IMPURITY
Page 1
IMPURITY
A thrilling murder mystery full of devilish twists
THE DI GARDENER CRIME FICTION SERIES
BOOK 1
RAY CLARK
Published by
THE BOOK FOLKS
London, 2019
© Ray Clark
Polite note to the reader
This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.
You are invited to visit www.thebookfolks.com and sign up to our mailing list to hear about new releases, free book promotions and other special offers.
We hope you enjoy the book.
IMPURITY is the first book in a series of four murder mysteries by Ray Clark featuring DI Stewart Gardener. Full details about the other books can be found at the end of this one.
Impurity: 1. Being impure. 2. A substance that makes another impure by being present in it.
“They very commonly construct for themselves a life-romance, a personal myth in which they are the maltreated hero, which secret is the key of their battle against despair.”
William Bolitho
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Chapter Seventy-eight
Chapter Seventy-nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-one
Chapter Eighty-two
Chapter Eighty-three
Epilogue
More fiction in this series
FREE BOOKS IN YOUR INBOX
Prologue
Leeds, West Yorkshire. Twelve Months Ago.
“All set?” he asked as he held her coat open.
She nodded and slipped into the garment. He put his hat on as they left the restaurant.
Sarah had presented it to him before they went out for the evening.
“I still can’t believe you bought this. What possessed you?” he asked.
Sarah glanced up and adjusted it. “It was you. The minute I saw it I fell in love with it. As I knew you would.”
He laughed. He had to admit, it was comfortable. The grey Australian leather hat resembled a Stetson with a narrower brim. Two studded holes sat on either side of it, with a braid circling its base. A six-pointed gold badge graced one side of the crown.
Despite being early December, the weather was mild. Gardener carried his topcoat over one arm, held Sarah’s hand with the other. The couple were enjoying a relaxing evening together before the onslaught of Christmas left them with little, if any, time for themselves. They passed courting couples whispering and giggling to each other. At the intersection with Boar Lane, a large group of youths spilled out from a pub. They headed toward The Corn Exchange in search of one of the city’s many nightclubs.
“What it is to be young,” commented Sarah.
“We’re still young.”
“I know, but we’re not going to a nightclub, are we?”
Her comment amused him, and he laughed.
“What’s funny?” asked Sarah, chuckling herself.
“We’re only young in mind, these days.”
They both laughed again. Gardener wrapped his arms around Sarah, lifting her up, swinging her round. He recited the lyrics to an obscure pop song, which would be the nearest they would come to a club tonight.
Sarah giggled. “For God’s sake, put me down. You’ll put your back out.”
As soon as she’d spoken the words, Gardener took a step back, and cried out in pain. He put her down, placing both hands on the base of his spine.
“Stewart! Are you all right? I warned you.”
As Sarah bent closer, he leaped upwards and grabbed her around the waist.
He nuzzled his face into her neck and growled as he bit her. He kissed her – a long, lingering kiss he wished would last forever. The curves of Sarah’s body aroused him. He never tired of running his fingers over her smooth skin, a testament to the strength of their physical relationship. They made love as often as when first married, twenty years previously.
“I have another surprise for you when we get home,” she said.
“Have you now?”
“It’s not what you’re thinking, but you can have that as well.”
Gardener laughed. “So, what is it?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
Gardener’s curiosity was piqued, but he decided not to press any further. He raised his head, took her hand, and led her across Duncan Street. They were heading towards the intersection of Briggate and Boar Lane. They passed a busy McDonald’s, heading for the NCP car park next to the now-closed travel agency.
As they turned the corner, hand in hand, they were completely unaware of the skirmish that had brewed between two men.
“Get the fuck off me!”
The couple stopped. The smaller of the two men held his victim by the throat up against the shop window, repeatedly crashing him into the glass.
Sarah gripped Gardener’s hand tighter, to warn him against becoming involved.
Gardener’s police instincts spurred him to action. “Come on lads, break it up.” He pulled at the smaller man’s shoulder. As the man turned, Gardener observed a misshapen forehead and a cluster of foreign bodies attached to his skin, like barnacles.
“You keep your face out o
f my business,” said Warthead, in a cockney accent. Gardener raised his hands. “I’m not really interested in your business. I just think you could pick a better time and place.”
