Mrs Ledbetter found herself abruptly widowed at 55, and on the advice of her son had undertaken a hasty attic conversion, providing her with a room to rent out to supplement her meagre pension. Mr Pettigrew had seen the advert in the newsagents window ‘Room to rent. Laurel Avenue. All Bills Included And Meals Provided £95 PW.’ and promptly applied. Mrs Ledbetter, a small bird like woman, had been overawed by the hulking figure of Mr Pettigrew, six foot four, three hundred and fifty pounds, with a face overwhelmed by a walrus moustache that seemed to have a life of its own. However, his references were impeccable and he counted out two month's deposit in crisply folded twenty pound notes. ‘I will take my meals in my room, if you would be so kind’ he asked Mrs Ledbetter, and she had nodded mutely. The kitchen table would barely accommodate his girth, so she considered the three times daily hike up and down the stairs to the attic as preferable to squeezing up next to him in the galley kitchen. ‘And I would like to add some shelving to the walls, to accommodate my collection.’ ‘Collection?’ she asked. His moustache rustled as he replied ‘I collect books, in particular 19th Century Hungarian crime novels.’ Mrs Ledbetter’s was no reader, owning only a handful of Mills & Boon novellas, but she agreed to his request.

He proved to be a model tenant. His rent appeared each Friday morning on the hall table, and he returned his empty plates to the kitchen each morning. She rarely saw him, passing only occasionally in the hallway, each time him clutching a small pile of books to his chest. They continued this way, until after six months Mrs Ledbetter's son came to visit. Upon returning from the bathroom he told his mother there was a distinct bulge in the bathroom ceiling. ‘What’s your lodger got up there?’ her son asked, and she replied that it was just his book collection, it was probably nothing, but maybe she’d get the loft conversion people back to check it, just to be sure. When she next saw Mr Pettigrew she tried to raise the subject of the sagging ceiling, but his face was flush with excitement ‘I’ve found it’ he declared, holding aloft a slim red volume. ‘Ten years I've been searching for this. Ten Years. And now it’s mine’ he cradled the book like a newborn. ‘The Mysterious Footprints, by Endre Vorosmarty. A classic.’ Mrs Ledbetter opened her mouth to voice her concerns about the ceiling, but Mr Pettigrew brushed past her and headed up the stairs. ‘I must go and catalogue this immediately.’

Mrs Ledbetter went into the bathroom and ran a bath. She chewed her thumbnail as she looked up at the bulging artex above her. A shower of dust fell upon her face. ‘What the -’ but the dust was followed by a loud cracking sound and the dust became shards that became chunks of plaster. She covered her head with her arms and cowered on the floor as the ceiling rained down upon her. The air was thick with dust but as the last of the plaster fell she peered over the side of the bath and saw a solitary red leather book floating on the scummy surface.