Think of the Children (6 page)

‘I’ll call in later,’ Jessica said. ‘I’m off to meet the allotment society secretary.’

She had volunteered to go because she wanted to feel as if she was doing something. The briefings were necessary because of the number of people who had to be organised and assigned to various
roles. It was that type of work which made Jessica feel glad she hadn’t been promoted any further. At least as a sergeant she could get out and investigate things. She could see first-hand
how Cole and Reynolds often had their hands tied because they were the ones supposed to be sorting out everyone else. It also helped that they trusted her enough to get on with the job.

Keith Nunns was exactly how Jessica would have pictured someone who ran an allotment society. She knew it would be a deeply insulting thing to say out loud but sometimes,
knowing what someone’s job was before seeing them, she found that the person ended up living up to every prejudice and stereotype she felt bad about having. He was somewhere in his late
fifties, short and slightly overweight with narrow strands of hair combed across his head.

And he could talk.

He lived with his wife in a semi-detached house not far from the allotment and, after inviting Jessica in, proceeded to give her his life story. Usually she would have taken control and made
sure he addressed the questions she needed answering – but listening to him tell her about his forty-year career in the engineering industry seemed reassuringly normal after everything that
had gone on in the past few days.

When it seemed as if he was finally running out of steam, Jessica steered the conversation towards the things she needed to know. ‘I was wondering if you could talk me through the process
people go through when they pay their annual fees, Mr Nunns?’ she asked.

He enthusiastically leapt up from his armchair and started digging in a cupboard underneath the TV, pulling out a large folder and sitting next to Jessica on the sofa. ‘I know I should
really do it all on a computer but I had enough of that at work before retiring. Between you and me, I don’t really know what I’m doing on them beyond what I had to do with my
job.’

He opened the folder and flicked through the pages. Each one had a number at the top to indicate the plot, followed by a name and address, then a list of payments. Some numbers had multiple
pages assigned to them.

‘You’ll notice that I keep the pages for people who gave up their land,’ he added. ‘When someone else takes it on they get a new page but I also hang on to the old one.
I’ve been doing this on and off for twenty-five years now.’ Jessica feared he was about to give her another chunk of his life story but instead he skimmed through to number sixty-one.
‘There’s only one page here,’ he added. ‘The guy who had the records before me has died now and I inherited his information. I copied a lot of it from his notes into my own
files but it has only ever had one owner.’

Keith tapped his finger on the page and Jessica’s eyes were drawn to the name inked in tidy joined-up handwriting: ‘Glenn Harrison’.

Jessica scanned down the page and could see the annual deposits written in the same neat writing. The amounts had grown each year as the price increased but everything else seemed
straightforward. ‘I know it sounds like an obvious question,’ Jessica began. ‘But did you ever meet Glenn Harrison?’

He instantly shook his head. ‘I know it might seem odd but I probably only know around half the people who have plots. Some apply through the council and they’ve been trying to get
people to pay via direct debit. Others are long-term people who pay with cheques or cash. Some of the ones I know personally will give me their money when it’s due.’

‘How did Glenn Harrison pay you?’

‘I would get an envelope through the door with cash in. It’s not that unusual but admittedly most people see me in person. After I’d taken over the job, it took me a while to
sort out all the separate accounts. A few people used to put cash through my door back then and one or two never stopped.’

‘Would you have kept any of the envelopes or anything the money was posted in?’

Keith shook his head again. ‘No, I bin all that stuff. I’d have no need to keep it.’

Jessica had been pretty sure that was what he would say but it was worth asking. ‘What about the address details? Someone’s told you it’s not real, haven’t
they?’

Keith sounded defensive. ‘Yes but … I’d have no way of knowing that, would I?’

‘Oh no, it’s completely understandable. I’m just asking how you would have been given that address.’

‘I suppose it was one of those things I inherited. I would have copied it over from the scraps I was given.’

Jessica knew he wouldn’t take it well but had to ask anyway. ‘Is there any chance you could have copied it incorrectly?’

