Page 4 of The Other Side

“It’ll give you the chance to find your feet again in a quieter setting.”

Drum got that. He did. The finding his feet part and the quieter setting. He’d not even had to make a meal for the last three months and his laundry had been done for him. All he’d had to do was cooperate with every form of therapy they’d thrown at him. Though he’d put his foot down about basket weaving.

“For how long, sir?”

“Well, let’s not put a timescale on it. See how you go.”

“No word about a trial date yet?”

“No. Sorry. I’m sure the CPS are doing their best.”

The Crown Prosecution Service could kiss his arse.

Drum sucked in his cheeks. Out to pasture. Literally. Fuck. His throat thickened.

“We’ve already secured accommodation for you. A furnished cottage, given your…circumstances. The first month’s rent has been paid. You get a lot for your money compared to London.”

After everything he owned had been destroyed, after Drum had nearly been destroyed? Well, that saved him a soul-destroying trip to IKEA trying to decide between a Benke or Bonke sofa.

“Whereabouts, sir?”

“An area you once knew. Derbyshire. The Peak District.”

That shocked him. The Peak District. Back to where his life had begun. Well, the life he could remember. Whose idea had that been?

“Why there, sir?” he found himself asking.

“Coincidentally, they need a PCSO, and I thought you might benefit. Might shake a few memories loose. You’ll report to Inspector Gordon at High Burton Station.” Fischer pushed a folder across the desk. “All you need to know for the time being is in there. There’s a travel warrant too. You’re expected tomorrow.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand.

Drum took the cue, stood and shook his hand.

“Good luck,” Fischer said.

“Yes, sir.” Drum picked up the folder and walked out. I’m not fucking thanking him!

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Not to be demoted for a start, in rank if not in salary. He hoped he’d keep his detective constable powers as Fischer had said, but he somehow doubted it. How would the other officers react to that? They wouldn’t know why, they’d want to know why and he couldn’t tell them.

Back in his room, he sat on the bed, emptied the folder and read everything.

Was it what he wanted? No.

Did he know what he wanted? No.

But he’d been handed a furnished cottage without the misery of flat-hunting or the trauma of getting lost in IKEA. The Peak District was beautiful. Maybe Fischer was right. He would benefit. It was on his records that he’d been found there when he was ten with no memory of his previous life. Maybe going back would shake something loose.

Though his heart told him it was unlikely. Drum had returned before. Nothing had stirred in his memory.

Still, it was summer. He’d be working instead of hiding in a safe house. Until he figured out what came next, he’d wear the uniform.

And he’d try to smile.

Drum arrived at High Burton train station carrying everything in the world that he owned. Depressingly, it all fit into a medium-sized bag. Before his flat had been wrecked, he’d had all sorts of bits and pieces that he’d picked up over the years, things that had appealed to him: Roman coins, books by his favourite authors, Star Wars figures, a David Hockney print of a dog, a glass vase full of unusual marbles, a favourite mug, a favourite water bottle, a favourite photo he’d taken of a bridge… All of it had gone.

He had enough money to buy everything again, most of it anyway, but that wasn’t the point. Those had been his things, special to him. Only items kept by the police before he went undercover had survived: his real birth certificate—though that was a fake in itself with blank spaces for his parents’ names, and an estimated date of birth—his exam certificates, his payslips, his old laptop, his silver bracelet, extended with a piece of cord over the years. He’d wanted to keep that while he was working, but he’d been told not to. Now he was glad because he’d have lost it otherwise.

For the first time in Drum’s life, he had plenty of money in the bank. He’d not touched his police salary for the last eighteen months. Along with his pay, there’d been additional money for a huge amount of overtime and for working unsocial hours in a hazardous job. He’d also received a discretionary bonus from the Chief Constable in recognition of what he’d done and what he’d gone through. Maybe that was more to shut him up in case he decided to make an official complaint. He wouldn’t do that. Shit happens. He understood.

His insurance company had paid out for the loss of his belongings. The flat had been a rental but the damage to that had been covered too so the landlord wasn’t complaining. It was probably in a better state now than it had been when Drum had moved in five months before he started work for Jackson Ashford. He’d seen photos of the flat after the human wrecking balls had done their work. The place looked as if it had been hit by a bomb. Ashford had been vindictively thorough once he’d discovered Drum’s deception. Not quite thorough enough to kill him, though he’d thought he had. Ashford had been remanded into custody awaiting trial and was still protesting his innocence. The fucker.