you can go round and badger him with a load of questions he won’t understand?’

‘So that he can confirm that you visited him.’

‘He’s got no short-term memory. So there wouldn’t be much point. He’d just get alarmed.’

‘We need his name and address!’ Ashcroft slapped his hand down on the table.

Maggie laughed, and waited for Ashcroft to get even angrier.

Reid placed a restraining hand on his colleague’s arm. He took over, speaking softly, his face indicating empathy and reason. ‘It’ll make life so much simpler if you give us the name and address.’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t see what it has got to do with the explosion. I went out. I came b

ack. I am not denying that. I got cut by some of the flying glass. What the hell has any of that got to do with me visiting a man with dementia? So I will say it just one more time. I’m not answering any more of your questions until I’ve spoken to a solicitor.’

Reid stood up sharply, his chair scraping discordantly against the floor. ‘That won’t be necessary. We’ve finished with our questions, for now at any rate.’

‘Well, I’ve got one for you.’ She wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip by. ‘What makes you think the attack was racially motivated?’ she demanded.

Reid’s overgrown eyebrows quivered. ‘You saw the press conference, did you?’

She nodded.

‘Then you’ll recall that I neither agreed nor disagreed with the journalist who suggested it.’

‘But you think it was?’

He seemed to both smile and frown at the same time. ‘The shop is, as you know, owned by a Mr Patel. The press may choose to speculate about motive, but my mind remains one hundred per cent open to all possibilities.’

* * *

Maggie Rogers slipped the key into the lock, opened the door and called out: ‘Hi, Dad!’ She always called out nowadays. In the past she would ring the bell and wait for him to let her in, but things were different now. If he was watching TV or staring at the wall, wrapped up in his own thoughts, he didn’t always respond to the bell. But letting herself in without calling out a greeting or warning seemed impolite to her. She might be his daughter, but it was his flat after all, not hers. She advanced along the corridor and entered the living room. He was sitting on the sofa. He turned and smiled. ‘Hello, dear.’