by Ray Clark
Their bond had been so close that the two were almost one. Then the two had become three.
He took a sip of his tea, the memory replaying in his mind as clearly as if it were yesterday.
He’d planned to meet Sarah for lunch in the local park. He’d arrived later than anticipated. He caught her watching longingly as the young mothers entertained their children on the swings. She’d cried as she’d told him.
He remembered the world seemed to stand still while he considered what she’d said.
Excitement took over, and he picked her up and swung her around. The two of them giggled and whooped.
As he turned, an old couple halted in their walk to observe the young couple’s celebration. He told them his news. They congratulated each other and then swapped childhood stories. The old couple departed without him ever finding out who they were.
As he continued to reminisce, he fondly recalled how strong and independent Sarah had been. All she ever wanted out of life was to please her family. She centred her existence around their happiness. She would not want him to be unhappy or guilty or confused. Sarah had been a great believer in ‘life goes on.’ If he wanted to risk building another life for himself and their son Chris, she would have encouraged him.
It occurred to him that he could be overreacting to simple, friendly gestures. As a minister, Jacqueline’s job meant she had to be pleasant to everybody she met. He thought her eyes, her smile, her body language all said differently. He admitted he could be wrong. It could simply be that he’d reached a period of desperation after a year of self-isolation, and mistaken her attitude toward him for something else.
He rubbed his face, tried to clear his mind of those thoughts. He turned his attention to the multiple child disappearances on his patch.
He wondered about the two girls. Had they, too, been murdered like David Vickers? If they had, where were their bodies?
The fact David’s body held traces of a powerful sedative brought a different perspective to the case. The drug, coupled with the abuse he’d suffered, pointed to the probability he had been abducted by a paedophile. Perhaps even a ring.
Did they have the girls? He’d heard about girls being shipped out to the Middle East and forced into prostitution. Perhaps that’s why no bodies had ever been found.
His feelings went out to their parents. He remembered the comment Lesley Vickers had made.
What would he be doing if it had been Chris, and not her son? He grew cold at the thought, realizing it could so easily have been. The boys attended the same school. Chris knew David well. When it had all come to light, Gardener questioned Chris. Chris didn’t remember seeing anyone suspicious hanging around the school. No one saw the boy leaving with an adult, or talking to a stranger. No one had come forward with any information at all.
He thought about the Rawston incident and, in particular, the public. They expected the police to find criminals, to come up with all the answers. All while they preferred anonymity. They went around with blinkers on, blocking out the world around them. Until, of course, it happened to them. Then they accused everyone else of doing what they’d been guilty of in the first place.
Gardener heard the same statement from everyone he’d ever interviewed in that situation.
“Somebody must have seen something.”
He agreed. Somebody must surely-to-God have seen or heard something the night Herbert Plum died. Killing a person in such a manner without attracting attention stood next to impossible.
Gardener sighed and drifted into the kitchen. He left his empty cup in the bowl, before turning out the lights and heading for bed.
Chapter Seventeen
Gardener lost his footing and stumbled. He stood alone in the centre of Leeds, enshrouded by a thin, spectral mist. Flustered, he peered through the fog in a desperate attempt to figure out where he was, and where Sarah had gone. They had been together in a restaurant not a moment ago.
His surroundings seemed unfamiliar. A group of crumbling warehouses on the verge of collapse stretched out in front of him. Their grime-encrusted facades presented a stark image of impending doom. Office blocks stood adjacent to the warehouses, in the same state of deterioration. Turning his head, he stared down Bridge End, over the River Aire. He ran to the bridge, peeking through the railings. The water ran unseen through the impenetrable shroud.
As he retreated, the scenery changed. He found himself at the corner of Duncan Street, facing Briggate. His parents strode toward him. His father checked the time on his pocket watch while his mother chattered incessantly next to him. His spirits lifted. It felt good to see his mum again. They walked right by him, oblivious to his presence. A car passed dangerously close to his mother. For all the world, it seemed like it would hit her. But it didn’t.
He then clearly heard his mother lecturing his father about an unpaid TV license bill. Mum should let that drop. Dad had only done it once, a long time ago. Surely she was over it now?
He called out to her. She ignored him. Panic overcame him as he suddenly spotted blood on her, a red trail running from a wound below her ribcage. He put his hands to his face to block out the vision. He had been here before and had no wish to return. He knew where it would end.
In the hope of a different outcome, he lowered his hands to find his parents had vanished. The clock above the jeweller’s on the opposite side of the road struck midnight. Gardener stood confused. He shouldn’t be here. He should be at home in bed with Sarah. As the clock chimed, a gunshot rang out. His world came to a sudden, terrifying halt. He ran toward the source of the shot, afraid of what he would find.
Sarah emerged from the mist, clutching her abdomen, blood coursing through her fingers. “Help me, Stewart,” she pleaded, both the sound of her voice and her expression pitiful.
“Oh, God. Sarah!”
His wife started to fade, signalling the end, as it always did.
“No!” he screamed long and loud.
