There are two possibilities—the Smiths have got themselves a dog or a baby. The chewy toys drying on their line are consistent with either. Yet, there is no barking, nor also wailing.
I shift my plaster cast to a more comfortable position on the stool and reach for the binoculars. Nothing moves next door except Mrs Smith ironing. Whoever or whatever plays with those toys is not visible. Silent? Invisible? That can mean only one thing—a soundproof, locked room. And that can mean only one thing.
I dial. “Hello? Police? I’d like to report a kidnap gang.”