IMPURITY

by Ray Clark

  On New Briggate, he sang to himself as he lurched across Mark Lane.

  A vagrant observed him trip through an archway which led onto the grounds of St John’s Church.

  No one saw him leave.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Gardener opened the kitchen door and shouted down the garden path to his father. A persistent chill hung in the air, but the early morning mist was beginning to clear. Although it was only eight o’clock, the old man had been in his greenhouse since seven. Gardener was not surprised. His father was, by habit, an early riser. He heard the faint reply and shivered before closing the door.

  Walking back through the kitchen, the mouth-watering aroma of grilled bacon set his taste buds on edge. Although Gardener preferred a healthier diet, he felt he needed to indulge every now and again. He walked through the living room into the hallway. At the foot of the stairs, he bellowed for Chris to hurry up.

  Malcolm was standing by the sink as Gardener returned to serve. “You can’t beat a bacon sandwich.” The old man was drying his hands. “What a life. An hour in the greenhouse, and then back in for breakfast!”

  “Rather you than me,” said Gardener. It wasn’t that he had a dislike of plants. It was more the overpowering odour he couldn’t stand. Quite apart from the fact that he saw the greenhouse as his father’s domain, his own private sanctuary.

  He placed sandwiches and ketchup on the table as Chris entered the room, casually dressed in a Reebok tracksuit with trainers. Chris switched on the radio. Gardener cringed as the brash trap music bounced around the kitchen. “Oh, come on, Chris, give us a break!”

  “What’s up, Dad? Too old for this stuff?”

  “No, I’m a music lover. So, come on, turn it down.”

  “Okay,” sighed Chris.

  “There’s a good lad. You know it makes sense,” mocked his dad, smiling.

  “Oh, I get it. Use your authority to cover your age.”

  Malcolm laughed. Gardener saw the funny side. He realized Chris was growing up fast. Another three years and he would be sitting his GCSEs and very probably making his own way in the world. But he was still his son, and as such, he regarded him as his little boy in a lot of ways. He understood, however, that his son’s maturity was fast creating a new level to their relationship. Something he had to accept as much as Chris.

  “So, what do you fancy doing today, son?”

  “You’re not working?” asked Chris, taking a huge bite of his sandwich and a slurp of coffee.

  “There’s a few things I need to do, but Christmas is coming, so I’d like us to spend a bit of time together. And don’t fill your mouth so full!”

  The phone ringing interrupted their conversation. Gardener wiped his lips with a napkin before answering.

  “Stewart, it’s Alan.”

  “Something wrong?” Gardener felt his stomach clench.

  “We’ve had a call from the priest at St John’s Church in the centre of Leeds. Father O’Hanlon. He’s found a body on the grounds. Sounds like a carbon copy of Plum.”

  Gardener sighed. “Same MO?”

  “Exactly.”

  Gardener glanced apologetically at Chris, realizing his son knew what was coming.

  “I’ll be there as quick as I can. Will you call Sean for me, please?”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Gardener negotiated the early morning traffic with mixed feelings.

  He was concerned for the victim’s identity and for the fact the death was so public. That meant he might have to deal with the press. Not a prospect he relished.

  As he approached New Briggate by the side of the Primark store, he stopped at a roadblock that had been set up. He signed the log and was cleared. Driving through, he turned left into Mark Lane. The entrance to the church was blocked by a couple of PCs. A crowd of onlookers had gathered, a fair number of them the uncompromising face of journalism. Two junior officers kept them at bay. He drove past the loading bays on the left to a parking bay on the right.

  He left the car and slipped into a scene suit at a station set up next to a shop near the church grounds. The nosy counter assistant almost broke her neck in an effort to catch him, but a young PC put paid to that. In the distance, at the entrance to the church, he heard questions being directed at the officers. Staring at the scene, Gardener noticed the mist had cleared. The winter sun was trying to penetrate his mood, but it did little to dispel his cold feeling of dread.

  Behind the building, he could quite clearly see the corpse guarded by another PC.