Still screaming, he fell out of bed, shouting. “No, please God! No! Don’t take her away from me. Not again...” His body shook from the sobbing. “Please, not again.”
He reached out for the lamp on the bedside cabinet, switching it on. Lifting the frame that contained Sarah’s photo next to it, he placed the picture next to his heart. Wrapping both arms around his body, he slumped against his bed, drawing his knees up to his chest, hugging the photo, crying softly.
Even after a year, her loss was still painful. He had the nightmare on a regular basis.
Every morning, he’d reach out for her, hoping she’d be there. She never was. He never thought it possible to miss someone so much.
“Sarah,” he whispered, “I never meant it to happen.” He lifted the photo to gaze at her. “I know you didn’t want to go. I’m so sorry.” More tears followed as he held the photo tight. “I should never have made you. You died because me of me, Sarah. How will you ever forgive me? How can I ever forgive myself?”
He lowered the photo into his lap and continued weeping, staring idly at the ceiling, realizing he never could. He knew he would carry the guilt of his wife’s death to his grave. He felt responsible because of an inability to turn his back on something that had nothing to do with either of them.
Chapter Eighteen
Gardener made himself tea. The expansive kitchen was long and wide, lit mostly by strip lighting positioned underneath the fitted units. Beige and magnolia tiles covered the walls and floor. Scattered around the kitchen sat constant reminders of Sarah: several small clay-figure animals she made herself. A wall clock in the shape of a tulip he bought her during a weekend in Amsterdam. He’d never liked it, but he couldn’t part with it now. Spook, Sarah’s cat, joined him at the kitchen table. A fluffy, white half-Persian, she meowed continuously and was constantly grubby because she rarely preened herself.
Stooping, he stroked Spook. Sarah had loved the cat when she’d found her three years ago. The stray had wandered into their garage, half emaciated, full of fleas.
Their first meeting had been a shock to both of them. The cat had jumped out from a bundle of rags, startling Sarah. She eventually won the animal over and nursed it back to health. She chose to call it Spook because of the incident in the garage.
He filled a saucer with milk. “I suppose if I’m having one, you’d better, too.”
The kitchen clock chimed four-thirty. No chance of sleep now. Gardener took a sip of his tea and wandered through to the living room and the dark oak bookcase in the corner. As he scanned the shelves, he smiled to himself at the number of horticultural encyclopaedias his father had. There must have been a copy of nearly every gardening book in print.
He admired his father for his dedication to something that was not only a hobby but also his living. He himself had shown no interest in following his father’s footsteps as a landscape gardener. Even now, he refused to enter the greenhouse at the bottom of the garden.
He selected a book of his own. He studied the cover. He’d waited a year. Perhaps it was time.
He walked into the kitchen and through the connecting door into the garage. He switched on the lights. The extra room was like any other. Along one wall stood a worktop, with a vice attached. He’d put a shelf above it, housing a variety of bottles of all shapes and sizes. They contained every nut, bolt, and washer known to man. Gardening implements and machinery fought for the right to a bit of space. One of the family vehicles permanently lived on the drive.
At the back of the garage sat a hi-fi stereo system with a pair of speakers he had bought at a fire-damaged sale in an auction room off Boar Lane. No one wanted the speakers because they gave the impression they were beyond help. He’d paid ten pounds for the pair. They were the best he’d ever heard.
He put his tea down, switched on the hi-fi, and selected a CD from a pile. More Than A Feeling: The Greatest Rock Anthems Of All Time. He put the CD into the machine, and pressed play.
He walked over to a grey dustsheet covering the focus of his interest in the far corner of the garage.
“I’ve waited a year for you.”
He pulled the dustsheet off. In front of him rested a 1959 T120 Triumph Bonneville – wrecked, of course. It had seen better days. The tyres were bald. The exhaust rusty and hanging off. The seat chewed by rats. The badge on the fuel tank was missing, the tank itself worn down to bare metal. There was no front number plate. The headlamp was smashed. Before their time together was through, he figured he would find a number of other problems.
It was the last thing Sarah had bought him before she died, the present she referred to when she said she had employed the help of his father. Sarah knew he wanted a Triumph Bonneville for as long as he could remember. He’d never found the right one, nor the right time to buy one.
His father found the bike in a breaker’s yard when he had been searching for spare parts for a friend. The owner hadn’t even known it was there. Malcolm told Sarah. She made an offer.
His father picked up the bike that fateful afternoon, waiting until they had gone out before smuggling it into the garage. Sarah knew Gardener would have devoted most of his spare time to the care of the bike.
He knew the restoration of the bike would be therapeutic for him. It would help him to think. He collected his tools and went to work.
He removed the seat first. He stared at it for quite a while, wondering not only where he would be able to buy a new one, but how much it would cost him. He also started wondering about the case. Considering what little he had learned so far, Gardener realized he had his work cut out for him. A lot of questions needed to be answered.
Chapter Nineteen
Jacqueline moved around her aunt’s kitchen with ease and confidence. She knew every inch of the large farmhouse better than her own. She’d lived with the old lady for the better part of her teenage years, until the time she had started her training to become a minister.
