After Zac had had his supper that night, he indulged in a bit of recreational drug-taking – to round things off nicely. He was taking a second deep lungful of smoke by the open window when he heard a peremptory knock at the door. Instantly he flicked his spliff out of the window onto the patio below and exhaled as fast as he could. The dog-end had barely left his fingers and he hadn’t managed to draw the breath back in to say ‘yes?’ when the door opened.

‘Mum!’

He saw his mother look around the room like she suspected something. Gawd, could she smell the pot? Her gaze came to rest on his computer screen where a game had been paused – a soldier was caught in mid-killing spree, his space-gun ready to waste an alien.

‘I hope you’ve been getting on with the homework you were set for the holidays,’ she said. ‘Not spending all your time playing stupid games. And, good grief, Zac, what on earth are you doing with the window wide open? You’ll catch your death.’ She marched across the carpet and slammed it shut.

Despite the calming effect of the pot he’d just smoked, his heart rate went off the scale: what if she’d looked down onto the patio and seen the burning fag?

‘Can. You. Not. Just. Barge. In. Here,’ said Zac enunciating every word clearly, with a small pause between each for effect.

‘I didn’t barge, I knocked first.’

Zac snorted and shook his head. His mother was the fucking limit.

‘I came up here to tell you I’m off to the WI. Your father is going to be late home so you’ll be on your own for a while.’

‘Whatever.’

‘I’ll be home about nine thirty.’

‘OK.’

‘Bye then.’

She hung around by the door. What did she want – a goodbye kiss? She left and Zac walked across the room and slammed the door shut. He waited for a couple of minutes before he cracked it open again, listening for any sign she might still be in the house, then he went across the landing to the window. There she was, pushing her bike over the gravel to the road where she mounted it carefully and pedalled down the hill.

Zac ran back to his room and grabbed his mobile, his thumbs flashing across the keyboard as he sent a text. A reply pinged in about a minute later and as soon as he’d scanned it he grabbed his hoodie, ran downstairs and across the open-plan living room to his dad’s desk. He pulled the top drawer open fully and moved the pile of envelopes to one side before he picked up the two keys that lay underneath. His dad thought he was so clever with his hiding place, only he wasn’t. No match for me, thought Zac as he picked them up and unlocked the small filing cabinet that sat next to the deck. He slid out the middle drawer with a metallic rumble and reached in to pull out the cash box before unlocking it. He flipped up the lid.

Bugger! It was empty. But his dad always had a wodge of twenties stashed in it. He turned it upside down and shook it as if that might make some money magically appear. But... but...? In disgust he threw it back into the filing cabinet and heaved a sigh. Shit! Now what? On autopilot Zac relocked the cash box and then put everything back where he’d found it, including the keys. Bollocks, he thought as he slammed shut the desk drawer.

He considered cancelling his meeting but he needed to score. Knowing he had no drugs left was making him anxious and jumpy and already he could feel his skin itching. His dealer would cut him some slack, surely. He was a good customer, the pusher would understand. Zac let himself out of the house and walked around the back to the patio, where he picked up the roach and chucked it into a flower bed. He hadn’t even been able to finish his last joint properly, thanks to his mum. Angrily he kicked out at a plant pot which fell over and smashed. Yeah, that would serve her fucking right.

*

Bert Makepiece was hoeing between his early potatoes in the last of the evening light. The setting sun was warm on his weather-beaten and lined face, his skin tanned from working on his allotment in all weathers and the frill of white hair, like a monk’s tonsure, caught the low rays of the sun and shone like a halo. Everyone else on the allotments had gone home for their tea and the kids that usually frequented the play area had departed too. Even the skate ramps had been abandoned. If it hadn’t been for the cooing of wood pigeons and the songs of a couple of blackbirds the area would have been blessed by deep silence. Bert knew it would be dark in another half-hour but he needed to finish this job. The shadows from the trees on the far side of the park stretched across to his allotment, dappling the rich soil he was weeding, and the sky behind the trees was now changing from pale, robin’s egg blue to apricot and orange, and the wisps of cloud were tinged with pink. It was a glorious evening.

Supporting himself using the handle of his hoe, Bert bent down and pulled on a long pale root that was as thick as a pencil. He felt resistance and moved his fingers along it to where it had buried itself even deeper in the ground. Carefully he teased it out of the earth and looked with satisfaction at the ten-inch length of bindweed root before he straightened up and tossed it onto the pile of weeds he was going to burn the next day. ‘Bloody stuff,’ he muttered. He knew he was fighting a losing battle with the bindweed that encroached on his patch but it didn’t stop him from trying.