  He heard a car pull up behind his. A door slammed. Following the protective suit ritual, Reilly joined him. Together they entered the church grounds and made their way to the body.

  Gardener knelt down. The deterioration of the corpse was more advanced than Plum’s had been, suggesting he’d been dead longer. The end result was still a bag of bones in a loose fitting skin-suit. Reilly knelt alongside him.

  “Sean, go over to the main gate, oversee security of the site. Make sure anyone who has a camera is forbidden to use it. If they give you any grief, throw the book at them.”

  Reilly nodded and left without saying anything.

  Gardener flipped open his mobile and called the station. He requested his team, along with the biggest tent they had. Apart from Fitz, he wanted a scientist from the Forensic Science Service. He also wanted CSIs, photographers, and a PolSA – police search advisor – team for a fingertip search.

  Before closing the call, a quick glance upwards revealed a clear sky. There had been no rain overnight. He asked the desk sergeant to put a call into the Met Office weather centre, demanding accurate information on temperatures, rainfall, and wind speeds over the next few hours.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  When his team arrived, Gardener gave them their instructions. He asked for a tent around the body, as well as an inner cordon on it. He wanted an outer cordon around the scene.

  He introduced himself to Mike Sanderson, the PolSA team leader, before he and Reilly paid the priest a visit. Father O’Hanlon was young and efficient, careful but confident with his answers.

  He spoke with a southern Irish lilt. Confirming he’d arrived at the church at approximately seven o’clock that morning, he stated he didn’t notice anything at first. He’d used the front entrance, however. From that angle, the body would have been difficult to see.

  The cleaner arrived an hour later, informing him of what she’d found. She also noticed a vagrant on the grounds, perched on a low stone wall near the kiosk. Father O’Hanlon had investigated the body before raising the alarm.

  Gardener asked a number of routine questions, concentrating on the priest’s daily duties and his whereabouts the previous night. Father O’Hanlon said he left the church around ten o’clock. He hadn’t noticed anything suspicious. He hadn’t inspected the grounds either. The cleaner was unable to add anything constructive. Reilly took down the details, and both detectives returned to the scene.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Back outside, Gardener noticed scene tape stretching around the circumference of the small marquee. He and Sean Reilly stepped inside, stared down at the corpse. Fitz turned and stood to greet them. “We must stop meeting like this.”

  “The MO looks the same. Don’t suppose you can give me an estimated time of death?” Gardener asked.

  “Difficult to say. Probably around midnight.”

  “Are we declaring a Hazchem scene?” Reilly asked.

  “Not this time,” Gardener replied. “At least not until it’s safely back with Fitz.”

  Gardener rose, stepped outside the marquee, and surveyed the area. Beyond the railings around the grounds of the church, people had come to a standstill, trying to watch what was happening. The PolSA team search was underway, scouring the nearby bushes and the surrounding area. The CSM, Steve Fenton, shouted to Gardener: he’d found something.

  As Gardener approached, Fenton held out a syringe. Gardener produced a plastic bag from his inside jack
et pocket. Fenton dropped it in.

  “Any more?” he asked.

  “Not so far.”

  Gardener sealed the bag and took it back to Fitz, who was still inside the marquee. He passed it over. “Can you analyse it today?”

  “I’ll do my best. It could be tomorrow before I get the results. It may not tell us anything. In fact, it might have nothing to do with the body.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  “I’ll take it back to the lab. There’s nothing more I can do here.” Fitz stood up. “Can I have what’s left of the corpse as soon as you’ve finished?”

  “Of course. I won’t be much longer.”

  Gardener and Reilly returned their attention to the body. “What’s happening, Sean? A week ago today we found the first. We barely know anything about him. Now we have another, same MO. There are two missing children, another dead. Every avenue we explore is a virtual dead end. If you ask me, someone is carefully controlling the situation.”

  “We’ll need to find some answers soon, boss. Those press boys will not be giving us a break. Not now.”