‘Definitely not.’ Keith was as firm as he could be and didn’t elaborate.

‘Can you explain to me about the keys?’ she persisted.

He nodded, still willing to engage. ‘I’m sure you noticed that around three-quarters of the plots have sheds but not all of them. It’s partly due to how boundaries have been
redrawn over the years. The key itself is actually nothing to us because people have their own padlocks. A few years ago there was a bit of money left over and the society agreed to pay for these
key fobs. It was so everything looked neat.’

‘How would Mr Harrison have got one if his address wasn’t correct?’

‘We never sent them out because of the expense. The shed for plot one is left unlocked during the day specifically so people can either borrow the odd supply or, in this case, pick up
their key fobs. We’ve done it with other things in the past too. Sometimes we get promotional bags of seeds and the like and they’re always left in that shed.’

Jessica knew she was heading into another dead end but showed him the photograph of the anonymous driver from the car crash, apologising for the glass shards in the dead man’s hideously
deformed features. Keith reeled in shock, shaking his head and saying he didn’t know the person. Not that there was much to recognise. Jessica felt bad for making him look at it and knew
there was little point in trying to show it to anyone else; it was a stupid thing to do in the first place.

She stood ready to leave and Keith followed before nervously asking the question he had clearly spent the last forty-five minutes holding on to. ‘I was wondering if you could tell me
what’s going on?’

Jessica didn’t think it was a good idea to tell him much else. ‘I can’t, I’m afraid,’ she said.

‘You’ve roped off the whole of sixty-one; do you know when things might be back to normal?’

Jessica again shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know that myself.’

Back at her car, Jessica sat in the driver’s seat and took out her phone. She dialled Izzy, who answered on the second ring.

‘Are you okay?’ the constable asked.

‘I didn’t get much here from the allotment guy,’ Jessica said. ‘Have you come up with anything?’

‘You’re hopeful; it’s only been an hour.’

‘I know but no one seems to have a bloody clue what’s going on.’

Izzy laughed. ‘You can add me to that list if you want. I do have some news though.’

‘Good news?’

‘Just news. The lab results are back from the dead driver. His DNA doesn’t match anyone in the national database. They also tested it against Isaac’s and know they’re not
related. Basically they have no idea who he is.’ Jessica ended the call, sighing. She stared at herself in the rear-view mirror before turning the key and pulling away, no idea of what to do
next.

Rachel Corless kept her eyes on the roundabout as one of her two sons helped spin the other around with a little too much relish. ‘Marcus,’ she shouted but the boy
either didn’t hear or, more likely, didn’t want to. ‘Marcus,’ she tried again before a final, ‘
Marcus!
’

Finally the boy stopped pushing on the metal bars, turning to face his mother. ‘What?’ he called back.

‘Stop pushing your brother so hard.’

Marcus turned around and gave the roundabout another shove which his mother had to admit was at least slightly gentler than the previous ones had been.

Rachel turned to the woman sitting on the bench next to her. ‘How come your two just play happily on the swings while mine seem intent on spinning each other around until they’re
sick?’

Diane Briggs laughed. ‘You should see them when they’re back at home. Last night they were doing wrestling moves on each other. I was in the living room and heard a massive bump on
the floor. I rushed upstairs and it turned out one of them was leaping off the top of the bunk beds onto the other.’

Rachel grinned. ‘I’d settle for that. Two weeks ago, I heard them shouting in their bedroom. I went up and Lloyd was in the process of taking a run-up to punch his brother in the
shoulder.’

‘My two are always fighting.’

‘No, they weren’t fighting. Marcus was standing there sideways waiting for it. I asked them what was going on and they were having a competition to see who could give the other the
biggest bruise.’

‘I once caught Andrew hanging over the end of his bed with his head drooping down and Matthew flicking his ears. They said they’d heard that you lost all feeling if you hang upside
down. He couldn’t understand why he could still feel the pain in his ears.’

‘Surely it’s the other way around? If you hold your arm up and the blood flows down, then you lose feeling?’