“You ain’t listening to me, are you? Get the fuck out of here.”
It suddenly occurred to Gardener how quiet everything had become. A bustling city had been reduced to a ghost town. No people, no traffic. Realizing the situation was approaching dangerous, Gardener reached for his warrant card.
“I wouldn’t if I was you.”
The detective was unexpectedly staring down the barrel of a gun. Where it had come from, Gardener had no idea.
“Stewart!” Sarah cried out.
“Sarah, it’s okay,” he said over his shoulder to her, before turning back to Warthead. “Put the gun down.”
“I told you to stay out of my business. Looks like I’m going to have to sort out both of you now.”
Gardener glanced back at Sarah, pleased to see she had the good sense to keep her distance. He needed to keep Warthead under control until backup arrived.
The taller of the two men, still pressed against the window, took advantage of the distraction. He brought his right fist upwards, catching Warthead directly under the chin.
Gardener heard the crack as both upper and lower jaw connected. The hard blow dropped Warthead to one knee.
Surprised his attack had given him the upper hand, the taller man paused, giving Warthead enough time to react. Warthead raised the gun and pulled the trigger twice, blowing the left side of the man’s face off. The force of the shots threw him against the shop window, which shattered under the impact. Blood and brain tissue decorated the wall and pavement.
“Bastard!” shouted Warthead as he stood.
Gardener launched forward, trapping Warthead’s left arm with his own. He then forced his chin upward with his right hand.
“Put the gun down, now!”
“Go to hell.”
He twisted Gardener around and shoved him against the shattered shop window. Stuck against the metal frame that had held the window, a piece of glass dug into Gardener’s back. The sudden pain made him act quickly. He brought his right knee up between his assailant’s legs, crushing his testicles. The man sunk a little, but still maintained his grip. He wheezed into Gardener’s face, a mixture of bad breath and stale cigarette smoke.
The gun went off. Sarah screamed as Gardener felt the breeze of the bullet. It passed his nose and blew a hole through the brim of his hat, which flew into the air. Gardener hit Warthead full in the face, dropping him. The gun went off again as he hit the ground.
Sarah shrieked.
Gardener turned in time to see his wife collapse, clutching her stomach. “Sarah!” he shouted, stepping over his attacker to reach her as she lay face down on the pavement.
A small crowd gathered from the nearby McDonald’s, eager to see what the commotion was about. He kneeled down, gathering her up into his arms.
“Oh God, Sarah. Speak to me, please?”
She opened her eyes, trying to crane her neck to see her stomach. He followed her gaze. A large red stain spread across her abdomen where the bullet had entered.
“Don’t move, love.” He placed his hand on her stomach, trying to stop the flow.
“Oh, God, Stewart, it’s hurting!”
“I’m sorry.” He pulled his hand away, panic-stricken, fumbling inside his suit for his phone. Then he remembered. He left it at home. They were having a night out. He wasn’t on call.
He raised his arm, staring at the blood covering it. Sarah’s blood.
Dread passed through Gardener as he realized the enormity of the situation. With little knowledge of first aid, he knew he couldn’t help Sarah.
He raised his head, searching the crowd. “For God’s sake, somebody call an ambulance.”
He gazed into Sarah’s eyes. “You’ll be all right, Sarah. We’ll call an ambulance for you, get you to hospital.”
“Stewart,” her voice lower now, “it’s hurting me.”
“Try to keep still, love. You’re going to be fine.”
Gardener glanced around desperately. Warthead had disappeared. He was left with only a crowd of youths, and people in cars slowing down to see what was happening, but no offers of help.
It was midnight in the centre of Leeds. His wife had been shot; every minute she spent on the pavement, bleeding, was another minute wasted. And all he could do was watch and wait.
His eyes welled with tears. His stomach knotted. “Sarah, please don’t leave me.”
He held his wife’s gaze, watching her life drain away. He refused to turn away. He was not going to shout at some bastard in the crowd for not phoning the emergency services quicker. He was not going to see if anyone else could help him, or whether or not there was a doctor around.
He knew they had little time left together. He held her tight, determined to remain strong for her, comfort her, as he said he would during their wedding vows.
“I love you, Sarah.”
