Death And The Oxford Box

Kate Ivory has her first taste of detective work:

Kate emerged from her door that afternoon, clipboard in hand, home-made identity badge pinned to the lapel of a plain, dark coat, her bright hair hidden under a woollen hat, thick black tights and comfortable boots on her feet.

Number one had grey paintwork and a well-kept front patch, and two occupants called Flint, according to the electoral register. Kate rang the bell and waited for a moment, but all that happened was that a woman threw up an upstairs window, leaned out and asked 'Yes?'

''Mrs Flint?'

'If you want my husband, he's not in, and anyway, he never votes,' and she went back in and slammed the window down again. Only the slight swaying of a grey curtain proved that she had ever existed. Kate wondered whether all her calls would be that unproductive and moved on to the next house.

At number five there was no doorbell and Kate had to rattle the letterbox. There was a shuffling sound behind the door and then it opened a few inches, letting out a hot cloud of Friar's Balsam with an end-note of cat litter-tray. A woman with scant white hair and a face grown sexless with age looked up at Kate. A cat came howling in from the garden, shot between her legs and pushed its way through the narrow gap into the house, while the woman's expression grew less friendly. 'Well,' she said, 'what is it you want? I haven't got all day to stand here.'