Lifting the latch on the front gate gently, she walked to the front door, edging past the rose bushes blistered with rainwater. Junk mail clogged the letterbox; a telephone directory was propped against the doorway. She knocked loudly on the glass panel of the door, but there was no sound from inside. ‘Are you looking to rent the place?’ A woman stuck her head over the roses. ‘I was looking for the Murtaghs.’ ‘Never heard of them. The place has been rented for years. Are you sure you have the right house?’ ‘The Murtaghs are from way back, distant relatives.’ ‘You should go to Mrs Messitt at Number 22. She has lived here all her life.’ ‘She won’t mind me knocking at the door?’ ‘I am walking that way anyway. I will do the introductions. Aren’t you the woman from the café?’ ‘Roscarbury Hall.’ Debbie waited while the woman locked her hall door. ‘You can’t be too careful these days. Time was when we would only lock the door if we were moving out of the county.’ She fussed with her shopping bags as she walked slightly in front of Debbie to the far end of the street.
