"Littleford, Clare - Death Duty" - читать интересную книгу автора (Littleford Clare)

I said, "Yes. I was mugged."

"And where was this?"

So I ran through the details once more, a condensed version because I
was starting to get the hang of this. Young man appears, threatens me,
I try to get away, he bashes me on the head and takes my purse, I wake
up with a sore head. Even as I told them the story I felt how
ridiculous all of this fuss was, how little anybody could do to prevent
this sort of thing. I told them that he'd hit me in broad daylight, in
a busy street, in the doorway to a busy shop, and I'd done nothing to
provoke him. But as I said those words, I thought again of the dream
I'd had. Maybe I had seen him somewhere before? I opened my mouth to
suggest it, looking towards PC Andrews as if she was going to offer me
some kind of sympathy, or encouragement. But PC Andrews looked
slightly bored, almost impatiently so. Alex would have been angry with
me if he had known I wasn't telling the police everything. I could
imagine him, telling me I had a responsibility towards the attacker's
next victims but I didn't know what I could say that would make any
sense. I couldn't imagine PC Andrews regaining her interest in my
story if I told her that he had said something I hadn't heard, or
looked at me as if he recognized me. And how could I be sure, when I
had barely even caught a glimpse of his face?

PC Short said, "So, you were on your lunch break. Where do you
work?"

"Social Services," I said. "I'm a social worker."

He gave a low little laugh. "You're as popular as we are, then. On
the streets, I mean. You're sure it wasn't a client having a pop?"

"Yes," I said. But he had tried to speak to me, I was fairly sure of
that if I had only heard what he was saying to me, if I could only
piece it together, then I would know. What if it had been a client?
Maybe there was something I could have done to prevent it? I kept my
voice even and said, "I'm pretty sure, anyway. I didn't get that good
a look at him."

PC Andrews was looking around the room again, and I tried to see what
she could possibly find so interesting in a plain old through-lounge
with a few books on shelves and green plants in pots on the varnished
floorboards and a couple of Kandinsky prints in clip-frames on the
walls. I fought down the irritation, and the urge to tell her to stop,
but I recognized the kind of look she was giving the place, the kind of
assessment. It was what I did on a first home visit; deconstructing
the home environment, trying to work out what the choice of ornaments
or the lack of them meant, trying to figure out something about the
character of the household from the kinds of objects and furniture and
wallpaper they chose. I followed the policewoman's gaze and wondered