‘It just . . . makes you think, doesn’t it?’ She paused for a moment but Jessica waited. ‘You’re bringing kids into this world where someone is cataloguing their details, kidnapping and killing them. I don’t even know what to say about it.’

Jessica wasn’t sure what to add. If she was pregnant, the same thoughts would surely be weighing on her mind too. As it was, Izzy shunted her chair backwards, standing to indicate she was ready to get to work. Jessica put a hand on her shoulder, smiling in as reassuring a manner as she could. It felt a little silly but Izzy seemed to appreciate the sentiment.

‘I’ll call in later,’ Jessica said. ‘I’m off to meet the allotment society secretary.’

She had volunteered to go because she wanted to feel as if she was doing something. The briefings were necessary because of the number of people who had to be organised and assigned to various roles. It was that type of work which made Jessica feel glad she hadn’t been promoted any further. At least as a sergeant she could get out and investigate things. She could see first-hand how Cole and Reynolds often had their hands tied because they were the ones supposed to be sorting out everyone else. It also helped that they trusted her enough to get on with the job.

Keith Nunns was exactly how Jessica would have pictured someone who ran an allotment society. She knew it would be a deeply insulting thing to say out loud but sometimes, knowing what someone’s job was before seeing them, she found that the person ended up living up to every prejudice and stereotype she felt bad about having. He was somewhere in his late fifties, short and slightly overweight with narrow strands of hair combed across his head.

And he could talk.

He lived with his wife in a semi-detached house not far from the allotment and, after inviting Jessica in, proceeded to give her his life story. Usually she would have taken control and made sure he addressed the questions she needed answering – but listening to him tell her about his forty-year career in the engineering industry seemed reassuringly normal after everything that had gone on in the past few days.

When it seemed as if he was finally running out of steam, Jessica steered the conversation towards the things she needed to know. ‘I was wondering if you could talk me through the process people go through when they pay their annual fees, Mr Nunns?’ she asked.

He enthusiastically leapt up from his armchair and started digging in a cupboard underneath the TV, pulling out a large folder and sitting next to Jessica on the sofa. ‘I know I should really do it all on a computer but I had enough of that at work before retiring. Between you and me, I don’t really know what I’m doing on them beyond what I had to do with my job.’

He opened the folder and flicked through the pages. Each one had a number at the top to indicate the plot, followed by a name and address, then a list of payments. Some numbers had multiple pages assigned to them.

‘You’ll notice that I keep the pages for people who gave up their land,’ he added. ‘When someone else takes it on they get a new page but I also hang on to the old one. I’ve been doing this on and off for twenty-five years now.’ Jessica feared he was about to give her another chunk of his life story but instead he skimmed through to number sixty-one. ‘There’s only one page here,’ he added. ‘The guy who had the records before me has died now and I inherited his information. I copied a lot of it from his notes into my own files but it has only ever had one owner.’

Keith tapped his finger on the page and Jessica’s eyes were drawn to the name inked in tidy joined-up handwriting: ‘Glenn Harrison’.

Jessica scanned down the page and could see the annual deposits written in the same neat writing. The amounts had grown each year as the price increased but everything else seemed straightforward. ‘I know it sounds like an obvious question,’ Jessica began. ‘But did you ever meet Glenn Harrison?’

He instantly shook his head. ‘I know it might seem odd but I probably only know around half the people who have plots. Some apply through the council and they’ve been trying to get people to pay via direct debit. Others are long-term people who pay with cheques or cash. Some of the ones I know personally will give me their money when it’s due.’

‘How did Glenn Harrison pay you?’

‘I would get an envelope through the door with cash in. It’s not that unusual but admittedly most people see me in person. After I’d taken over the job, it took me a while to sort out all the separate accounts. A few people used to put cash through my door back then and one or two never stopped.’

‘Would you have kept any of the envelopes or anything the money was posted in?’

Keith shook his head again. ‘No, I bin all that stuff. I’d have no need to keep it.’

Jessica had been pretty sure that was what he would say but it was worth asking. ‘What about the address details? Someone’s told you it’s not real, haven’t they?’

Keith sounded defensive. ‘Yes but . . . I’d have no way of knowing that, would I?’

‘Oh no, it’s completely understandable. I’m just asking how you would have been given that address.’

‘I suppose it was one of those things I inherited. I would have copied it over from the scraps I was given.’

Jessica knew he wouldn’t take it well but had to ask anyway. ‘Is there any chance you could have copied it incorrectly?’

‘Definitely not.’ Keith was as firm as he could be and didn’t elaborate.

‘Can you explain to me about the keys?’ she persisted.

He nodded, still willing to engage. ‘I’m sure you noticed that around three-quarters of the plots have sheds but not all of them. It’s partly due to how boundaries have been redrawn over the years. The key itself is actually nothing to us because people have their own padlocks. A few years ago there was a bit of money left over and the society agreed to pay for these key fobs. It was so everything looked neat.’

‘How would Mr Harrison have got one if his address wasn’t correct?’

‘We never sent them out because of the expense. The shed for plot one is left unlocked during the day specifically so people can either borrow the odd supply or, in this case, pick up their key fobs. We’ve done it with other things in the past too. Sometimes we get promotional bags of seeds and the like and they’re always left in that shed.’

Jessica knew she was heading into another dead end but showed him the photograph of the anonymous driver from the car crash, apologising for the glass shards in the dead man’s hideously deformed features. Keith reeled in shock, shaking his head and saying he didn’t know the person. Not that there was much to recognise. Jessica felt bad for making him look at it and knew there was little point in trying to show it to anyone else; it was a stupid thing to do in the first place.

She stood ready to leave and Keith followed before nervously asking the question he had clearly spent the last forty-five minutes holding on to. ‘I was wondering if you could tell me what’s going on?’

Jessica didn’t think it was a good idea to tell him much else. ‘I can’t, I’m afraid,’ she said.

‘You’ve roped off the whole of sixty-one; do you know when things might be back to normal?’

Jessica again shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know that myself.’

Back at her car, Jessica sat in the driver’s seat and took out her phone. She dialled Izzy, who answered on the second ring.

‘Are you okay?’ the constable asked.

‘I didn’t get much here from the allotment guy,’ Jessica said. ‘Have you come up with anything?’

‘You’re hopeful; it’s only been an hour.’

‘I know but no one seems to have a bloody clue what’s going on.’

Izzy laughed. ‘You can add me to that list if you want. I do have some news though.’

‘Good news?’

‘Just news. The lab results are back from the dead driver. His DNA doesn’t match anyone in the national database. They also tested it against Isaac’s and know they’re not related. Basically they have no idea who he is.’ Jessica ended the call, sighing. She stared at herself in the rear-view mirror before turning the key and pulling away, no idea of what to do next.