I opened the door on the third knock. A policeman stood
there, piece of paper in hand, although he froze when he saw my apron.
“Oh, sorry, just making a roast…” I said, sheepishly.
“We’ve had reports of this woman being spotted in the area.
Have you seen her?”
He held up the paper, with mugshots of a woman, normal
looking beyond a distinctive cross-shaped scar on her cheek. The warning called
her Mary Randle, a.k.a Bloody Mary.
I shook my head sadly, and after some reminders about safety
he headed off.
I went back to my Roasted Bloody Mary.
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