Read Online Better Left Buried by Emma Haughton - Free Book Online Page A

answer. She’s pale, her face pinched and haggard, the police officer holding her hand. It’s all so like when Max died: the police coming to the house, Mum sitting there, shaking, looking as if her world had caved in.
    â€œWhat h-happened?” I gasp. “I mean, when…?”
    Mum shakes her head. “I don’t know. I was only out for an hour or so, at the doctor, then the chemist.”
    â€œSarah, isn’t it?” the police officer says with a professional smile. “My name’s PC Annie Wilson. Why don’t you sit down?”
    I sink into the armchair opposite. The cushion is wonky, as if someone replaced it in a hurry. I glance round the room again. I can’t take my eyes off the wreckage.
    How will we ever clear this up? I wonder for a second time. It seems impossible somehow, pointless, as if we’d be better off simply walking out the house and never coming back.
    â€œCould I check what time you left this morning?”
    I look up. The police officer is speaking to me. I give her all the details she asks for, examining her face for clues, as if she might know something we don’t. But her expression gives nothing away, even when it’s obvious that my answers aren’t providing anything useful.
    â€œHow did they get in?” I ask when she’s finished with her questions.
    She nods towards the back of the house. “Forced open a window. They’d have been in within seconds.”
    They must have climbed over the wall where it borders onto the alleyway, I think, shivering as I picture them creeping across the garden.
    PC Wilson leans down and takes something out of the case at her feet. An A4 envelope. She pulls out several sheets of white paper and a couple of black ones. “Do you mind if I take your prints now? It’ll save you a trip into the station.”
    I must look a bit taken aback, because she tacks on a reassuring smile. “It’s only so we can eliminate yours from any we find.”
    â€œWhat about Dad?” I say. “I mean, he’s away.”
    â€œDon’t worry. We’ll get his prints when he gets back, or the Scottish police could send them over.”
    I go first. PC Wilson writes my name at the top of a form with a series of boxes on it, then lays it beside the black sheet on the coffee table. She grips my fingers and presses each firmly, first onto the black paper, then onto the white. Little smudgy whorls appear in the boxes. I stare at them, fascinated despite the shock of it all.
    My own unique pattern.
    While Mum does hers, I examine the dark stains on my fingertips. Will they wash off or will we walk round like this for weeks? I imagine people wondering what we’ve done, not knowing we’re actually the victims.
    But PC Wilson pulls out a packet of wipes from her case and hands one to each of us. The black marks rapidly disappear.
    As she puts everything away, PC Wilson glances around. “This is pretty awful. I haven’t seen a burglary this messy in a long time.”
    Too right, I think, suppressing the urge to say it out loud. Our lives are shaping up to be quite a disaster.
    â€œWe’ll be interviewing the neighbours,” she adds, writing something in her notebook before tucking it back into the pocket of her jacket. “The good thing is we have a fairly narrow time frame for the break-in, so there’s a chance we may turn up a useful witness.”
    â€œBut why?” I ask, bewildered. “Why us? It’s not like we’ve got anything particularly valuable.”
    She shrugs. “I can’t answer that, Sarah, I’m afraid. I suppose something must have caught their eye. Have you noticed anything obvious missing?”
    â€œMy laptop,” I say, suddenly realizing it wasn’t on my desk. Or in the pile on the floor. I bite my lip in anguish. It was nearly brand new.
    She reaches into her case and pulls out a form, passing it to Mum. “If