by Ray Clark
“From that machine? You must be joking.”
Gardener turned to DC Sharp. “Come with me, Colin.”
Sharp followed Gardener down a long corridor, acknowledging colleagues he passed along the way. Gardener couldn’t help but notice that although the decorations were sparse, they had a comedian on the force. A long balloon and two round ones had been arranged as a phallic symbol above one of the doors. At the end of the corridor they turned left, entering the first room on the right.
“We’ll run the investigation from here, which we’ll also use for briefing and debriefing. There’s sufficient trunking and enough power sockets for all the internal computers. I’ve also called in the HOLMES operators. We’ll put them next door.”
He faced Sharp. “Can you set up the white boards and start off the spider chart with the name Herbert Plum, which I believe is the name of the deceased tenant?”
Gardener left Sharp and returned to his office.
Reilly glanced up at him and nodded as he entered. “When you gonna fix that hat, boss?”
Gardener smiled. “When the time’s right.”
“It’s been nearly a year. You’ve not seen anything?”
Gardener grew cold inside. His stomach turned over. Not a day went by when he didn’t think about the bastard who had taken the life of his wife, Sarah.
“No. But I will.”
The rest of the team rolled in. Gardener instructed them to head over to the incident room, and told them that he would be along shortly. When he arrived, the group was sitting conferring with each other, waiting for him to start. He could hear the HOLMES team setting up their equipment next door as he addressed the team.
“I appreciate all your efforts. It’s been a long night. I’m not going to keep you up any longer than I have to. Judging by the early witness statements, no one’s seen anything, no one’s heard anything, but that’s nothing fresh. Most of the people you talked to will be lying. It’ll probably take us a lot of hard work to ferret out the truth.
“You lads could do with a break. Get yourselves a coffee and something to eat. While you have a break, Sean and I will stay here and organize the HOLMES team and the operational support officers to go through the rest of the witness statements. I’ll also update the spider chart.
“When you come back, we can make a start by trawling CCTV, if there is any around there. We’ll have to do another house-to-house. Sean and I will go back to the crime scene and grill the residents more thoroughly. Any questions?”
Gardener glanced around. There were none.
Chapter Ten
A small gathering huddled at the site of David Vickers’ grave on a cold December morning. His mother Lesley, dressed in black, held a white handkerchief up to her face. Her tears flowed freely, obscuring her view, the last she would ever have of her only son. Jim, her husband, held her close, as if afraid to let her go. His contorted expression reflected the pain that could only be associated with losing a child. His other arm was wrapped around his daughter, Susan. David’s grandparents stared vacantly at the coffin, trapped within their own torment, oblivious to everyone else.
Two police officers and a press photographer had also come to pay their respects.
Despite being mid-morning, the air blew crisp and fresh. A film of white frost covered the grass. Glistening brown leaves crunched underfoot. Exhaled breath hung around the mourners’ heads, reluctant to spread to the outside world, an unsafe place where perverts killed children.
As Jacqueline Bâlcescu finished the service, she stepped back from the open grave as a mark of consideration. Lesley fell to her knees and begged for her son’s return. She promised she would not let anything happen to him again. She would look after him properly, if only the Lord would grant her another opportunity.
Jim reached down to her, tears in his eyes. He wrapped both arms around his wife, pleading with her, offering reassurance. Through clenched teeth, he whispered to her no one could have given David a better home. Their son couldn’t have had a more considerate mother. She should not blame herself.
Jacqueline wanted to reach out and comfort Jim. His haunted expression was pitiful. His son’s death had torn his family apart, and the only thing he could do was watch. She noticed a number of other villagers hovering at the gate, unwilling to intrude upon the family’s suffering. At the other end of the cemetery, a couple walked their dogs, their heads turned in the direction of the funeral. Most of the villagers had sent wreaths and sympathy cards. Jacqueline had seen the cards, and though they meant well – as people always did – she perceived in the messages the unstated relief that it was not their child.
She heard a rustling sound behind her. Turning, Jacqueline saw Stewart Gardener kneeling over his wife’s grave. He’d cleaned up the area around the headstone, placing fresh flowers in the small urn, whispering as he did so.
Gardener glanced in the minister’s direction, nodding courteously, before returning his attention to Sarah’s resting place.
Jacqueline turned back to the grieving family. She felt it was time to make her departure.
She walked around the edge of the grave toward Lesley. She pressed her handkerchief tight to her mouth, her eyes shut and her voice a series of choking, broken sobs.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Lesley?”
The bereaved mother turned to face the minister with imploring eyes.
“You can’t... bring him back… can you?”
Jacqueline felt hollow inside. What was she supposed to say, “Yes, just give me a few minutes and I’ll have a word with Him upstairs?” She may not have children of her own, but she was sensitive enough to appreciate the heartbreak Lesley endured through the loss of a child.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could.”
Time seemed to stand still before Lesley responded. She answered quite simply, “Well, I’m sorry too. There isn’t anything you can do.”
The minister nodded and gave the lamenting mother a hug.
Lesley raised her head and stared at Stewart Gardener. Jacqueline noticed the sudden change in her expression as her eyes darkened.
