Free Love in Revolution by B.R. Collins

Martin was leaning forward, his cheeks flushed, just about to open his mouth. Papa shot him a look.
    ‘As I’ve explained, my daughter Esteya dropped her key in the street, this morning, when she was feeling ill. Anyone could have picked it up and decided to help themselves to our things.’
    ‘Ex act ly what I was saying, sir,’ the sergeant said, and scratched the inside of one nostril with his thumb. ‘Could’ve been anyone. No evidence. Careless of your daughter, I’m afraid.’
    ‘It certainly was,’ Mama said. I didn’t look at her.
    ‘But . . . well, I sympathise with your loss, of course, sir,’ the sergeant said. His voice was greasy and ironic. Papa’s jaw tensed and he took a deep breath, as if the words had an extra meaning only he understood. ‘But . . . I wouldn’t hold out too much hope.’
    ‘This is ridiculous,’ Mama said, standing up and straightening her skirt. ‘We know perfectly well that there are Zikindi hanging about the town. It seems to me that you would do very well to start with them.’
    I swallowed, feeling the heat start to creep over my cheeks, like mould.
    ‘Zikindi?’ The sergeant was being deliberately stupid; I didn’t know why, but I could see it in his eyes. I looked at my shoes again, scared someone would notice my face.
    ‘Zikindi are thieves, blood and bone,’ Mama said. ‘Everyone knows that, surely? Even people who appear to know very little else.’
    ‘We-ell,’ the sergeant said, looking at his notebook, as if he hadn’t noticed her tone. ‘Undesirables, certainly, and we will be asking them to move on, but as for your little silver boxes and suchlike –’
    There was the noise of a key in the front door, a footstep, and then the drawing-room door opened and Leon stood in the doorway, sweaty-faced and in his shirtsleeves. ‘Hello. What’s this, then? The end of a whodunit? Who’s dead?’
    The sergeant looked round at him, and the dislike showed on his face, as if the veneer had finally worn through. ‘Sorry to say there’s been a burglary,’ he said. ‘And you must be –’
    ‘My son Leon,’ Papa said, and cleared his throat. ‘Well, thank you for your effor–’
    ‘Papa, you let him into the house?’ Leon’s upper lip curled, as if he could smell something bad. ‘I hope you don’t expect the police to do anything except keep a sharp eye out for their own interests. Oh, and beat people up, of course.’ He added to the sergeant, ‘Teddy home yet?’ and then to Papa, ‘Better go round to see him as soon as he is. He’ll be in need of a bit of work.’
    ‘Leon,’ Papa said, ‘please don’t –’
    ‘ Oh ,’ the sergeant said. ‘You’re the one who likes playing at Communism, are you? We’ve heard about you.’
    ‘ Playing at –’ Leon began.
    ‘ Leon! ’ Papa said. ‘Go and check your room to see if anything’s missing.’
    ‘No need, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘Got all your details. Anything else comes up, let us know. You can send your son down the station, if you want. Kill two birds with one stone.’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    The sergeant frowned, scratching his head. ‘Oh, nothing meant by it, sir, only a joke. Just – well, thievery and the – what’s the phrase? – the redistribution of wealth aren’t that different, are they?’ He nodded to Leon. ‘Better watch what you say, sonny. Got away with it so far, but no one’s luck lasts for ever.’
    There was a silence. Leon took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt.
    Martin said, ‘Is it true that Teddy – that Mr Edwards was . . . ?’
    The sergeant rolled his neck, making the tendons crack. He said, ‘Mr Edwards is having a word with my colleagues down at the station, about an article he caused to be published.’
    ‘?“Caused to be published”?’ Leon muttered. Mama flinched, but no one else reacted, as if we were all hoping the sergeant hadn’t heard.
    ‘Well . . . if that’s all . . .’ He shut his notebook and pulled the