He remembered a lesson his primary school teacher had given his class years before. Must be over sixty years since, he thought. He could still recall the garish pictures she’d held up, showing the twelve labours of Hercules and the one of him hacking heads off a serpent. The trouble was, every time he lopped off one, two more grew back. Bert couldn’t remember how Hercules had finally got the better of it but he knew how the Greek hero felt and frankly he could do with him right now to give a hand on his allotment with the bindweed. Maybe if he had that foreign chappy’s super-human powers to help him, he might stand a chance.

Bert turned his face to the last of the sun’s rays, feeling its warmth on his skin. He loved this time of year – so full of promise. And everything was coming along a treat, despite the blooming bindweed. He gazed at his neat, weed-free beds, at the rows of peas sprouting under their arch of pea-sticks, at the runner beans starting to curl around their bamboo wigwam, at his cabbages and caulis. Which reminded them, he must get the net over them soon to stop the cabbage whites from laying their eggs on them. A couple of years previously he’d been late with the netting and the little buggers had stripped a couple of complete plants. He was all for live and let live but drew the line at feeding the caterpillars. He turned back to the sun, shielding his eyes and gazed at the ancient trees. Yes, they were definitely greening up.

Movement near their fat trunks caught his eye. There was a bloke hanging around over by the far fence. Bert peered across the grass. As he did so he saw another youth loping up the path wearing a hoodie. The other chap moved out of the shade and came to meet the lad. They both looked around. Furtive, thought Bert. That was it, they both looked furtive. Still, no business of his and why shouldn’t two guys meet in a public space? Meeting a buddy wasn’t against the law. But some instinct made Bert keep watching. The two were gesticulating. It looked, to all intents and purposes, like they were squaring up for a fight. There was a flash. A knife? Then one pushed the other and almost instantly put his hands up as if he was apologising. Things seemed to calm down. And then they shook hands – or maybe something changed hands – and then the guy who’d been hanging out under the tree jogged off, leaving the youth on his own.

Bert moved into the shadow of his shed. He wasn’t sure what he’d just witnessed but he had a suspicion that the pair hadn’t wanted an audience. Something hadn’t been right. The other lad was leaving now... no, he wasn’t. He came towards the skatepark, his head down, and sat on one of the ramps. Then Bert saw him roll a cigarette. He didn’t blame him. Back when he’d been a smoker, back when fags had cost less than five bob a packet, he’d have probably wanted a smoke after a run-in like that. Then the lad turned and propped himself against the curve of one of the half-pipes and pushed his hood back. Zac. Did his mother know about the sort of company he kept? Or that he smoked? Bert suspected that she didn’t.

*

Olivia was in bed and reading when Nigel came back. He dropped his sports bag on the bedroom floor and started to take off his tie.

‘You’re late.’ She stifled a yawn.

‘I told you, I played badminton.’

‘I know but I didn’t expect you to be quite as late as this.’

‘We went for a swift half afterwards.’ Nigel kicked off his shoes and lined them up under the stool on his side of the bed.

‘That’s nice. How did you get on?’

‘Get on?’

‘You said you had a match.’

‘Oh – er, no, it was more of a friendly. A knock-up.’

‘OK.’

Nigel switched on his bedside light and went to the en suite from where Olivia heard the buzz of the electric toothbrush. She switched off her light and rolled over under the duvet. He hadn’t asked about her evening with the WI... plus ça change. He rarely seemed to take an interest in anything she did, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, after Nigel had gone to work, Olivia had a row with Zac about getting out of bed because, even though it was the Easter holidays, he had schoolwork to do and it wasn’t healthy to lie about doing nothing all day. She’d won the row but now doubted if it had been worth the appalling atmosphere it had created before Zac had finally stormed off out. After he’d slammed the front door, with such force that the windows had rattled, she decided that it was time she found out the truth about the rumoured development on Coombe Farm for herself. Once again she got her bike out of the garage and headed for the town centre.

It was market day and instead of cars neatly parked in the bays on the town square the asphalt was covered with stalls selling everything from rucksacks to fish. The locals strolled between the stalls, stopping to chat with acquaintances – their conversations often interrupted by a stallholder yelling his wares. The sun was kept off the produce by candy-striped awnings and behind and beside the stands, empty fruit and veg boxes were piled high waiting for the refuse lorry to come and take them away. Olivia ignored the displays of tempting produce and chained her bike to the rack at the far end of the market, collected her handbag from the wicker basket and then strode purposefully into the town hall. She banged on the bell at the front desk to get the receptionist out of her office.

