Dennie gave in and let herself be led, Viggo trotting by her side. She glanced towards the Neary plot as they went; the newcomers hadn’t been seen since the Saturday when she had confronted them, and she hoped that they had enough of a sense of shame to be keeping their heads low for a bit. She’d debated whether or not to tell Angie, but not for long – Dennie knew exactly what she’d say. Are you sure you didn’t dream it, Dennie? Been having more of those blank moments, Dennie? Do you really think it’s safe to be on your own so much of the time, Dennie? She went with Becky mostly because she genuinely just liked the young woman and her family, but there was also a way in which she thought they might be able to help her.
Becky’s husband David was a printing engineer by trade, running the big machines at a company in Stafford that made menus and local newspapers and the endless stream of glossy junk mail that seemed to be the only things that the postman delivered these days, but with that industry going down the tubes along with pretty much every other one, he’d been forced to go part-time, lucky to have not lost his job altogether. The opportunity to spend extra time with his sick seven-year-old daughter might have been a godsend to some fathers, but David Pimblett was one of those vanishingly rare individuals, in Dennie’s experience, whose sense of community spirit was almost as strong as his love for his family, and he’d volunteered to use some of that newly freed-up time as a Special Constable for Staffordshire Police’s Needwood Neighbourhood Team. The police station in Dodbury had closed over ten years ago, with the nearest station now being four miles away in Rugeley and only five full-time officers employed to look after nearly twenty square miles of isolated rural farms and villages, most of whom had only a Neighbourhood Watch scheme as their front-line defence against the increasing amount of farm theft and ‘county lines’ drug gangs. Dodbury was no different. David’s shifts riding along with the regular officers rarely saw him in the village itself, but even when he was off-duty there was a sense that at least they weren’t completely on their own. With his time taken up in this way it was Becky who looked after their allotment, which like its owners was straightforward, no-nonsense, and cheerful.
The planting beds were simple rectangles formed out of old timber railway sleepers painted in bright colours – a bit weathered, but still solid. At one end they had a few small fruit trees which were just starting to bud and at the other a timber shed with a bit of decking out front and a water butt to catch rain run-off from the roof. David was digging over the soil in one of the beds, his breath pluming in the cold. He was the sort of man she would ordinarily cross the street to avoid, with his closely shaven scalp and tattoos covering both arms, which just went to prove how wrong first impressions could be. On the deck, their daughter Alice sat in a folding picnic chair reading a book, wrapped up thickly in a hat, coat and gloves, and a surgical mask which made it hard to see how thin Dennie guessed she must be, but the pallor of the girl’s face and the dark circles under her eyes said enough.
‘Hallo, the workers!’ called Becky as she and Dennie approached. ‘Get the kettle on! I’ve brought a guest for morning tea.’ Alice looked up and waved. Her father set his spade in the ground with a sigh of relief.
Alice was staring at Viggo, open-mouthed with delight. He grinned back at her, tongue lolling. ‘Can I pat him?’ she asked her mother.
‘Sorry, honey, no. Germs.’
‘If it’s not safe, we can always go,’ said Dennie.
‘No, it’s okay. The doctors have said that she’s making good progress but her immune system is going to be a mess for a while yet. So a few hours in the outdoors should be okay, just as long as bits of it don’t lick her.’
Meanwhile the girl had noticed the bruise on Dennie’s head. ‘Were you in a fight?’
‘Yes I was,’ she replied. ‘With a huge ogre! But I kicked him up the bum so hard my shoelaces came out of his nose.’
Alice giggled in horror, her eyes shining.
David filled a small camping kettle and set it to boil on a portable gas stove while Becky brought out an extra folding chair, and they sat on the deck. Dennie complimented them on the upkeep of their allotment and David asked her advice about onions while they watched a robin inspecting his handiwork, and then tea arrived, accompanied by Becky’s home-made biscuits. The Pimbletts were further away from the Neary plot than herself, with more allotments between them, so Dennie couldn’t tell whether the newcomers were there or not.
‘How are things in the neighbourhood watching business?’ Dennie asked him. ‘Quiet, I hope.’
He nodded. ‘Nice and peaceful. I think all the troublemakers have migrated south for the winter.’
‘Nothing from the OWL?’
‘Nothing from the OWL,’ he confirmed. ‘As you would know, if you had a smart phone.’
Dennie hmphed. ‘And have Siri or Alexa or whatever it is following my every move? No bloody thank you.’
‘Where’s the owl?’ asked Alice, looking around.
‘It’s not that kind of owl, honey,’ said her father. OWL stood for Online Watch Link, an app-based service which allowed members of the local community to report concerns to the police and for the police in turn to inform the Neighbourhood Watch, through David, if there might be suspected criminal activity in the area. Dennie had asked Angie to log her first encounter with the
