Death on the Allotment by Dave Rigby

It’s Cyril Johnston on the phone. Chairman of the Allotment Society. Very particular about not being a chair. I’m a person not a piece of bloody furniture.

But the rest of the committee puts up with him, because nobody else wants the job.

    “You’re needed, pronto, down at the allotments,” he says in his usual clipped tone.

    “Why?” I ask. But his phone has gone dead. Unusual for Cyril. He usually chunters on and on.

What a nuisance. I’m only just back in the house and had been looking forward to a leisurely breakfast in the garden.

Prompted by Cyril’s use of the word pronto, I decide to take the bike rather than walk. Nosy neighbour 1, a relative newcomer to the village, tells me a man knocked on my door last night. Not someone she recognised. I thank her for the information and pedal away. 

It’s a lovely, late June morning. The leafy back lane provides a handy shortcut.  

The blue flashing lights catch my attention on the approach to Lark Lane Fields, Police vehicles are lined up on the grass verge by the entrance to the allotments. I dismount, push the bike through the gate and prop it against the inside of the fence. No need for a lock with all these uniforms around.

They’re gathered around my allotment. Cyril waves me over.

    “A bad business. Didn’t want to say anything over the phone Mrs Rusholme. I’m afraid someone has died.”

A police sergeant introduces himself and attempts to shake off Cyril’s attentions. He can be leech-like. But in a low, very firm voice, the sergeant asks him and the others to stand to one side.

Spread across three rows of my potato crop, head resting on one of the path edging stones, left arm tangled in the raspberry netting, lies a man – face down. Older but not old, tall, unfashionable jeans, plaid shirt, black boots.  

    “Sorry you have to see this,” the sergeant says.

But it’s not a surprise. And after all those years on the intensive care ward, I’ve seen most things.

Officers are busy putting up tapes around my allotment boundary, taking photographs – lots of them – and struggling with the crime scene tent. I’m allowed inside the tapes. Cyril’s stuck outside.

The sergeant instructs two constables to turn the body over.

It’s Patrick. I gasp.

There’s a large gash on his forehead, dried blood, matted fringe.

He walked out on me … twenty years ago … the best day of my life. If only one of us had done it sooner. And now he’s back. It was his allotment originally. How strange he should die back on home turf.

I tell the sergeant who Patrick is and put on a show of emotion. It wouldn’t do to remain coldly detached.

His questions start, treating me alternately as the poor bereaved ex and as a possible suspect. When did I last see the deceased? Twenty years ago. And where was I yesterday evening and overnight?  A restaurant meal with Howard my partner and then back to his house. Yes, I was there all night.

Do I have any idea why Patrick would suddenly turn up on my allotment?

I need a story to help explain his presence. It begins to unfurl in my head. I start to tell the sergeant.

My neighbour just told me I had a visitor last night. Patrick perhaps.

Not for the first time, he’ll have been wanting to borrow money, though he’s never turned up in person before.

Finding nobody in, short of money and miles from home, maybe he decided to spend the night in my allotment shed. He’ll have remembered where the spare key was hidden.

In gloves and overshoes, we inspect the shed.

It smells of Patrick. There’s a sleeping bag on the floor, a small rucksack and an empty port bottle. Typical Patrick. No cheap cider for him.

My story unfolds further.

Full of port maybe, got up for a pee in the night, staggered across the allotment, got tangled in the raspberry netting and fell, banging his head on one of the path edging stones.

We leave the shed and walk across to the path. Sure enough there’s blood on one of the sharp stones.

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The following day there’s a call from the police.

Patrick was three times over the limit. When he fell, his head hit the stone with very considerable force, causing his death.

I tell Howard.

Fingers crossed they won’t find out.

After the restaurant meal, we’d returned to Howard’s place via the allotment shed to pick up a punnet of raspberries for a late evening treat.

We stumbled across Patrick asleep on the floor and staggered backwards in shock.

I cried out. Patrick woke and started goading the pair of us. We retreated from the shed, he followed and struck Howard.

Suddenly I could take no more of Patrick.

When I pushed him hard in the back, he fell like the proverbial sack of potatoes.