To her knowledge, the room’s interior had never changed; it was long and angular with pine-finished units and a polished timber floor. A variety of copper pans hung from ceiling beams. A mixture of live plants and dried flowers enhanced the decor.
The kettle came to the boil as the clock struck ten. Pips on the radio signalled the start of the morning news. Jacqueline finished making the tea. Her taste buds tingled with anticipation as the aroma of freshly baked bread and pastries permeated the room. She selected a couple of cakes, put them on plates, and placed them on the table with the tea. She sat and poured herself a cup. She clasped it in both hands, sipped her tea. It tasted good. She felt good.
The farmhouse – passed down to her aunt Anei from Jacqueline’s grandmother Irina – had always generated a feeling of inner security. Aside from her own house, she knew of no other place that provided a safer haven. Except perhaps in Stewart Gardener’s arms. She flushed at the thought.
The back door opened and her aunt Anei came in from outside. She immediately rubbed her hands together, blowing into them.
“It’s cold.”
“Which is why I’m here. You shouldn’t be working outside at your age.”
Her aunt smiled, washing her hands at the sink before taking her seat at the table.
“Hard work never harmed anyone. I have worked all my life outside. It’s what I know.”
She rose and stepped outside the back door again. Anei returned, dragging a wooden box in with her.
“I know you have,” said Jacqueline, nibbling on a piece of cake. “But it doesn’t stop me worrying. You’re seventy years old now. You should be taking life a little easier.”
Anei smiled warmly at her niece. Jacqueline noticed the glint in her eyes. She knew what her reply would be. Despite her concerns and voiced opinions, nothing would change.
“I’m as healthy as you. You are staying for lunch, yes?”
“I’m not sure I should, you always make me eat too much.” Jacqueline found it almost impossible to resist her aunt’s cooking, mostly traditional Romanian, home-grown. “What have you made?”
“Transylvanian soup. Your favourite!”
Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed. “Not much chance of resisting that, is there?”
The soup had been made with green peas, small slices of white ham, green garlic, tomatoes, and parsley. Anei always insisted they eat the dish traditionally, with a wooden spoon. She said it tasted better. Anei reached down into the box, pulling out a variety of different vegetables, all of which she had harvested within the last hour, judging by the fresh soil.
“How do you manage to grow so much stuff in winter?” Jacqueline said, amazed.
“You can grow anything you want any time of the year. If you have the touch.”
“Surely you’re not going to eat all those.”
“Not all of them.” Anei set some aside on the table, then slid the box toward Jacqueline.
“It’s no use passing them on to me. I’ll never eat all of them, either.”
The news on the radio finished, and a country song followed. Jacqueline recognized the singer as Glen Campbell.
Her aunt put the vegetables away, then sat back down, taking a sip of her tea. “Maybe not, but you have parishioners. I’m sure some of them will be glad for something extra, especially in this economy we are having. A ‘recession,’ they keep saying on the news. People are facing hard times. A little help goes a long way.”
“No one knows more about hard times than you.”
Her aunt didn’t reply straight away. The minister noticed the pause. She sensed a slight change of mood, fearing where the conversation would lead. “Venin! Those poor children. I have read the papers. I know what goes on.”
Jacqueline reached out and placed her hands over Anei’s. “You shouldn’t upset yourself over newspaper reports. You of all people should know how ruthless others can be. Your family survived a World War, not to mention a hazardous trek across Romania to escape the clutches of the Nazis.”
“I can’t help myself. Children should not have to suffer at the hands of men. People should
not be allowed to live in a world when they are so cruel to children.”
“I know. I had to bury the child. His parents were so grief-stricken. I have no idea how they are going to cope with the loss.”
“And then they find a body in a flat!”
“A body?”
Anei fished a broadsheet newspaper out from under the table and passed it towards Jacqueline. The story ran centrally at the bottom of the second page, short and precise.
Body Found in Rawston Flat
The identity of an elderly man whose body was discovered in a flat in Rawston last Friday has today been revealed by the West Yorkshire Police. Landlady Olive Bradshaw said, “The flat was occupied by Herbert Plum, last seen alive at 6:30 p.m.” A spokesman for CID said: “A post-mortem has been carried out by a Home Office Pathologist.” No other details are available. The police inquiry is continuing. No date to open an inquest has been fixed.
“That’s awful!” Jacqueline laid the paper on the table. “Well, perhaps now we have the right man on the case, we’ll see some results, and these people will get what they deserve.”
“They never get what they deserve. If the crime were left in the hands of God, the punishment would be just.” Anei rose from her seat and placed her cup on the draining board.
“All we have are the police. They are only human. Their hands are tied.”
“Yes, I know. I’m sure most of them feel the way we do. It’s worse for the police. They have to deal with the results. We only read about them.”
Jacqueline’s thoughts returned to Saturday morning in the cemetery. She had faith in Gardener. Whoever was responsible would be punished accordingly if he had anything to do with it. “I’m sure Stewart will do his best.”