A Locked Shed
The shed was definitely still locked. The lock had not been picked. The hinges were intact. The roof had no holes.
But Hanna's bicycle was gone.
Hanna was eleven. She had been to the shed at four o'clock yesterday afternoon, taken her bike, ridden into the village, and ridden back. She had returned the bike to the shed. She had locked the shed. She had gone in for tea.
This morning she had wanted to go cycling with her friend. She had unlocked the shed. The bicycle was not there.
Sergeant Leski came round at ten. He was a kind, patient man with a notebook. He looked at the lock. He looked at the door. He looked at the inside of the shed.
"Theft," he said, finally. "A pick-job. Sometimes thieves are careful, you can't tell the lock has been picked. Or maybe somebody who knew where you kept the key. Sorry, Hanna. We'll keep an eye out, but bicycles, in this town, mostly don't come back."
Hanna was not satisfied.
She had four reasons not to be satisfied, and she wrote them in her notebook after Sergeant Leski left:
1. The lock had not been picked. (She had inspected it. There were no scratch marks on the cylinder.)
2. There were no marks where a bicycle had been wheeled out. (Her shed had a slightly muddy bit just inside the door from the rain on Wednesday. There were no fresh tyre tracks across it.)
3. Three other things were missing: a small garden trowel, a rope, and a