That Mrs. Crimbleton, thinks Reg - such a nosey old bitch. He tuts to himself as he sees her curtain twitch again and makes a show of shaking his head. She should mind her own damned business.
Reg continues mowing the front lawn, his back turned on Number 37. So he misses the bloodied hand that briefly presses against the inside of her window. Also unseen is the wooden puppet inside that hacks at Mrs. Crimbleton’s face with a small saw.
It holds up the plump red nose, its own carelessly discarded, and the painted mouth flows into a boyish smile.