‘Councillor Laithwaite,’ said the receptionist. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I want to see all the applications for planning consent, please, Cynthia.’

‘All of them?’

Olivia blinked slowly and breathed deeply. ‘No, just the most recent ones.’

‘That’s still a lot. Could you be more specific?’

‘The one for Mr McGregor’s farm – Coombe Farm.’

Cynthia looked puzzled. ‘I don’t think we’ve received anything for that. Of course it may not have come down to us from the district council yet. You do know applications go to district in the first instance?’

Olivia bit back a comment that as she’d been on the council for getting on for eight years she probably knew more about the planning process than most. ‘I am aware of that but I’d like you to check, if it isn’t too much trouble.’

Cynthia disappeared through a door in the corner. Olivia could hear her talking but couldn’t quite overhear what was being said.

‘No,’ said the receptionist on her return. ‘We’ve had nothing filed for that farm.’

‘But there were surveyors seen there.’

‘It doesn’t mean we’ve been asked for planning consent.’

‘Sorry to have bothered you,’ said Olivia as she headed for the main door. Not that she meant it; after all, Cynthia was there to be bothered – that was her job.

She got back on her bike and headed out of the car park, down the road past the cricket pavilion, till she got to the ring road on the edge of town. It wasn’t a ring road in the true sense of the word but it did provide a way of avoiding the town centre on market day when things could get very busy and there were actual traffic jams. The residents were encouraged to use it to take the strain off the town centre at peak periods, but not everyone did. Actually, in Olivia’s eyes, it was the council estate residents who were the worst offenders for driving through the middle of the town to get to Cattebury and who cluttered up the high street in the rush hour. Olivia never bothered to consider that the residents at her end of town – the ones who commuted by train to the city – were just as guilty when they journeyed to the station. But obviously her neighbours were entitled to clutter up the main street, the council house occupants were not.

She rode past the cricket club, past the entrance to the churchyard and up to the roundabout where she took the left turn that led to McGregor’s farm. She wanted to see the lie of the land for herself – literally. If Olivia was honest with herself she’d never really noticed the farm in any detail, beyond that it was there and that there were a number of broken down outbuildings and barns which were a total blot on the landscape and about which she’d always felt that something ought to be done. But whatever should be done should definitely not involve replacing them with a housing development, as Heather – if what Ted Burrows had told her was correct – thought might be going on.

Olivia pedalled a few hundred yards along the ring road and stopped opposite the farm. There was nothing to be seen that suggested the builders were about to move in but then there wouldn’t be, would there, not without the approval of a planning application? A planning application which hadn’t even been submitted, apparently. Olivia got off her bike and crossed the road before flipping down the stand with her foot and parking it on the verge. She then leaned on a gate to the scrubby meadow and assessed the scene for herself.

It was obvious that the land wasn’t much good as pasture. The grass, even to Olivia’s untrained eye, looked to be of poor quality and it was thick with nettles and thistles. In one corner of the field there was a rusting pile of old farm equipment and in another were the crumbling remains of what might have been some old stables and a barn, both built from corrugated iron and breeze blocks. The whole place was an eyesore. Thank God, thought Olivia, that it was behind a thick hawthorn hedge and most passers-by, whizzing along the ring road, would be completely unaware of the dereliction lurking behind.

A voice behind her startled her so much she jumped.

‘Oi, you. What you looking at?’

She spun round. ‘Mr McGregor?’

‘And who would you be, wanting to know? Peter Rabbit?’ The old man, with appalling teeth, Olivia noticed, laughed at his own joke.

‘I’m Councillor Olivia Laithwaite and I’m also on the committee of the Little Woodford Historical Association and the Chairman of the Friends of the Community Centre group.’

‘Are ’e. And is that supposed to impress I?’

‘Well no, but I’ve heard a rumour you might be developing this field.’

‘Have ’e, now. And what business is it of yourn if I am?’

‘There’s regulations.’

‘So?’

‘Well, they’re there to be obeyed.’

‘An’ who says I’m breaking ’em?’

‘No one – not yet.’

‘Then until that happens – which it won’t – I suggest that you, Councillor Olivia Laithwaite, slings your hook.’

‘Really!’

‘Yes, really. Now git orf my land.’

‘I’m on the footpath.’

‘No, you ain’t.’ Mr McGregor took a step to the left. ‘This is the footpath.’

Olivia sniffed. What an obnoxious and ill-mannered man he was. And if he thought that he was going to get away with any sort of building on this field it would be over her dead body.

‘Git,’ said McGregor more aggressively.

Olivia ‘got’.