* * *
David spent the rest of the morning waiting to hear news of an arrest – of raids; the girl discovered, distressed but alive, excavations and grisly discoveries. He tried to distract himself by taking care of some odd jobs around the house. The garden, especially, was a disaster zone. For a start, the lawn hadn’t been mown in months. When they’d first moved in, Becky had planted a load of colourful things like crocosmia and astilbe, but when he went out there he found that the flower beds had been taken over by holly, hawthorn, and hazel – huge glossy green monsters, their berries probably having been dropped in bird shit. The old plants of the English hedgerow had come back and were reclaiming their own. When the police finally did arrive, he was sweaty and covered in scratches from trying to rip them out, but they were proving to be stubborn.
The cops introduced themselves as Sergeant Ryland and PC Lennox, and as David let them in he stupidly thought that they had come to tell him the good news directly.
‘I hear you’re a Special,’ said Ryland, peering around at the kitchen.
David put the kettle on and took out three mugs. ‘Just once or twice a week. Usually weekends, you know?’
‘Oh, I know. Bloody bedlam it is out there on a Friday night, isn’t it? Tell me Mr Pimblett, what do you like about being a Special?’
‘I don’t know. The chance to help people, I suppose.’
‘Yeah, but you must find it exciting. Riding with the nee-naw on, sorting out troublemakers, keeping the streets safe. Bit like Batman.’
‘If you say so. What’s this all about?’
PC Lennox took over at that point, and with a jolt David realised that this wasn’t just a friendly chat. It was an interrogation. He left the mugs where they were. ‘You were volunteering yesterday, weren’t you?’
‘Yes. Night shift, eight till four.’
‘Following up a misper report. You went to a place called Farrow Farm.’
‘Me and the Sarge went to quite a few places.’
‘Yeah, but you know the people at Farrow Farm, though, don’t you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, you’re neighbours at the Briar Hill allotments, aren’t you?’
David leaned back against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms. The kettle boiled and switched itself off, unattended. ‘So?’
Ryland was flipping back through the past months in the kitchen calendar, but let it drop and turned back to him. ‘So, we’ve just had a chat with Angie Robotham, the secretary of your allotments association.’
‘I know who she is!’ David snapped.
‘Steady now. There’s no need to be getting all upset.’
‘Well, I wish you’d just tell me what this is all about!’
‘All right then. Mr Pimblett, did you make an anonymous phone call alleging that the residents of Farrow Farm are responsible for the disappearance of Lauren Jeffries? See,’ Ryland continued before David could react, ‘they’ve told us, and Mrs Robotham has confirmed it, that you and they had a somewhat fractious relationship. That you even, on occasion, threatened to use your status as a Special Constable to intimidate them.’
‘They said what? That’s bullshit!’
‘Now I understand the appeal of volunteering as a Special, I really do. It’s exciting, you get to wear the uniform, maybe throw your weight around with people who deserve it. Maybe sometimes with people who just piss you off.’
David had been worried that he wouldn’t be able to lie convincingly, but his indignation at the bare-faced cheek of the lies being told about him was very genuine. ‘This is a load of bullshit! They’re lying! I’ve never done that, and I never would. You can ask anybody.’
‘I just told you, we did. Mr Pimblett, I wouldn’t normally get out of bed to follow up a report of someone making nuisance calls. I wouldn’t even fart, scratch my balls, and go back to sleep for it. But when it impedes the search for a missing youngster – that I take seriously. And I take it especially seriously, not to mention personally, if it happens to involve some part-timer wearing the uniform that I wear every day and taking the piss by using it to pursue their petty personal vendettas.’
‘Sarge, I’m telling you, I did not make that call.’
‘Good, glad to hear it.’ Ryland clapped him on the shoulder with a heavy, meaty hand. ‘If by any chance you do hear anything about Miss Jeffries, you be sure to let us know, okay?’
‘You will literally be the first person that I call.’
Ryland gave him a look as if trying to work out whether or not he was taking the piss, but then obviously decided to give him the benefit of the doubt because he collected PC Lennox and they both left. David tried calling Dennie again but there was no reply and, not for the first time, he cursed the fact that she didn’t have a mobile. Still, there really only was one place where she was likely to be.
* * *
Dennie was seeing how many of her strawberry plants could be salvaged from the fire when David Pimblett turned up looking for her. A midsummer Sunday was peak time on the allotments, and it seemed that everybody was out in the sun, working their plots, which in many cases were burgeoning. It looked like Briar Hill was set for the best harvest for many years. A few had come by during the day to offer their condolences and help with the clean-up, but nowhere near as many as would have been the case a few years ago. She tried not to let her paranoia get the better of her, making her see everybody else as belonging to the newcomers’ little carnivorous clique. David had told her whom he’d seen at their dinner party, and it was obvious that Ardwyn and Everett had been busy behind the scenes recruiting many more such ‘volunteers’. On the face
