He opened the creaking dust-clogged screen door, noting the Inspector’s brown suit and shoes matched the sedan parked in the weed riddled yard. ‘Whatchya lookin’ for?’
‘Just a routine inspection.’ He clicked his pen. Ticked the sheet. Unclicked the pen. Eyes flicked around the room as nostrils flared then back to the clipboard.
‘Somethin’ wrong, mate?’
He pursed his lips together. Pen clicked, unclicked. ‘There’s a distinct odour…” His nose screwup as he scanned piles of dirty dishes in the sink, newspapers stacked in the corner by an overflowing rubbish bin buzzing with flies.
‘Wife cooks some crazy crap.’
‘Where is your wife?’ Pen clicked, unclicked.
‘Hangin’ round somewhere. Where’s yours?’
‘Not surprisin’,’ he mumbled under his breath.
The Inspector cleared his throat and moved further into the house, sniffing like an echidna on a picnic-raiding-ant hunt. ‘It’s a wrong smell.’
‘So what’s a right smell?’
‘It’s in there.’ The Inspector pointed his ballpoint at the hallway cupboards.
‘Ya can’t open that – it’s private.’
‘It’s my job in case there are issues,’ he said, opening the closet. ‘UUUGGGGGG.’ He fell backwards to the floor hugging a skeleton wearing an apron.
‘That’s my wife, you should ask her if there are any issues.’