“But there’s someone who can!”
Lesley made her way around her son’s grave and approached the detective before Jacqueline could react.
Gardener stood and gazed at his wife’s headstone, oblivious to Lesley.
“Mr Gardener?”
He raised his head to her, startled. “Lesley. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to intrude.”
“Mr Gardener, I’m begging you. Please catch this monster...” She broke off, unable to continue as sobs took control of her once more.
Jacqueline walked over to the grieving mother, taking her hand. “Come on, Lesley, this won’t help you.”
“It will. Please. I don’t want to interfere. I know why he’s here,” she said to Jacqueline, before turning back to face the officer. “I understand what you’re going through, but I’m asking you, as a parent, please catch the animal who did this and put him behind bars. Please make sure he doesn’t do it again.”
Stewart Gardener gazed directly at Jacqueline. She sensed his torment, his inability to reply.
“It might be your son next time,” said Lesley.
The comment cut deep. The colour in the detective’s face drained.
Jacqueline noticed an immediate change of expression in his eyes. They were no longer warm, friendly. His eyes became impenetrable. He made no reply.
Lesley fell to her knees, grabbing Gardener’s hand. Through her tears she pleaded, becoming hysterical. “For God’s sake, Mr Gardener, catch him. Please! He’s taken my son, please don’t let him have any more! Oh, God, please Mr Gardener, please!”
Suddenly, Jim stood at his wife’s side.
The press photographer saw an opportunity for a front page exclusive and took photos.
“Lesley, don’t do this, lass!” He turned away from his wife, glancing at the officer. “I’m sorry, Mr Gardener, she didn’t mean to say what she said about your lad.”
He gazed down at his wife, still sobbing on her knees. “Come on, girl, let’s get you home.”
Gardener reached down to her as well. “Let me help you, Jim.”
“No, it’s all right. She’ll be right enough when I get her home.”
Jacqueline heard the break in Jim’s voice. He continued pleading with Lesley to leave Gardener, and let him take her home.
They were both now sobbing.
The rest of the family joined the mourning couple as Jim helped Lesley up. Together, they walked in silence to their cars.
Chapter Eleven
Jacqueline turned to Gardener. “I’m sorry about that.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“You look like you could use a cup of tea.”
Jacqueline thought Gardener seemed unsure of her offer at first. Then his face softened into the comely expression she was used to, the one she liked.
“Er, yes. I’d appreciate that,” he replied. “Thank you.”
She studied him for a moment. He had a tall, athletic frame – a little too lean, perhaps – with short, black, well-groomed hair and brown eyes. He wore a grey designer jacket, a blue denim shirt, and grey chinos. He held his hat in his right hand. His face was tired and drawn as if he hadn’t slept properly. She knew what he did for a living. Perhaps his work was keeping him up. She couldn’t help but admire him for the way he’d coped with his own recent tragedy. Not only had he kept himself together, but his family as well. Jacqueline gave him a warm smile.
After a quiet word with the other officers and the press photographer, Gardener and the minister turned from the grave. They walked back towards the vicarage – a short stroll down a pretty, tree-lined path, which had become a haven for squirrels.
Jacqueline hunched her shoulders up against the cold, rubbing her hands together. As they entered the house, she showed Gardener through to the sitting room, where the heating quickly took away the chill of the cemetery.
The burgundy leather Chesterfield, matching footstool, pure wool carpet, and fine collection of sculptures and paintings displayed Jacqueline’s expensive tastes. A television stood in one corner, a stereo in the other. An array of potted plants decorated the room, adding a rich natural beauty to an already colourful space.
Jacqueline returned with a tea tray. She placed it on a small table and poured a cup for each of them.
“I feel as if I ought to apologize for what happened back there,” she said, taking a sip of her tea, her cup clasped between both hands.
“There’s no need.”
“Nevertheless, there’s a time and a place.”
“She was grieving. That’s something I understand only too well.”
“It can’t have been easy for you, losing your wife so recently.”
“It was a year ago. You cope.”
“Yes, but bringing up a son as well, I think you’ve coped marvellously.” Jacqueline noticed that her compliment unnerved Gardener, made him blush.
“I’m lucky. My father lives with us. He’s a widower as well.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had lost your mother.” Jacqueline could have cut her tongue out.
“It was a long time ago, now. My father knew what we were going through. His experience came in handy.” Gardener sipped more tea. “To be honest, it was only meant to be temporary. It became a permanent arrangement due to a loophole in the mortgage agreement.”
“What happened?”
“My wife dying didn’t mean that the house insurance would pay off the mortgage. I had to keep up the payments anyway. Three months in and they were crippling us. Dad figured it out and offered to move in permanently, help us financially. My son’s health and well-being were the most important things to both of us.”
“No wonder Lesley’s comment struck a nerve.”
“I’d have preferred not to have heard it. Chris has been through so much as it is.”
An expression returned to his eyes.
“I hope you catch the person responsible, for everyone’s sake.”
“I don’t have anything to go on at the moment. What Lesley doesn’t realize is that, until now, it hasn’t been a murder inquiry.”
