70
Gormley started the car. Cancelling windscreen wipers left on when he’d cut the engine, he drove out of the side street on to the main road. While they were in the café, the rain had stopped and the sun had come out, the same blistering heat the country had enjoyed in the run-up to the World Cup. Daniels could feel it on her left arm through the passenger window and noticed steam rising from the pavements on either side of the road.
‘You going to tell me where we’re going?’ she asked.
‘Benwell Lane.’
‘Because . . .?’
‘That’s where George Milburn’s allotment is.’
She grinned. ‘You’re smart, you know that?’
‘You better believe it!’ He opened his window, allowing the breeze into the car. His Peugeot had no air conditioning and it was like an oven inside. ‘Chantelle may be a wrong ’un but she’s smart, boss. She knows Elliot Milburn won’t be there. He was so devastated by his Granddad’s death, he’s hardly been able to bring himself to visit the house, let alone the old man’s cherished plot. They spent a lot of time there together.’
‘You like him, don’t you?’
‘Elliot? There’s nothing to dislike. He reminds me of Ryan in many ways. Not because they’re the same age. He’s got a lovely nature and good manners. He’s a breath of fresh air from the shite we sometimes come across.’
Daniels swivelled in her seat, trying to catch his eye. But Gormley kept his eyes on the road, slowing right down as they approached traffic lights where a crocodile of nursery-age children were waiting to cross. He hadn’t mentioned his son in ages, or his wife for that matter, and she wondered how things were going at home.
‘How is he?’ she asked. ‘Ryan, I mean.’
‘Struggling. Not that he talks about it much . . . I thought we might take off somewhere after we wrap this case up, have a bit of fun, do stuff like we used to. Julie said he’s thinking of moving out. Can’t say I blame him.’
‘Where to?’ Daniels closed her window as they arrived at the allotments.
‘He’s got mates at Northumbria uni he can share with.’ Gormley pulled on the hand brake and removed his key from the ignition, glancing to his left, meeting her eye. ‘I wasn’t too keen at first, but I think it’ll be good for him.’ He pointed through the windscreen. ‘How do you want to approach this?’
‘I’ve got to make a quick call.’ She pulled her phone from her pocket. ‘Can you contact the council? Find out the number and location of the Milburn plot? There are forty allotments in there. It’ll save time.’
They both began dialling. Gormley’s call was answered almost immediately. He asked for the allotments officer and was put on hold to wait for a man named Richard Waites. The number Daniels had called was still ringing in her ear. She was about to put the phone down when Sergeant McCabe answered with his telephone number. She couldn’t decide if he sounded drowsy or drunk.
‘Mick?’ She waited. No reply. ‘Mick, are you OK?’
‘Did you find Bridget’s ring?’
Definitely drunk. ‘No, I’m sorry. It must’ve come off at the crash site. Are the girls home yet? I thought—’ But he was already gone. ‘Damn it!’
‘McCabe in a bad way?’
‘Wouldn’t you be? Come on, we need to find Chantelle.’
They got out of the car and walked through the allotment gates. The plots nearest to the entrance were a riot of colour. A couple of old men were sitting on a bench admiring the view – fag in hand, a mug of tea – brief respite from a hard morning’s labour. One fat, one thin, both heads shaded by flat caps against the midday sun. Typical northern males. They wouldn’t have looked out of place making their way into a shipyard or to the coal face, if either industry had still existed.
‘Fine day,’ one of them said.
‘Aye, for some . . .’ Gormley held up ID. ‘We’re looking—’
‘She’s still in there . . .’ The thin man gave them a knowing look and held out his hand. ‘I’m ex-job.’
‘Thinks we didn’t notice her sneaking in,’ the other man said.
Gormley and Daniels shook hands with both of them.
‘Nowt gets past Jake . . .’ the ex polis grinned. ‘He outranks me by a mile round here. Has held a plot longer than the rest of us. Makes awful tea, mind. I’d offer you a cup but I’m guessing you’re not here to chat or they’d have sent a wooden top like me. I never made it to CID, more’s the pity. Uniforms were scratchy and heavy in my day, no short sleeves in summer like the young ’uns you see walking the streets nowadays . . .’ He nodded to the shed where Chantelle was hiding. ‘It’s the one with the horseshoe on the door.’
‘We thought we’d leave her be, given George’s recent bereavement,’ the other man added. ‘No need to chase her until the committee is notified. She’ll be family, no doubt. Come to pay her respects at his second home.’
‘Something like that,’ Daniels said.
The octogenarian knew different. Kate could see it in his eyes. He had obviously felt sorry for Chantelle and didn’t want to move her on. Conversation over, the old guys put down their mugs and staggered from the bench, regretting the tea-break now their bones and muscles had seized up. As they resumed their digging, Daniels and Gormley walked on, arriving at George Milburn’s shed just as Chantelle made a run for it.