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people?’ Quick as a brick, this one.
    â€˜Just tell the officer where you live,’ I hissed.
    â€˜I live upstairs,’ she said innocently. ‘The flat above Al – Mr Block’s. I –’ Somewhere in her brain a ratchet released a cog. ‘Oh, no. I’m his business partner, well, training to be. I don’t live with him. Well, not live . I live in his house, but in a different flat. I just work with him and I really only started that ... I mean. he’s old enough to be my father …’
    The uniformed constable gave me a look; 50-50 disbelief and pity. I screwed my face into a wince, much the same as a cat puts its ears back.
    â€˜I’m done up here,’ came a voice from above us. ‘Not worth the overtime, mate.’
    A civilian in a khaki anorak and carrying a large metal briefcase, rather like a photographer’s case, was coming down the stairs.
    Veronica turned her head around almost enough for me to call an exorcist, to get a look at him, then said to me: ‘Who’s he?’
    â€˜He’ll be the SOCO,’ I said. Too quickly.
    â€˜That’s right, sir,’ said the constable suspiciously. Then to Veronica: ‘Scene of Crimes Officer, miss. You can get into your flat now and tell us what’s missing.’
    He gave me a funny look as I made to follow her upstairs. I smiled at him but it cut no ice. Damn these teeth. If things didn’t improve, I was going to ask for my money back.
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    There had been two policemen inside the house, one in what I presumed was Albert Block’s office on the ground floor, who broke the news to us, and one upstairs in his flat.
    The news, once he had established that we, or at least one of us, had a legitimate excuse to be there, was that Mr Block had disturbed some intruders about an hour before. (‘Late afternoon, miss, prime time for break-ins. Bound to be kids, probably on their way home from school. Nothing on the telly, mum probably out working till six or so. Quick jolly with the mates, pick up some loose change and maybe a video or so. More common than you’d think.’)
    What hadn’t been so common was that whoever had done Mr Block’s place hadn’t worried too much about being seen (it was not yet dark) or heard, as they had used what must have been a sledgehammer on the front door. And on the internal doors, even the ones without locks. And on the television in Albert’s flat. And on the toilet bowl in the bathroom. And on the microwave oven in Veronica’s flat. (‘I don’t need a cooker just to cook for one, so that did me perfectly. Some of the microwave meals are really very good, but the portions are a bit small. It says for two, but …’ ‘Shut up and find your insurance policy.’)
    Just to make sure that this was the most ham-fisted burglary not actually caught on video, the intruders had picked a time when Mr Block had been there. And, wouldn’t you just know it, he must have tried to stop them or scare them off, and instead they had scared him into what had appeared to be a heart attack. Or at least that was what the ambulance driver had said before they carried him off to Queen Charlotte’s hospital down the Goldhawk Road.
    Not that it was a bad heart attack. (What’s a good one?) Well, it couldn’t have been, as it had been Mr Block who had rung for his own ambulance and then the police, though the medics had got their hands on him first so he hadn’t been able to tell them much. Still, he’d be sedated for a while and somebody from the morning shift would go and get a statement. Meantime, I’d better do something about that front door, hadn’t I?
    Why me? I thought. Then I realised that not only was the copper looking at me, so was Veronica.
    â€˜Do you know any local builders?’ I asked forlornly. She shook her head. I tried to appeal to the policeman. ‘He was one of yours, you