The Mills of God by Deryn Lake

number in Love Lane.
    â€˜That runs parallel to this one, doesn’t it?’
    â€˜Yes sir. We’ll get the car out.’
    â€˜Don’t bother. Potter and I will walk.’
    Instead of going out of the front door the inspector made his way down the garden and through the gate in the fence at the bottom.
    â€˜Love Lane,’ he said triumphantly. ‘She doesn’t have far to come to work then.’
    â€˜No, sir. Now what number was it?’
    They found the cottage halfway up on the right. A peculiar shape, it almost seemed to go round a corner. As they approached the front door both men could hear the sound of raised voices. A particularly nasal youth was shouting, ‘I can’t help no bleeding murder. I ain’t gettin’ out of bed. Sod it.’
    A quavering female answered something inaudible to which the youth responded. ‘Bugger off and leave me alone.’
    Tennant turned to Potter. ‘Sounds as if we have a right little jerk to deal with.’
    â€˜The grandson?’ mouthed the sergeant as he raised the knocker and gave it a hearty bash.
    It was opened almost at once by the policewoman who was wearing a particularly strained expression.
    â€˜Trouble?’ Tennant asked quietly.
    â€˜It’s the grandchildren,’ she whispered back. ‘Poor old dear lives with them and it seems that the boy gives her hell, sir.’
    â€˜Um,’ said the inspector and marched into the house looking profoundly grim.
    The old lady was sitting in a chair sobbing silently into a handkerchief on which was embroidered the initial D in vivid emerald green. From upstairs came the sound of speakers blaring out garage music at absolute top volume.
    â€˜Excuse me, I’ll just go and deal with this,’ Tennant announced and marched upwards with Potter following close behind.
    They entered a bedroom so indescribably untidy that it beggared belief. There were heaps of clothes everywhere, including several pairs of underpants in various stages of dishevelment. Dirty jeans abounded, topped by T-shirts with mucky necks. On the walls were large posters of various bands and singers, none of which Tennant recognized with the exception of one of the late Michael Jackson.
    In the corner of the room was an unkempt bed with an even more unkempt individual lying in it, smoking a rolled-up fag. He looked round, moon-faced and startled at the sound of someone coming into his lair.
    â€˜Out!’ said Tennant, and seizing the bedclothes pulled them off him.
    â€˜â€™Ere,’ answered the other, outraged.
    â€˜Police,’ Potter stated maliciously. ‘On your feet or I’ll charge you.’
    â€˜Wot wiv?’
    â€˜Perverting the course of justice, that’s what. Now stand up when you’re being spoken to.’
    Reluctantly the youth did as he was told, stubbing out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.
    â€˜Put some jeans on for God’s sake,’ Tennant said harshly. ‘You ought to get out-of-doors more. You’re white as a slug. And turn that music off while you’re at it. I can hardly hear myself think.’
    The grandson opened his mouth to make a snappy response but caught the look in Tennant’s eye and rapidly shut it again.
    â€˜And now,’ said Potter grandly, ‘I would like your full name please.’ He produced a notebook from a pocket and looked official.
    â€˜Dwayne Saunters,’ the youth muttered inaudibly.
    Beside him Potter was aware of the inspector’s shoulders twitching. He compressed his lips tightly as he said, ‘Middle name?’
    â€˜Jason.’
    â€˜And you live at this address.’
    â€˜Well, I ain’t got nowhere else to bleedin’ go, ’ave I?’
    Potter remained silent as the inspector spoke.
    â€˜Are you prepared to answer questions here, Mr Saunters, or would you prefer to come down to the station?’
    â€˜I’ll answer ’em ’ere. I