Waterman, by Peter Morford

It was a nice avenue with tidy gardens and expensive cars, Neighbourhood Watch signs and burglar alarms.

     I pressed the bell of number 41, and stepped back two polite paces.

     A little old lady opened the door four inches.

     “Mrs. Phelps?”

     “Yes.”

     “Severn Trent.”  I showed her my badge.  She studied it, compared the mugshot with the mug and released the chain.

     “Come in out of the rain,” she said. “I took a sample for you this morning.  I’ll fetch it.  I’ve just made tea – would you like some?”

     I checked the time.  “Yes, please.”

     “Go through to the drawing room.”

     “Thank you.” 

     Two 12 gauge Purdey shotguns hung over the fireplace. Must be worth ten grand. Crossed swords behind the tv.  The more I looked, the more gunnery I saw.

     She set the tea things on a little table. “Here’s the sample,” she said. “The water’s clear now, it’s only nasty first thing in the morning. Help yourself to cake.”

     “Thank you. I’ll take another sample before I go,” I said.

     She saw me looking at the armoury. “They’re my late husband’s guns.  We lived in Kenn-ya.” That’s the way she said it. “Kenn-ya.”

     “I hope they’re all disarmed – and that you’ve got a licence,” I said.

     “Yes and Yes.”

     “You have a beautiful garden,”

     “Thank you.”   We sat down like a pair of old friends.

     Suddenly she jumped to her feet. “That damned squirrel’s back again.” And so it was, running prettily across the lawn, leaping onto the bird table.

     Mrs. Phelps opened a drawer in a Chippendale desk. “This is my father’s service revolver,” she said as she took rapid aim through the open door.  The squirrel was blown off the bird table in a mess of blood and brains.

     “I have to be going,” I said.