David Vickers had been abducted. He’d said goodbye to his friends after school, but never made it home. Someone found his body a week and a half later on a piece of waste ground, naked, his school bag sitting next to him.
The post-mortem revealed puncture marks in his arms, and signs of sexual abuse. The results from the specialist toxicology report confirmed his body contained traces of a powerful sedative. He’d been dead twenty-four hours by the time he’d been found.
“But surely you are looking for someone?”
“A specialist team was set up to search for missing children. Two had disappeared before David, but no bodies were ever recovered. From what I’ve read, there were no clues as to who’d abducted them.”
“I can see I’m making you uncomfortable. I’m just concerned.”
Gardener glanced around the room. His eyes came to rest upon the portrait above the fireplace.
“A member of your family?”
“Good grief, no,” Jacqueline smiled. “It’s Alexandru Ioan Cuza, elected prince of the United Principalities of Moldavia and Wallachia in January 1859. I think.”
“You’re very proud of your heritage.”
“Almost everything I own has been hand-made and passed down from my grandmother. I seem to have inherited her taste for traditional Romanian furniture, most of which I have in my bedroom.”
“I wondered about the surname.” He changed topics. “You’ve not put up your Christmas decorations yet.”
“No. I really should make the effort, particularly this year. I have my aunt coming to stay with me.”
“Is this her first visit?”
“No, we spend Christmas together every year. I went to her last year. It’s her turn to come to me.”
“What about your parents?”
“My mother died when I was ten years old. Breast cancer.”
“It seems we have something in common. Your father?”
“I haven’t seen him for years.”
“Looks like I’m making you uncomfortable now.” Gardener checked his watch. He finished his tea and rose from the chair. “I must be going. Thanks for the tea. I’ve enjoyed our chat. Maybe I’ll see you again.”
“I hope so. Before you go, may I ask another question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Why the hat?”
He smiled. “I’ll tell you another time.”
As Gardener left, Jacqueline couldn’t help but think he had been distracted in her company. She suspected part of the problem was David’s funeral.
Once again, village life in the close-knit community of Churchaven had been rocked to its foundations. David had been the third child to disappear.
After the first – a girl – had gone missing, parents had been unsettled by the possibility their child could be next. For a while, they had closely monitored the security of the children.
Their guard eventually slipped, despite the culprit still being at large.
A second child disappeared, another girl. Her school bag had been found on wasteland a week later, her purse inside still containing her dinner money.
The Residents’ Association called an emergency meeting in the village hall, which had been chaired by a volatile member of the community. He was intent on inciting the gathering to take the law into their own hands.
Jacqueline had observed the tumultuous emotions of her fear-stricken neighbours see-saw out of control. She envisaged the birth of a vigilante force set on hunting down the depraved killer. She remembered seeing a police presence. At least half a dozen officers had shown up to answer questions, offer advice, and generally bolster the confidence of the parents that they were doing everything they could to find their missing children.
Jacqueline thought about the harrowing trauma David must have been subjected to in the
kidnapper’s hands. What kind of a person was capable of such a despicable act?
Could it be someone from her own parish?
Chapter Twelve
By the time Gardener and Reilly arrived at the mortuary, they had been on duty for twelve hours with no sleep and little in the way of breaks. Navigating the weekend lunchtime traffic through the centre of Leeds had been a nightmare. Their patience wearing thin, they made their way through the empty building, their footsteps echoing loudly down the corridors.
They found Fitz in Theatre 1, which was long and low-ceilinged with bright strip lighting. Four steel gurneys, each occupied, lined the walls. Fitz stood at the sink removing his gloves and mask.
“I thought I might have seen you two before now.”
Gardener noted the pathologist’s agitation. He liked that in Fitz, his no-nonsense attitude.
He always told you what he thought, despite your rank. Gardener recalled the first time they’d met. On being introduced, George Fitzgerald had asked the young, fresh-faced Gardener to go to the boot of his car and collect a brown paper parcel. When Fitz opened the package, it contained a human heart. Gardener had felt nauseous for the rest of the day.
“Such a long day when you have nothing to do,” Reilly joked.
“Nothing to do? I think I’ve been on my feet as long as you two. And I reckon I’ve put more constructive hours in.”
“In that case, you should have plenty for us.”
Fitz hesitated – a bad sign. The pathologist put on a fresh set of gloves. “You’d better follow me.”
The two detectives followed Fitz down the hall to another examining room. The decaying corpse had been sectioned to solitary confinement.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. Whatever attacked the body is still eating away at it.” Fitz removed the sheet and pointed at what was left.
To Gardener’s horror, the body had deteriorated since the previous evening. He struggled to convince himself that, only twenty-four hours earlier, it had been a living human being.
A few strands of hair dangled helplessly on the skull. Lingering remnants of once healthy tissue clung to the bones, no longer pink but brown, almost black. An eye gawked accusingly at the two detectives from the base of the cranium. A pair of false teeth perched precariously between the mandibles. Gardener leaned over for a closer examination and caught sight of a finger bone floating within the liquefied area where a hand used to be. The foul smell assaulted his nostrils.