  The officers stepped outside. Gardener noticed the gathering journalists still jostling the two uniformed guards. One of the undertakers approached him. “Can we move the body yet, sir?”

  “No. I’ll give you a shout when we’ve finished.” Gardener turned to Reilly. “I want another word with the priest.”

  The second meeting was fractious. When Gardener asked about any drug-related problems, Father O’Hanlon appeared outraged. He vehemently asserted there had never been a problem in his parish. He’d refused to accept a syringe had been found in the grounds of his church, claiming it had to be connected to the murder.

  Chapter Thirty

  Outside, the press hounded the uniformed guards. By now, the television cameras had joined them. The medics and the undertakers were unsettled. The two senior officers walked back to the marquee.

  Once inside, Gardener produced a fresh pair of gloves. He made a systematic search of the body whilst doing his best to hold his breath. Underneath the Santa suit, the victim had worn a plain black shirt and underpants. All the clothing was stained and smelled disgusting.

  “Check the shirt pocket, boss. Something bulging,” said Reilly.

  Gardener kept the clothing separated. Reilly extracted the sodden wallet, which squelched as he opened it. Amongst the contents were money, possibly a business card – illegible – and a couple of credit cards. Reilly held up a Visa card and sighed.

  Gardener’s heart sank as he read the name. “B Thornwell.”

  The Irishman kept the wallet and the cards. Gardener let the clothing fall. The watch around the skeletal wrist was engraved with Thornwell’s name. Gardener stood up.

  “Like I said, Sean, control. Someone has a lot to lose, for one reason or another.”

  Reilly turned to his superior officer. “Craig Sutton?”

  “It’s possible,” replied Gardener. “But it’s all circumstantial.”

  “We have enough to talk to him. He has a motive. We have reasonable suspicion.”

  “Oh, God.” Gardener held his nose. They stepped outside.

  “Looks like our man has something to say,” Reilly smiled.

  Gardener spotted an old vagrant standing by the smokers’ kiosk. He had his hands inside the pockets of his aged, tattered duffel coat. He wore jeans, trainers, and a Panama hat. He watched the two detectives curiously.

  Although he didn’t want to, Gardener couldn’t help but stare at the man. He noticed the vagrant’s skin was dark and wrinkled, and difficult to put an age to.

  The vagrant coughed before speaking. “I assume you’ll want to speak to me now, sir?”

  Gardener was astonished. The vagrant’s voice was velvet smooth, the accent BBC English. His manner suggested a well-educated person. “Who are you?”

  “Bob Crisp, sir.”

  Reilly turned to Gardener, smiling. “Is he serious?”

  “I assure you, sir, the name is genuine.” The vagrant smiled.

  “Why would I want to speak to you?” asked Gardener.

  “You’d like answers.”

  The SIO sighed, placing his hands in his pockets. He scrutinized the area again. He wasn’t particularly happy that the TV cameras were there. Satisfied that no one had broken the barrier, he returned his attention to Bob Crisp, unable to decide if he was genuine. Either way, he did not want to waste any time with him. The man could be a potential witness, though, which was something he could not ignore.

  “Look.” Gardener glanced at his watch. “I don’t have time for riddles and puzzles, or to play games. If you know anything that you think will help, tell me.”

  A pair of anxious undertakers came to within a few feet of the marquee. Gardener turned, raising a hand. “Give us a couple of minutes.” They backed off, but Gardener could see they were unhappy.

  “You should make time, sir,” said Crisp. “‘Half of our life is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through life trying to save.’”

  “I’ve heard enough!”

  Reilly placed his arm on Gardener’s. “Give him a chance, boss. He reminds me of old Seamus back in Ireland. It sounded like rubbish at the time, but there was a lot of wisdom in his words.”

  “Your colleague is very perceptive. I have but three things to say, as you are so short of time,” Crisp said.

  A fracas at the gate diverted Gardener’s attention. TV reporters and journalists were growing agitated. He noticed Father O’Hanlon talking to them, and wondered if that was a wise move. Bob Crisp’s voice broke his thoughts.

