Mr Mallow points at an area of the roof that’s boarded up. Apparently, so Graham was told when he bought the place, there used to be a window there, but it was boarded over decades ago. Graham hadn’t bothered looking at the plans or questioning it further. Things like that didn’t concern him and, at the time, he’d wanted to complete the purchase of the house quickly so he could get the heck out of Cherry Hollow.
‘Was there a window there previously?’ asks Mr Mallow.
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘In that case … there’s something strange about its orientation.’
Graham looks up. Other than the boards looking a little out of place against the roof, he’s not sure what Mr Mallow means.
‘Which room would the window have belonged to?’ continues Mr Mallow.
Graham opens his mouth to provide the answer but finds there is no answer to give. ‘You know,’ he says, scratching the back of his head. ‘I’m not too sure. It must be the spare bedroom at the far end where you’re sleeping. It only has a tiny window, so perhaps a second one was blocked off at one time or another.’
‘No. That’s not right. The spare bedroom doesn’t look out over the yard. It’s on the other side of the building.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know then.’
‘You never noticed there’s a random blocked out window in your cottage that supposedly doesn’t belong to any of the rooms inside?’
‘No.’
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Almost a year.’
‘Hmm. Let’s take a look when we get back.’
‘What for?’
‘To quell my curiosity.’
Graham can’t argue with him there. He’s curious now too, but now there are more important mysteries to solve than a misplaced window.
It takes fifteen minutes to walk to the village and arrive at the butcher's shop, by which time, a line is already forming by the door and down the street. People, it seems, like to buy their meat early in the day to purchase the best cuts. Graham has also noticed they do the opposite and arrive as the shop is closing to grab some cheap ones; the cuts that don’t sell during the day and would otherwise go to waste. The butcher’s shop is also the most popular place to buy meat, bone and offal for farm dogs. Most farmers around here seem to feed their dogs raw meat, so he’s gathered.
‘Mr Williams, good to see you,’ says a man around Graham’s age, who he recognises as the bank manager, but he can't remember his name. Graham often knows people by their faces, but is useless at remembering names. The bank is tiny and he’s surprised it’s still in business, considering most banking is done online these days.
‘Hello,’ says Graham, tipping his hat. Mr Mallow is standing quietly beside him. Graham recalls him not being very confident with general chit chat, something he can sympathise with.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in line this early for the butcher’s shop,’ says the bank manager.
Graham merely smiles, not giving anything away.
The line moves again and, this time, Graham and Mr Mallow squeeze into the small shop where a pungent odour of raw meat tickles Graham’s nostrils.
‘Uh, Detective, if you wouldn’t mind, I’m going to wait outside. I’m afraid the smell in here is making me feel a little queasy.’
Graham nods. ‘Very well. I’ll see you in a moment.’
Mr Mallow sidesteps the other customers and heads outside, taking up a position a little way down the pavement, as far away from the door as possible. There’s no doubt about it. Something is wrong with Mr Mallow. Something quite serious.
But Graham doesn’t have time to worry about that now. He needs to find out as much information as he can about pig hearts from the butcher.
Chapter 24
GRAHAM
Graham waits patiently for his turn at the counter. He watches other customers as they mull over their choice of meats, sausages or joints for the day. Perhaps they have their usual order in mind, or maybe they have special visitors coming to stay and want to wow them with locally produced pork and lamb. He has to admit, the apple and mint sausages are appealing. They’ll sizzle up nicely in a pan, alongside some thick gravy. Perhaps he’ll get a few for dinner tonight, seeing as he has a house guest for the foreseeable future. There’s also a nice selection of beef roasting joints, something he hasn’t eaten in decades. His parents used to cook a beef joint for Christmas every year rather than the traditional whole turkey, and now, whenever he sees one, he is taken back to his childhood; the smell of beef fat, horseradish and a huge Yorkshire pudding or two, complete with a ladle of thick gravy, made with the drippings.
