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minibus without being spotted would be virtually impossible.
    Hayley had slipped away after the burial, not wanting to brave the wake in the pavilion. Who could blame her? Gemma had given her a lift back into Kingsfield; she had a hot stone massage booked in later and wanted to get set up. I was surprised she still had willing clients; I wasn’t sure I would find it very relaxing having a beautician who clutched her side every few minutes and squealed, ‘Ooh, Braxton Hicks!’
    So I was on my own. I took a cup of tea to a quiet corner, sat down and tried to avoid letting maudlin thoughts crowd my head.
    A posse of moaning mourners had surrounded Peter by the tea urn. To start with, they had all been sharing happy memories of Alf, but now talk had turned to the future of their precious plots.
    ‘Padlocks,’ said Vicky. ‘I warned you.’ Vicky’s plot was nearest to the gate and she had been stolen from twice, the poor thing. No wonder she was agitated. She was looking very glamorous today in a black jersey wrap dress with a glittering purple brooch pinned to her left bosom. Alf would have approved, I felt sure. In her heels she towered over Peter who was smoothing his hair repeatedly in a sweeping motion.
    ‘Nothing has been taken from sheds, though, Vicky. So in theory extra security wouldn’t have helped.’ He gave her a reassuring smile and sipped at his tea.
    ‘I’m not taking any chances,’ said Dougie, shaking his head. ‘I’ve taken my new batch of scrumpy home. Just in case.’
    ‘Well, I think the probation service should be told,’ said Brenda. ‘That Mr Cohen. Either the committee phones him or I do.’ She pressed her red lips together and glared at poor Peter.
    I had gone off Brenda a bit. After accusing me of stealing her spuds, she’d tried to lay the blame on Charlie, on the basis that he wanted her crop because he’d lost all his to blight. When that had failed to get a response, she’d harangued the community service supervisor, forcing him to interview the team about the thefts and to check their bags as they left.
    Hayley had been really upset about it. ‘Made to line up, we were. It was so embarrassing,’ she had said. ‘And she didn’t even apologize when nothing was found in our bags.’
    ‘Why is she so bothered about a few potatoes?’ I’d asked.
    Hayley had enlightened me. ‘She’s got a baked potato stall in Kingsfield near my old school. Packed at lunch time, she is. Home-grown, organic potatoes. Really nice, actually.’
    So that was her catering business. And that was why she grew so many potatoes! Was it against allotment rules, I wondered, using council land to grow vegetables for commercial use?
    ‘We should never have allowed these people into Ivy Lane,’ Brenda was saying now, jabbing a finger in Peter’s direction. ‘I don’t know how they’re stealing from us, but we didn’t have any of this trouble before they arrived. I can’t abide dishonesty.’ She tutted and dunked a digestive biscuit into her tea.
    I’d heard enough. I banged my cup and saucer down and marched over.
    Cool and professional, Tilly.
    I filled my lungs with a calming breath. I could actually be quite commanding when I chose.
    ‘Talking of dishonesty, when were you going to tell me that you’re using my plot to stock your catering business?’ I said, tapping her on the shoulder and staring her squarely in the eyes.
    The colour drained from her face and she looked first at Peter then at me. ‘It’s not illegal,’ she stammered, sliding her eyes back to Peter, ‘is it?’
    ‘Er,’ said our committee chairman, ‘well . . .’
    ‘
These people
, Brenda,’ I continued, ‘are part of our community for the next few weeks. And quite frankly, I think you owe them and everyone else you have accused an apology.’
    Brenda flicked her hair over her shoulder and flared her nostrils indignantly as if she was about to reply, but I hadn’t finished.
    ‘Alf made an effort to make