  “You, sir, are troubled. You have the look of a man who has lived through tragedy, although you display a very different facade. If you are not careful, tragedy will seek you again. I sense you are about to embark upon a new lease of life. Think very carefully.”

  Gardener’s skin prickled.

  Crisp pointed to the canvas covering. “Please, lift the flap.”

  Against his better judgment, Gardener did as he was asked.

  Crisp gazed dolefully down at the body.

  “‘We owe respect to the living. To the dead we owe nothing but truth.’ Though I have no wish to speak ill of the dead, Bernard Thornwell was a drunkard! Perhaps it eased his conscience, for I too would be a drunkard, should I have had his employer.”

  Gardener was transfixed by the surreal situation he was caught up in. Who was Bob Crisp? How much did he really know? He dropped the marquee siding. “You know who he works for?”

  “Indeed, I do.” Crisp pointed. “You have a wallet in your hands. Amongst the credit cards, is there a business card?”

  Reilly held it up. Gardener glanced at it. “Derek Summers, Entertainment Agent.”

  An entertainment agent would account for the Santa suit, thought Gardener.

  “Seek out Derek Summers, but beware. He is not a man in which to place your trust.”

  A thumping of feet grew closer. Gardener turned. A young constable had arrived at the scene, short on breath. “Sir, the press. They’re getting out of hand.”

  “Why? What are they doing?”

  “They say they have a right to know what’s going on.”

  “Go back and tell them they have no rights until I say so.” Gardener paused, turning to Reilly. “On second thought, Sean, perhaps you’ll be more persuasive. Can you have a word?”

  “Leave them to me.”

  As Reilly left, Gardener noticed Bob Crisp was on the move. “No. Wait, I haven’t finished with you, yet. What do you know about Derek Summers?”

  The vagrant hesitated before speaking. “Knowledge is power, if it’s connected to the right person. I fear I have said enough. You are the detective.”

  Bob Crisp tipped his hat. Before leaving, he pointed to the members of the press. “You must talk to them, sir, despite your obvious dislike.”

  Gardener was confused, but he knew he could not keep the media waiting much longer.<
br />
  He glanced around, checking out high vantage points. Flats, offices, apartments. It wouldn’t take two minutes for some smart journalist and photographer to reach the high ground, giving themselves a bird’s-eye view. If some clown hadn’t done it already.

  Gardener checked the crime scene. He breathed a sigh of relief. The canvas covering the area of the corpse also concealed the Santa coat from prying eyes and state-of-the-art telescopic lenses. He started walking towards the media. A couple of flashguns sliced through the grey morning.

  As he reached the gate, he composed himself before talking. “Ladies and gentlemen, good morning. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” He spoke quietly, calmly, his demeanour clearly indicating if there were any interruptions, he would turn tail and leave them.

  “At this moment, we have an unidentifiable male corpse. Cause of death has yet to be determined. We are awaiting the Home Office pathologist’s report. Therefore, the death is being treated as suspicious. We are appealing for anyone in this area between 3:00pm yesterday afternoon and 8:00am this morning to come forward.”

  Cameras flashed. Chilled hands made notes.

  “Male corpse, Mr Gardener?” asked one of the pack. “Any connection with the missing children?”

  Gardener noticed heads rising from notebooks. TV cameras slid into close-up.

  “No, the deceased is a male adult.”

  “Cause of death? How long?” shouted another.

  “Too early to say,” replied Gardener. “The police press office will issue any updates, or cover any further developments.”

  Another flurry of press activity followed. Gardener suspected the television news teams wanted one-to-one interviews. But he wasn’t keen. Gardener shuddered as he turned away, ignoring further shouted questions. Reilly ambled up to him.

  “Sean, get the uniforms to walk around the block a couple of times. I don’t want the cameras here too long. The press will want some local colour, and before we know it, the place will be swarming with vagrants. It wouldn’t take much for one of them to talk. The promise of a bottle of cider.”