Page 7 of The Other Side

She huffed. “Oh dear. Have your feelings been hurt? Live with it, Drummond. This is piss easy, being a PCSO. Most of the job is done on foot. All you’re doing is talking to people and being seen. Don’t fuck it up.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Vehicle keys, house keys, address. Everything you need to know is in this folder. There’s more information about the house in the kitchen.”

How not to fuck things up? How to be happy? How the washing machine works? How to get over what had happened?

“You’ll be checked on, periodically. Report to me here next Thursday at nine. The police vehicle is not to be used for anything other than police business.”

“What about the bike? Can I use that? I have no other means of getting anywhere.”

She scowled. “No. Personal transportation is your own problem. Use the bus.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Off you go.”

There was no more room in his bag. He struggled to pick everything up, then headed towards the exit. He wasn’t going to say ‘thank you’. He didn’t feel grateful. He was pissed off. He’d already guessed he wouldn’t be thought of as a constable and he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

When he walked into the car park and pressed the unlock on the car keys, the lights flashed on a battered Land Rover Defender with the familiar blue and yellow livery. Police vehicles were usually well-maintained so Drum wasn’t worried about how it performed, but he did notice it was the worst looking vehicle in the yard.

The bike was in the back, as promised. Not an e-bike as he’d secretly hoped for in hilly countryside like this, but it looked in reasonable nick. There was a black and white cycling helmet with PCSO stamped on the back and side, which appeared to be new. Drum put all his stuff on the back seat and then used Google Maps to find the way to his new home.

As he set off, it suddenly struck him how alone he was. He was used to working on his own, but at that moment, he was far from everything he knew. He’d left friends and colleagues behind two years ago before he’d gone undercover. Even if he could get in touch with them, in reality, any relationship was long gone. This was a restart of his life for the second time. He needed to show he could do this job and then when the trial was over, he could think properly about his future.

When a large supermarket came up on his left, he pulled into the car park. It was unlikely there’d be any food in this house he was heading for. He’d pick up enough to last him a couple of days. Though as he walked around, he realised he’d have no means of getting anything later unless there was a local shop. So a few things turned into a trolley-load. Salt, pepper, a whole load of spices, coffee, a mug and a plate—just in case. Then he added another of each because—you never know. Pasta, pesto, pizza, salad stuff, cheese, bread, laundry detergent, washing up liquid, cleaning stuff, toilet rolls, a couple of books… Then bed linen, pillows, duvet and towels. He’d never spent so long in a supermarket in his life. Nor had he ever spent as much.

Chapter Two

Drum’s new home was in a small village called Hayden. Well, not in it, it was right on the edge, more on the way to the next settlement. It was a stone cottage with the nearest neighbour a hundred metres away. Pine Cottage. There was a small front garden but it was just gravel with one tree standing in front of the window. Not a pine tree. Hmm. Drum parked at the side of the building in front of a garage. He hoped he’d be able to put the car inside. He didn’t want to advertise that he was a policeman. The thought made him laugh. Everyone likely knew already.

He took his phone and his work phone with him and left everything else in the car. Even though there was no one around, he still locked the vehicle. Hyper-vigilance was a hard thing to shake and until Ashford was serving an actual prison sentence, Drum would continue to be careful. Ah hell, I’ll always have to be careful.

The front door stuck halfway open before giving way with a crack that sounded a little ominous. The smell hit him first. Stale. Dusty. Like something old had been sealed up for too long. He stood in the doorway and took a shaky breath. One room ahead with stairs on the left side next to a door. There was a grey couch with a blanket draped diagonally over the back, a coffee table in front of it. The attempt at looking stylish made him smile. Between the sitting area and the kitchen was a small wooden table and two chairs. The furniture looked new. There was a log burning stove and horrible flowery curtains at the front window that looked ancient. No TV. The wallpaper had once been cream, but had faded into an unpleasant nicotine-yellow colour. A strip was peeling away under the window like a loose plaster.

The kitchen was okay. Cream wooden Shaker units, a wooden worktop, stainless-steel sink, electric hob and oven, a washer-dryer and a good-sized fridge-freezer. He checked the cupboards and was pleased to see that they’d all been wiped clean. There were two plates, two glasses, two mugs. Two of most things. The crockery and cutlery were new, though not what he’d have picked, given the choice. Good thing there was cutlery. He hadn’t remembered to buy any.

His gaze settled on a knife block near the hob and his pulse immediately spiked. He took the knives out of it, put them at the back of the cutlery drawer, then stowed the wooden block in a cupboard. It took a moment before he felt okay enough to keep looking around.

The bathroom was through the door by the stairs. It was a bit old fashioned, with a grab rail for the shower, so someone old had probably lived here at some point. But there was a bath as well as a shower, the toilet had a good flush and it was clean.

Back in the main room, he walked over to the French doors that led onto the garden. It was mostly lawn, that someone had recently cut, with flower beds down one side. The flowers brightened everything up. He looked around again. The place wasn’t dusty or dirty. He stupidly half-wished it was. Then he could have got a bit OCD with the bleach. It was clean enough to prove somebody had tried. It was just that they’d failed to make it look like somewhere an almost thirty-year-old man would want to live. It had an old smell. Drum sighed. Transforming it was up to him. Paint would work a small miracle. So would changing the curtains, and opening windows to let some air into the place. So opening windows and the French doors was the next thing he did. Only to close the doors again and pull the bolts before he went upstairs. It was impossible to be too careful.

There were two bedrooms up there. A brown water stain spread across the ceiling of one, roughly the shape of South America. He reached up to touch it, relieved to find it was dry. There was no bed or curtains, only a wardrobe. He opened one of the doors and a hinge immediately fell off. Drum stared at it for several seconds. Then he carefully picked the hinge up from the floor and put it on a shelf. Was there a screwdriver anywhere? He hadn’t thought to buy one of those.

The bed in the other room looked new, as did the plain grey curtains. No map of America on the ceiling. He opened the windows, sat on the bed to check it wasn’t going to collapse, then lay back for a moment and took a breather.

No traffic.

No neighbours.

No sirens.

Nothing. The cottage didn’t even creak. Was it holding its breath to see if it liked him? The thought made him smile.

In London there’d always been noise. Even at three in the morning there’d been engines, voices, distant music, helicopters, arguments and ambulances. Feet banging up staircases were a particular trigger for him now. He pushed the thought away. Clover House had been quiet but not isolated like this. There had always been people around, doors opening and closing, people banging up the stairs. It might take a while to get used to somewhere so still.

His work phone buzzed. For a split second his pulse jumped. Then he looked at the screen. Welcome to Derbyshire Police. An automated message, with files to open from HR. He snorted. Who else would be texting him?