Examine the dairy

Ordering the crowd to part, you step on to the pavement and, ducking your head slightly under the lintel, enter the dairy. Everything is in chaos. The ceiling is destroyed, with shattered planks and mangled pipes above your head. Cracked plaster is still hanging on in places, yellowed and dangling from the hole.
You notice with a grimace of disgust that your boots are letting in water from the floor. In fact, the floor is awash, a mixture of water and blood, eggs and milk, some five centimetres deep. On a chair in the corner is a woman, her head in her hands, sobbing softly.
The serving counter and the sink behind it have been smashed. Shelves and display units are all over the floor. A couple of morning rolls float pathetically up to you.
Looking up, you can see into the room above. A dust cloud is beginning to settle, as if after a bomb strike. You know the woman in the corner. She is Bunty Campbell, the manageress of the dairy, a war widow and devout Christian.

You can ask her a question:
"Are you alright, Bunty?"
"What happened here?"
Or you can go outside to Speak to Constable Gates