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“I’ll write this out about eight more times. We can throw some from our rooms, some from the bathroom window.” She pressed an envelope against the wall and started to write.

“They might catch us,” he warned.

“They’ll keep us for a bit, because they think I’m going to be able to forge some bank notes for them. The plates are completely fake, though, and when they discover that, we’re dead, but we’re dead anyway, because no way is Robby letting us go to point the finger back to this house. I’d rather go out fighting.” She glanced at him, wondering if he’d had a change of heart.

He gave a solemn nod. “Whatever happens, it’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

“It’s been my pleasure,” she said, suddenly fighting a tight throat. “You tried to help me, Jerry, and got caught up in this by accident. Thank you for that.”

chapter

thirty-one

Tuesday was blustery.

Gabriella had to write her fixed penalty notices carefully before they could be snatched by the wind and she hoped the rain would hold off until the end of her shift.

It didn’t look likely, though.

When she turned down the street that Mr. Morton lived in, she guessed the weather would have all the difficult residents safely tucked behind closed doors, but by the time she reached Mr. Morton’s gate, he was leaning against it.

She could only assume he’d been watching for her from his window.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Morton.” She smiled and kept going, hoping to discourage him, but Bob Morton was obviously there for a purpose.

“I want to report harassment.” His voice was sharp.

Gabriella stopped. “I’m not able to take reports of harassment, Mr. Morton, only the police can.”

“First it was Belinda Carey reporting me to animal control for a barking dog, then it was hiding a dog in my shed, and on the weekend, it escalated to actual theft from my shed. That woman blames me for the fine she got when she parked in my driveway. My driveway, mind you! Without permission. It’s gone too far.” Morton’s face had gone a dangerous shade of puce.

“You’re blaming Mrs. Carey for the dog being in your shed and the theft?” Gabriella hadn’t known it was Mr. Morton’s shed that had been broken into, but that made sense, because PC Evans had told her it was one street over from the Jamesons. In fact . . .

She took a step back and looked over the top of the Morton residence.

“Is that the Jameson’s house behind you?” she asked.

“No, their neighbor.” Bob Morton turned and pointed to the left. “The Jameson house is that one there, diagonally behind mine.”

There was no way Gabriella was going to tell Bob Morton someone had seen a group of men entering the Jameson residence with a garden refuse bag, no matter how true that was.

The man was a loose cannon. Still . . .

“I highly doubt Mrs. Carey hid the dog in your shed, Mr. Morton, and I’m very sure she hasn’t resorted to breaking and entering. You reported the theft to the police?” She knew he must have, given Evans knew about it, but she hoped to steer him away from his fixation with Mrs. Carey.

“Straight away. I told them to look at Belinda Carey, but so far, no one has been near the place.” He glared at the house across the street.

The wind that had been swirling around her while she’d been speaking to Morton, tugging at her skirt, suddenly gusted, forcing her to grab onto her hat.

An envelope spiraled downward, and landed in the neatly trimmed hedge beside Bob Morton.

Gabriella plucked it off, and checked the postmark.

Then she flipped it over.

“Why are you looking at it like that?” Bob Morton asked. “I’ve been getting rubbish like that blowing into my garden all week.”

Gabriella lifted her head. “What have you been doing with it?” She was barely able to stop herself crumpling the letter in her fist.