Number 53 was in the middle of the redbrick terrace. I parked a little way past it, checked I’d got the right envelope and reined in Digger. I left the car door open for a fast getaway.
The downstairs window was partly boarded up with wood on which someone had scrawled Cantona and Giggs – the kings in red. Someone else had scratched over this in black: Giggs sucks – Man City rule. Given that United had just won the Cup Final, while Manchester City had been relegated, this City fan’s analysis displayed an incredible triumph of hope over reality (no bad thing for anyone having to live round there).
I knocked on the door. There was no answer. It was a muggy June evening, the sky a sullen blank holding onto its rain. I could hear the television from a neighbouring house and a child crying. I knocked again. Where was he? Evenings and early mornings were usually the best time to catch people in, though if they were unemployed they weren’t best pleased to be woken up early by someone at the door. It was nearly seven; I’d timed it so if Mr Kearsal had any plans for going out that night, I’d be likely to get him before he left. I knocked again.
The door of the adjoining house opened and a woman stepped out. She’d short grey hair and glasses and wore a pinafore and mules straight out of the 1950s.
‘Can I help, love?’
‘I’m looking for Mr Kearsal,’ I explained.
She shook her head. ‘Not seen him about. Mind you, I don’t- these days. Not since, let’s think, last week sometime. You from the social work?’
‘No.’ I didn’t want to tell her what I was doing there.
‘Only they said they’d send someone, you see,’ she pressed on, ‘Victim Support or something, after the burglary. Shook him up, that did. I used to take him a bit of dinner now and then, if Harry and I were having a hot pot and that, or a nice bit of chicken – but he doesn’t like to answer the door now. I mean, the stories you hear.’
I nodded, wondering where we were headed and whether to interrupt.
‘Now he sometimes goes to his sister’s in Ashton but he usually tells me, and he knows if he needs anything he can just bang on the wall – but he’s not been himself since. It’s aged him. You can see it. They took his wallet and then they duffed him up. Now what did they have to do that for?’
I murmured in sympathy.
‘I could try calling for you if you like,’ she offered. ‘He might be in there but not wanting to open the door.’
‘Thank you.’