‘I didn’t tell them that. I guessed they’d figure it out sooner or later. Either that or one of them would lose an ear.’

The two women laughed together. ‘
Boys
.’

Diane took out a flask from a canvas bag and held it up. ‘Do you want some tea?’

‘No, I’m all right, it’s not that cold actually. Maybe we’ll have another mild winter?’

The other woman unscrewed the cup, pouring the steaming liquid into it before reattaching the stopper to the flask. ‘I’d take less rain and more cold. And it’s dark by
four.’

Rachel looked up to the sky, which had barely changed from a light murky grey all day. ‘What have you got them for Christmas?’ she asked.

‘Andrew wants some computer games which we’ve half-sorted, although one of them apparently isn’t out yet. His dad knows what’s going on with those. Matthew wants a new
bike.’

‘What happened to his old one?’

‘Don’t ask.’

Rachel smiled, knowing from experience that the answer could be anything.

‘What about yours?’ Diane added.

‘Marcus has decided he’s too old for toys and bikes now he’s a teenager. He only turned thirteen last month. He said he wanted cash but I told him I’d give him vouchers
instead.’

Diane laughed, cradling the plastic cup from the flask. ‘You know what that means, don’t you?’

‘What?’

‘
Girls
.’

Rachel grinned. ‘I think he’d run a mile if a girl even tried to speak to him.’

She was still keeping an eye on her two sons playing on the roundabout. They had swapped positions and Lloyd was now pushing Marcus. She wondered how much longer they would play together openly
before one or both of them started to barricade themselves in their bedroom in between temper tantrums. It couldn’t be longer than a few months at most and, from what some of her friends
talked about, she was privileged her thirteen-year-old son even acknowledged her existence. She quite liked the fact he was a bit immature and could still be amused by a trip to the park.

Diane finished drinking her tea and screwed the cup back onto the flask. ‘What have you got for Lloyd?’

‘Oh, he’s definitely still into toys, he’s only eleven. I’ve got him some robot thing, which he’ll probably break within an hour, then some football
stuff.’

‘Are they staying with you or their dad on Christmas Day?’

‘Me for Christmas Eve and Day, then they’re off with Adrian for three days.’

The four boys were now passing a football around as a street light slowly started to flicker above the bench where the two women were sitting, as if considering whether it was dark enough to
come on.

Rachel looked at her watch. ‘We should probably head back but it’s been good catching up. It’s just a shame we’re both so busy all the time plus, give it a week, and
it’ll be dark at this time so no more park after school.’

Although it was time to leave, neither of the women moved as they watched their children contently kicking the ball around. Aside from some older teenagers standing around smoking at the far end
of the grass, the park was deserted, the boys’ laughs echoing around.

‘Right, it really is time to go,’ Rachel said, getting up. She shouted to the boys: ‘Marcus, Lloyd, come on now.’ The younger son turned but, as he did, his brother was
in the process of kicking the ball to him. It skimmed through the air, smashing into Lloyd’s face as he spun back, sending him falling.

Rachel saw the incident unfold in slow motion and dashed towards her youngest. He was sitting on the muddy grass holding his nose, his eyes wide, his face a mixture of blood and soil. Marcus
dashed across. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ Rachel felt a little in shock herself as the other boys and Diane joined them.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked. For a moment it looked as if Lloyd was about to cry but then he took his hands away from his face and smiled widely, blood dripping from his top lip
to the bottom.

‘Quick, get a photo on your phone,’ he said to his mother. ‘This is well cool.’

Rachel looked back at him with a mixture of puzzlement and sympathy. ‘Doesn’t it hurt?’

‘Yeah, but get a picture first, I want to show everyone at school. David Baker reckons he fell off a rollercoaster once and landed on his head. He reckoned there was blood everywhere but I
think he’s making it up. I bet this looks well good.’

As the boy’s mother reluctantly took her phone out of her bag she failed to notice the silhouetted figure standing close to the park gates.

The person squinted into the distance wondering what exactly had happened to Lloyd Corless to make everyone run over to him. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be long before he and his mother
were parted.