Frieda and Sandy walked along the high street to the police station but she found it was no longer there. The solid brick building had been converted into a solicitor’s office and a café, and a shop selling flowers and local chocolates. They were all closed. Frieda had to ask three people before she found a man who could tell her where the new police station was. Through the car park next to the bank, turn left, cross the road. A big new building. ‘It’s probably closed,’ said the man. ‘It being Sunday.’ It was closed. According to the sign, it was open on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays between one p.m. and three p.m. ‘I don’t believe this,’ said Frieda. ‘It’s reassuring in a way,’ said Sandy. ‘But what happens if there’s a crime?’ The two of them walked round the side and found a uniformed officer sponging the windows of a police car. He was thickly built, breathing heavily with the effort. ‘I need to talk to a policeman,’ said Frieda. ‘Is it urgent?’ said the officer.