She tried to reach up to touch his face. As her hand touched his skin, he felt how cold she was, how lifeless.
“I will be all right, won’t I?”
Her words were carefully pronounced, spoken with insecurity.
Gardener choked. “Sarah, you’re going to be fine. The ambulance is on its way. We’re going to get you to hospital. You’re going to be fine.” He fought hard to stop his tears.
He heard a siren in the distance, the answer to his prayers. A flickering flame of hope burned in his heart, in anticipation that she might yet be saved.
“Ambulance is coming, mate,” said a youth, tapping him on the shoulder.
Sarah reached up to him again, crying out in pain before she managed to speak. “Stewart, promise me something.”
Gardener felt as if his own life were extinguishing. He searched her face for a sign she would be able to hold on, gently caressing it with his bloody hand.
“Anything. I’ll do anything.”
“Look after Chris. Please look after our son, my darling. He needs you.”
“Oh, Jesus. Sarah, don’t talk like that.”
She winced, her breathing shallow. “Stewart...”
She gripped him tighter than he thought possible, staring at him intently.
“Stewart, please help me... Stewart?”
Sarah died in his arms as the ambulance arrived: her dying breath spent saying his name.
The crew had to physically restrain Gardener in order to take over. He stood, raising his hands to his head.
“No. Please, God, say it’s not true.”
Gardener fell to his knees, screaming.
Chapter One
Leeds. Present day.
A wintry breeze brushed across Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener’s face as he studied the building. Three storeys tall, Victorian and imposing, it had been converted from a house to a group of small flats leased out by an unscrupulous landlord charging extortionate rent while maintaining a low profile.
The street lighting revealed rotting window frames, cracks in the outside walls, and brickwork in need of re-pointing. Fallen roof slates lay scattered amongst the debris in the front yard. A girl passed by one of the front windows, gently rocking her baby.
Gardener pushed open the paint-blistered front door, only to be shouldered backward by an ashen-faced young constable as he tripped and fell forward out of the door.
The PC landed on his hands and knees, and started to retch.
“Why me?” muttered Gardener to the night sky. Three concrete steps led to the door. He jumped down and hauled the constable up by his collar.
“Stop contaminating my crime scene.”
He dragged the young PC over to a small brick wall separating the crime scene property from the one next door and leaned him over it. “Stay there until you’ve finished.”
Gardener turned back to the house and entered. There were no lights on. Peering up the staircase to the second floor, he heard a mixtu
re of voices filtering down from the other landings. A child cried. Someone complained loudly about the mess.
He grabbed the handrail, took a single step, and crashed straight through as the timber crumbled.
“Jesus!”
He reached his arms out for protection as he fell forward. His right hand punched through the broken staircase, ending up next to his foot. His hat fell off as he struggled to pull free. Bracing himself, he dragged his hand out. The wood came away in splinters, scratching his skin.
His mood approached nuclear. He’d been called out to a crime scene on his first night off in two weeks, pulling at least a fourteen-hour shift every single day. He prodded the wall, hoping to find a light switch. His patience diminished rapidly when he couldn’t.
“Is it too much to ask to have some light around here?”
He smiled as the scene was illuminated.
His grin soon disappeared as a voice on the landing boomed out.
Chapter Two
“Who’s there?” demanded the hard-faced woman charging down the stairs. Her attire was a yellow cotton dress with a floral print that had probably been the height of fashion when the house was built. “You can’t come in here, it’s a crime scene.”
Gardener picked up his hat. “You don’t say.” Slipping it back on, he said, “I know it’s a crime scene.”
“Then you’ll know you can’t come in here. We’re waiting for someone.”
Gardener pulled his warrant card from his pocket and held it up to her.
“That’s me.”
He didn’t think he’d ever met anyone quite as offensive as the squat little woman. He could easily imagine her as the sentinel to the abode of the damned. Her dyed hair was black and wiry. She reminded him of an alligator he’d once seen in the Florida Everglades – its face and body fat, and squat. Beady brown eyes peered down at him above a snub nose and a wide mouth filled with sharp, pointed teeth.
She folded her arms. “You took your time, didn’t you? Have you seen the mess up there?”
“No.” Gardener made as if to search his pockets. “And it looks like I’m all out of crystal balls, so I’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.”