“And you’ve documented repeat instances?”
“Twenty-two,” I said. “Uploaded to the case reference.”
“All right,” he said. “We’ll have someone with you shortly.”
I ended the call.
I made a fresh cup of tea.
I packed the boys’ lunches, which I had been meaning to do the night before and hadn’t. I made two sandwiches, one without crusts because Oliver is six and has strong opinions about crusts, and divided the crisps evenly because any deviation from equal distribution is a serious grievance in this household.
At six-eighteen, a recovery truck turned onto Cleaver Road.
I stood at the kitchen window with my tea and watched it come.
The driver was a compact, efficient man who did not appear to be particularly interested in the drama of the situation. He parked the truck, got out, photographed Denise’s car from several angles, checked the registration against something on his phone, and made a brief call. An enforcement officer arrived a few minutes later in a council vehicle, got out, and the two of them spoke for a moment on the pavement.
