Nate
Laurel was quiet and jittery as they sped along the country lanes to the arm. He hoped it was something trivial and ridiculous that could wait for Laurel to deal with next week. Or even better, someone else could deal with it. She had too much on her shoulders already.
‘It’ll be okay,’ he said, putting his hand on top of hers restlessly tapping the gear stick. ‘Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.’
She cut her eyes quickly to him.
‘It’s probably boring work stuff. You don’t have to hang around.’
‘Look, if I can help, then I want to,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to do everything by yourself.’
A sad smile flashed across her face. ‘Okay.’
Laurel let out a low groan as they rounded the corner into Little Willow Farm.
There, scrawled across the kitschy, leaping sheep Little Willow Farm sign was ‘Fletcher Bitch’ in big, black, spray-painted letters.
‘Laurel, I…’ Nate started, but he didn’t have the words.
Well, that was obviously about Laurel. If he had to guess, George Hibbert would be his first, and only, one. Nate’s jaw tightened.
The headlights flashed over Robin, pointing towards the admin building, mouth turned down. As the lights illuminated the wall, he could see the big black letters ‘Fucking Fletcher Bitch’. Well, look at that. George Hibbert could use more than two words.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, voice low.
Laurel nodded as she pulled the handbrake up, jaw tense. She was not okay.
Robin didn’t even let them shut the car door before he was on at Laurel.
‘Not enough that you’re giving him my house, you’re shagging him as well now.’
‘Fuck you, Robin,’ she snapped. ‘We were having a drink in the pub.’
‘There’s more,’ Robin said grimly. ‘Come on.’
They followed Robin through the farm to the Pick Your Own. Laurel wrapped her arms around her waist. Whether she was cold in the summer night, or whether she was trying to fortify herself, Nate didn’t know.
‘There you are,’ Jack snapped, striding towards them, taking in Nate just a step behind Laurel.
‘Yes,’ Laurel said. ‘Here I am.’
‘We’ve not touched anything, but look at what we’ve found,’ he said pointing to the shed. They gathered around the doorway and Nate peeked over Laurel’s shoulder.
‘Shit,’ she whispered. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
‘What is it?’ he asked Robin.
‘That, my good doctor, is an empty bottle of industrial strength weed killer.’ Robin clapped him on the back. ‘It’s been dumped into the water butts that waters the Pick Your Own fruit. It has been on for hours, ruining this year’s crop, perhaps next years as well.’
‘Oh fuck,’ Nate said, the implication dawning on him.
‘Give the man a gold star.’ Robin shrugged. ‘They must have just chucked the empty bottle in there after making sure the irrigation system was switched on.’
Laurel was crouching, head in her hands. The only sound was the whirring of the irrigation system controls from the shed. The Fletcher men waited for her with bated breath. She stood up, pushing her hands through her hair.
‘Right. Jack, call the police and tell David, the lazy shit, that if he doesn’t come out right now, I’ll lodge a formal complaint.’
Jack pulled his phone out and took a few steps away.
