Page 31 of The Other Side

“For crying… What were you going to feed them?” she asked.

“Grass,” Liam said. “We were going to do you a favour, mow the lawn and feed them that.”

“Did you check whether feeding them mown grass is safe?” Drum asked.

Liam fidgeted. “No. Sorry,” he muttered.

“Sorry,” James echoed.

“Mr Breakwater’s not going to press charges. This time. But if I hear your names mentioned again, you might not be so lucky.”

James exhaled.

“It was Tim’s idea,” Liam blurted.

“Liam!” His brother glared at him.

“Well, it was. You going to speak to him too?”

“Yes. If you want to make some money, why don’t you go round with a couple of buckets of soapy water and ask people if you can wash their cars? You can start with mine. The Defender’s parked outside The Lime Tree.” He took five pounds out of his wallet. “Make a good job of it.”

“Thank you,” their mother said. “I’ll make sure they do.”

The boys shuffled off outside.

“That was kind of you.”

“I’m not so old that I don’t remember what it was like to be a teenager.”

She smiled. “They’re going to be in trouble with their dad for using the van.”

“Have they taken it before?”

“Not that I know of. They go everywhere on their bikes.”

“Let me give you my private number.” Drum wrote it on a scrap of paper. He wasn’t supposed to do this but… “If you’re worried about them, give me a call.”

She showed him to the door.

“Maybe they should wash the van too. And cut the grass,” Drum said.

“They’ll do your car first. Bit of a treat washing a police car.”

Drum continued through the village, stopping to buy an ice cream from the shop. The owner tried to give it to him for nothing, but Drum wouldn’t have that. By the time he reached the Motsons’ place, the ice cream was eaten. This was a very different house. Possibly the largest one in the village, double fronted with sash windows and made of Derbyshire limestone. Drum knocked on the front door.

A large man in his early fifties opened it. His eyes widened when he looked at Drum, then he put a smile on his face.

“You’re the new community support officer,” he said and it felt as if he were putting Drum in his place.

“Yes.”

“PCSO Drummond, right? What can I do for you?”

“Are you the father of Tim Motson?”

The guy’s jaw twitched. “Yes. You better come in.”

Tim Motson’s father stepped aside, but only just. The gesture felt less like an invitation and more like a challenge for Drum to get inside the house without brushing against him.