Free Strike a Match (Book 1): Serious Crimes by Frank Tayell Page B

lot of fires get started that way.”
    “That’s a threat,” Ruth said. “And those are illegal.”
    “Oh, no, it’s not a threat,” Foster said. “Just an observation. You see, I— here, whose is that?” He pointed at the uniform jacket hanging in the corner.
    “It belongs to a friend of ours,” Maggie said. “He got into a fight. I was cleaning it for him. You can still make out the bloodstain. Hard to get those out, isn’t it, Mr Foster?”
    “Huh,” Foster grunted. He looked around the kitchen again, this time taking in the two sets of dinner plates and the lack of evidence that anyone else was in the house. “Two weeks,” he said. “Not a day longer.”
    He turned, stamping his muddy boots on the step as he left.
    “I should put that uniform back on,” Ruth said.
    “Oh yes, and what would you do then?” Maggie asked, as she pushed the door closed.
    “I’d arrest him,” Ruth said.
    “What for? He made insinuations, but were there any threats you could take to a judge? The government gave him this land, he paid for the water to be put in, and we have to pay him for it.”
    “But it’s not right,” Ruth said. “We’ve been living here for years.”
    “It is right, though it might not be fair, but life isn’t fair, Ruth, I’ve told you that often enough.”
    Ruth nodded as she grabbed the dustpan and started sweeping up the mud the man had trailed into their home.
    “Where are we going to find the money?” she asked. “I won’t get paid until the first three months are up, and it’s not like we’ve ever had any to spare.”
    “Have you ever been starving? Have you ever not had a roof over your head? No. So don’t worry about the money. Now, leave that floor alone, I’ll deal with it later. Come and finish your cake, and you can tell me more about this sergeant. You say he’s from America?”
    “Originally, but his accent’s different from yours.”
    “It is? How old is he?”
    “Forty. Maybe older, maybe younger. You know how hard it is to tell,” Ruth said. She went on to talk about Mitchell, Riley, and the rest of her day in more detail than before. Hours passed, the cake was eaten, and the candle burned low.
     
     

Chapter 3
    Counterfeit
    18 th September
     
    Ruth’s sleep was plagued by visions of steam trains that morphed into monstrous flies circling the face of the dead victim. She woke frequently and was glad when the inky darkness outside her window faded to the soft pink of the new day.
    She raked the stove and went outside to fill the kettle. The tap in the garden was an improvement on the pump down by the old petrol station. Before that, they’d had to trek back and forth to the river. However, the convenience of the tap wasn’t worth the risk of losing their home. There were plenty of other houses, of course, though after twenty years of neglect most had little beyond roof and walls to offer. Many didn’t even have those. Then there was the school. If Mr Foster evicted them, would Maggie have to find somewhere else to teach the children from the immigration centre? Probably. Would the government provide it? Possibly, though not quickly. Perhaps someone in the Ministry of Education would help simply as a way of avoiding the paperwork that would come with organising a new school building. Thinking of paperwork reminded her of Sergeant Mitchell and the question of why she’d been assigned to his unit. By the time she’d eaten and dressed, she still hadn’t come up with an answer.
    As she wheeled her bicycle along the lane, shooting frequent glances at the dark bloodstain on her sleeve, she hoped she might bump into Mr Foster. She wanted him to see her in uniform, but Maggie was right, what would she do then? What could she do? A million malicious ideas sprang to mind, but they were tempered by the memory of the dead man and his lifeless eyes.
     
    According to her new watch, it was seven forty-five when she pushed her bike into the stand behind Police House.