Free Quiet Neighbors by Catriona McPherson

down through the tussocky November grass, feeling the cold and wet begin to seep in at the seams of her shoes. The apple tree had outgrown its space over the years and now filled the garden side to side, like a bouncer in a nightclub doorway. Jude ducked under its lowest boughs but must have brushed against at least a twig because she showered herself with droplets and shivered as she straightened again.
    When she got to the end of the garden, she knew what the noise had been. There was a door in the high, stone wall. Peeling paint and sodden wood with an iron handle rattling loosely on its one remaining screw. And, on the path, an arc where the moss had been scraped down to the stone as the old door opened as far as it would go. Jude tried it, just to make sure, and there was that noise for a third time. She poked her head out and looked up and down the lane, but it was empty. Just clusters of wheeliebins standing in groups like gossiping housewives and no noise but the rain, heavier suddenly, pattering on their plastic lids.
    Someone, Jude thought, had been in the garden, creeping around until they were startled by Jude coming out the back. They were gone now, leaving nothing behind but a single footprint in the mud at the edge of the lane, the toe distinct but the heel a skidding swipe, like the mark left on the path. Jude felt in her pocket, ready to take a picture—already the print was softening in the rain—then remembered her shattered phone.
    The rain had soaked through at her shoulders and the top of her head was cold, so, with a final glance both ways, she shoved the gate shut and hurried back up the garden again.
    Police wear Docs, she told herself, not Nikes. But plainclothes police—detectives—could wear anything, could leave a footprint exactly like that one. But detectives wouldn’t run at the sound of a loud knock. It was probably kids. One kid, she corrected herself, and felt her spirits lift. Police detectives went round in pairs, and it was definitely a single flitting figure she had glimpsed.
    Back inside, with Highland Verse kicked away and the door locked behind her, she leaned against it and closed her eyes. Concentrate, Jude. What had she really seen? Something dark. Very dark. Black, in fact. Too long to be a face, too narrow to be a piece of clothing across someone’s shoulders, and too high to be a cat, which was what it had looked like most. The glossy flank of a black cat.
    Trick of the light, she told herself. Trick of the gloom; trick of the rain.

    â€œLonely?” she said, in answer to Lowell’s hearty greeting. He had returned before lunch, the hoped-for Audubon carefully wrapped in brown paper and a bagful of Ian Flemings (unexpected and so extra-welcome) slung over his shoulder. “I haven’t had a chance to be lonely. I had Mrs. H. just after breakfast and then Maureen popped in for a rummage. And someone was in the garden too.”
    â€œMaureen?” said Lowell, and shifted a little. “Ah. Yes, right. A rummage. Did you … ?”
    â€œI did,” Jude said. “You’re lucky I stayed. Lucky it’s raining.”
    â€œBut of course I didn’t ever mean the dead room to be part of your remit,” Lowell said. “Shut the door on it and pretend it doesn’t exist. That’s what I do.”
    â€œI believe you,” said Jude. “But I was joking. Now I know it’s there, I’ll have to dig in.”
    â€œNonsense,” said Lowell. “I couldn’t possibly ask it of you.” He was unfolding the brown paper with great delicacy.
    â€œIt’s that or leave,” Jude said. She was being honest. It had worked once. “It’ll keep me awake at nights.” Lowell unwound the last turn of the parcel. “Occupational hazard,” she added, shrinking back into the comfort of lies. “Twenty years a book wrangler, you see.”
    â€œWell, well,” said Lowell.