I wait before trying the doorbell again, then tap the metal letterbox, flapping it noisily for good measure. But still no one comes to the door. It is the middle of the morning—I guess the owners are out at work. I stand there for another hopeful minute before returning to my car, hunting around in the glove compartment for a pen and paper.
I’m just scribbling my mobile number at the bottom of the note when a small red Peugeot slows next to me and turns carefully into the drive of number 167, suspension squeaking audibly as it bumps up the curb. A woman gets out of the driver’s side and goes around to the boot, lifting out two bulging bags of shopping. She’s around fifty, in dungarees and trainers, with flushed cheeks and brown hair tied back in an unfussy ponytail. Leaving the boot open, she takes the shopping and walks to the house next door where the door has already been opened by an elderly man in slippers, leaning on a walking stick. She disappears inside.
A few minutes later, she emerges empty-handed and takes the remaining two bags of shopping from the Peugeot, going into number 167 and nudging the front door shut with her foot. I give her a minute then follow, ringing the doorbell for the thirdtime in ten minutes. This time I can see the shape of movement through the frosted glass as she approaches, already talking as she pulls open the door.
“I’ve told you, Bill, I was doing a shop anyway and I’m not taking any extra money for—”
She sees me, and stops.
“Hi,” I say, holding a hand up in greeting. “Sorry to drop in on you like this.”
“Oh,” she says. “Thought you were the neighbor.”
“Have you got a minute?”
The smile fades from her face. “I was just unpacking the shopping, then I’ve got some other things to be getting on with before I pick my son up.”
“It really won’t take—”
“And I don’t buy on the doorstep, but you can leave a leaflet if you want.”
“I’m not selling anything,” I say. “I just wanted to talk to you about your dog.”
She starts to push the door shut. “Sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong house, love. I don’t have a dog.”
“I found his collar.” I raise the plastic bag. “Was passing by today and I thought I’d drop it around to you.”
“Like I said,” she repeats, “I don’t have a dog. Haven’t had one for years.”
I feel a little tug of disappointment at her certainty, the bubble of hope deflating.
“Do you mind if I ask how long you’ve lived at this address?”
She leans around to see if there’s anyone else on the drive behind me.
“Is this some sort of prank?”
“It might be that the dog belonged to a previous—”
“Not sure it’s any of your business how long I’ve been here.” She moves to push the door all the way shut. “Sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“His name was Woody.” I take the collar out of the plastic bag and hold out the tag to show her. “The dog. I found the collar at my house and I was curious to know how it ended up there.”
For a second, I think she’s going to slam the door in my face but instead she stops, her mouth slightly open, eyes settling on the worn black leather collar. A trio of frown lines deepen on her forehead as she reaches out a tentative hand to touch the dull silver disc of the name tag. She turns it this way and that, reading the handful of letters and numbers, her thumb rubbing the rough lines of engraving etched into the metal.
All the color has drained from her cheeks.
“Where?” she says finally, taking the collar in both hands now. “Where did you find this?”
I repeat what I said about finding it at my house, giving her the street name without going into too many other details. She looks up from the collar and finds my eyes, and then she pulls open the front door, showing me into a short hallway with stairs on the right and a small, neat kitchen at the end. Gesturing toward another open door on the left, she ushers me into a lounge, sparsely furnished in shades of beige and dark brown. She gestures for me to take a seat on a sofa by the window. I’m half expecting a dog to trot into the room and give me a good checking over. But the house is silent and still; it feels empty apart from the two of us.
She hovers by the door, as if still not quite sure whether to trust me, the collar clutched in both hands.
“Would you like a drink?” she says. “Tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’m Maxine, by the way. Most people call me Max.”
