Free Killing Time by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

a sort of bang next door, or it might have been a thud, maybe, like something heavy being dropped or knocked over. And then nothing, just quiet, so Mr Fudgefrosting had turned the sound back up because there was that advert he liked, the supermarket one with the little boy and the shopping, he was a laugh that kid, and Mrs Hotjamsundae had gone to put the kettle on for their cuppa, which they always had before they went to bed. And while she was in the kitchen it was all quiet next door, and no-one had come along the communal balcony past her window. And this morning when she went out to go down for the paper she hadjust looked next door, just a quick peek, and she’d seen that the door wasn’t closed properly and a big footmark on it and sort of splintery-looking at the edge where the Yale was, so she’d known they hadn’t imagined it after all.
    ‘I suppose you didn’t think of calling the police?’ Hart said. Mr Maplesthorp looked witheringly at her, and said they couldn’t go phoning the police every time they heard a thump or a raised voice, or they’d never be off the phone. And the police wouldn’t thank them neither, they never did nothing if you did phone them. Anyway, you didn’t stick your nose in on this estate, you left well alone as long as
you
were left alone. It wasn’t like it used to be in the old days, when you could leave your front door open all day and no bother, and neighbours were neighbours. They were only waiting to be rehoused, but they’d been on the waiting list five years now, so unless they won the lottery—
    Mrs Maplesthorp interrupted to add apologetically that they hadn’t thought anything about it really, the noise next door, though they’d always been quiet people, no trouble, and not usually given to fights or kicking doors in, but you didn’t get thanked for interfering between man and wife, she’d learnt that lesson the hard way when she’d tried to make peace between her brother and his wife, and got an earful from both of them, and they’d never spoken since, except at family funerals and things, though they always sent a Christmas card, which was a bit hypocritical when you thought of it …
    Satisfactory, Hart thought when she finally made her escape. Three witnesses giving a similar story – you couldn’t ask for more than that in an imperfect world.
    ‘Has there been any trouble at the Pomona recently?’ Slider asked Sergeant O’Flaherty on his way out to the yard. Fergus was one of his oldest friends, a man of sharp, sidelong wit and vast experience, who lurked, like a birdwatcher in a hide, behind the persona of a joke Irishman, a pantomime Thick Mick. Sometimes Slider suspected that he had slipped so far into self-parody that he had started to believe it.
    ‘Not more than usual,’ O’Flaherty said. He was on his break and eating a sausage sandwich, washing it down with gulps of tea. ‘There was a bit of a frackarse Saturday night, but it didn’tamount to much – more of a comedy turn in the end. Some animal rights nutters tried to storm the place, but the doormen dusted ’em off.’
    ‘Animal rights?’ Slider was puzzled. ‘What were they protesting about?’
    ‘One o’ the cabaret acts. Simulated sex with a sheep,’ Fergus explained with a curled lip.
    Slider frowned. ‘But that’s—’
    ‘Asherjaysus, it wasn’t a real sheep, it was paper mashy an’ a bit o’ woolly stuff stuck on; but the animal libbers didn’t work that one out until they got in and chucked some paint at the performers. It missed them and hit the sheep, at which point the truth dawned. They was so gobsmacked it give the doormen a chance to grab. They gave ’em no resistance and the doormen chucked ’em out with just a bunch o’ bruises. They thought about suing, but when I pointed out what the headlines’d be, sense prevailed and they thought they’d better keep quiet about it, for the sake o’ pride.’ He finished his tea. ‘D’you know what the Pomona