IMPURITY

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IMPURITY Page 11

by Ray Clark


  Gardener had fallen asleep in the chair, empty mug in hand. He awoke two hours later when the room had chilled. Instead of going to bed, he made another drink, changed into his work gear, and slipped into the garage, confident that it would help him relax and think more clearly.

  He’d really made some headway with the Bonneville. He’d managed to lift it into a specially made frame his father had put together years ago for his own bikes. From there he’d removed the wheels and the exhaust pipes, both of which were going to need extensive renovation. But he wasn’t going anywhere. He had time on his side.

  He’d read that the bike had a compression ratio of 8.5:1, was fitted with an alloy head, a half-race inlet camshaft, and Amal Monobloc carburettors fed by a remote float chamber. None of which he fully understood the function of, but all of which were now on the bench in front of him. He was happy with what he’d achieved.

  The garage door that led into the house opened. His father walked in. “Here you are.”

  “Morning, Dad.”

  “I was getting a little concerned about you. Your bed’s not been slept in. Kettle’s boiled. Would you like something?”

  “Please. Where’s Chris?”

  “In his room.”

  They headed into the kitchen. Malcolm put a cup of herbal tea on the table, sitting opposite Gardener. “You look as if you haven’t slept all night.”

  “Well, not much of it anyway. I was home about one. Fell asleep in the chair. Woke up a couple of hours later and went into the garage.”

  “Looks like the Bonneville was a good investment.”

  Gardener thought about that. “I’m beginning to think so. I just wish Sarah was here to see it.”

  “I’m sure she’s watching from somewhere.”

  “I sincerely hope so.” He sipped more of his tea.

  “How’s Chris?”

  “Disappointed. A little concerned. Maybe you should have let us know you were home.”

  “I know.” Gardener took another sip. “About last night. It wasn’t what you think. In fact, far from it.”

  Malcolm leaned forward. “You don’t owe me any explanations, son. There are some things in our lives we should keep private. I should think my son’s love life might be one of them.”

  “Chris might be looking for answers.”

  “It’s a difficult time for him. Psychologically, he probably hasn’t recovered from his mother’s death yet. Give him time, he’ll come round.”

  His father’s response, although wise, did nothing to alleviate his guilt. “What did you end up doing yesterday?”

  “I took him into town. Spent a bit of money. We had dinner, tea, and then went to the cinema as planned.”

  Although his father was seventy, he was fit for his age. He stood a little over six feet, with a full head of steel grey hair and a strong, angular face. Gardener envied his father’s physique and his complexion, which – in his opinion – had been the result of a good standard of living and plenty of fresh air.

  “Stop worrying about him.” His father paused. “Hark at me. I worry about you. You work all the hours God sends. It’s time you thought about yourself. Did something with your life other than work.”

  “I have to work hard,” replied Gardener wearily. “These cases won’t solve themselves.”

  “There are other policemen.”

  “But they all take their orders from me. It’s not the type of job where you can switch off. There’s always someone committing a crime somewhere. Almost every minute of every day. The problem I have at the moment is two murders on my patch at the wrong time of the year. Not that there’s a good time, but Christmas fast approaching doesn’t help.”

  “Certainly won’t help Lesley Vickers,” replied his father.

  “I know how she feels. So do you, come to that. I know they’re a big family, but I doubt it will help. There’s just more of them to miss David.”

  “Have you any leads?” asked Malcolm, sipping his coffee.

  “Not so far. You know what infuriates me? We’ve had three missing children. One now dead, and no one has seen anything.”

  “I don’t think people pay any attention anymore, son. Life is lived at a pace that doesn’t give you time to stop and think. They’re all flying around in their own little world.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Your job’s no different, Stewart. All credit to you for being dedicated, but it’s not healthy.”

  “I’m trying to secure a good life for us all, and it’s getting harder. God knows what’s happening to the economy. Nothing ever gets any cheaper. I sometimes think we’ll all end up working every waking hour just to keep our heads above water.

  “Listen, I want to thank you for all the help you’ve been. Especially with Chris. I’d hate to think what kind of a mess he or I’d be in now without you.”

  “You’ve no need to thank me, son. I love being around him, and I appreciate having a roof over my head. It means I can have quality time with you both.”

  “You’ve been a tonic for both of us. I think it’s you that’s kept us all together. I realize how much I’m taking you for granted. You’re always there for Chris after school. You cook his meals, clean the house. You go out with him more than I do. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I have, and I’m eternally grateful.”

  Gardener paused before changing the subject again. “You said I ought to get out more. What about you? The relationship with us must have its drawbacks. The only interest you seem to have is the gardening club once a week.”

  Gardener sensed his father’s hesitation before answering. “Stewart, I’m happy with my life. When your mum died, I didn’t know how I was going to cope. My whole world was just one big void. I was hollow on the inside. I felt as if someone had ripped my guts out and poured ice-cold water through my veins. Despite all that, you were there for me. Looking after you was the best therapy I could have had. And though it may not seem like it to you, it was what kept me going.

  “After Sarah died, I knew it was going to be tough. I wanted to use my experience to help you. I appreciate everything I’m getting out of it. I’m spending time with my son, and my grandson. It doesn’t feel like a chore. You certainly don’t have to apologize for anything.”

  A lump formed in Gardener’s throat. “I just want you to know I appreciate it, Dad.”

  “I know you do. We’re a family, and families help each other.”

  A break in the conversation allowed Gardener to return to the subject of his father’s club.

  “So, about this club. You can’t be learning much. After a lifetime in the business, you must know everything there is to know about plants.”

  “It isn’t the plants so much as the company.”

  “Really?” Was that a glint in his father’s eye he’d noticed? “Anyone in particular?”

  “No, not at all.”

  Gardener was onto something. His father’s reply was too quick and guarded. “Oh, come on. What do you take me for? I’m a detective. You think I haven’t noticed a smarter appearance than usual of late? The new aftershaves? The fact that you’ve been coming home progressively later?”

  Malcolm’s wide grin led to a defensive chuckle. “You’re too bloody sharp for your own good.”

  Gardener was about to speak when Chris came stomping down the stairs and into the kitchen, dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt, and trainers.

  “You okay, Chris?” he asked, tentatively.

  His son volunteered a cursory grunt while helping himself to some cereal.

  Malcolm rose from the table. “I think I’ll leave you two alone. I’ll be in the potting shed if you want me.”

  Chris sat opposite Gardener and proceeded to destroy his Weetabix, banging the spoon into the dish, sighing heavily.

  “Something bothering you, Chris?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I think we’ll call it intuition. Whatever it is, don’t bottle it up. Everything will seem twice
as bad. You’re angry with me.”

  “It’s nothing to do with me, is it?”

  “What’s nothing to do with you?”

  “What you get up to!”

  “What did I get up to?” If Gardener wanted Chris to show his cards, using psychology was the only way to do it. In all honesty, though, now was not the best time.

  “You stayed out all night!”

  “Which I’m entitled to do. But as it happens, I didn’t. I was here.”

  “You could have let Granddad know. He was worried.”

  “So, it’s your granddad you’re worried about?”

  Chris was still prodding the Weetabix. “You’re never here for me these days, Dad.”

  Gardener felt his anger building. “That’s not true, and you know it.”

  “It is true. All you think about is your job. We were supposed to go out yesterday, but your job came first.”

  “There’s nothing I can do about the hours I work. You know that. I always make sure your granddad is here to cover for me. He fills me in on what’s going on. I try to be here when I can, but at the moment, the job is more demanding than usual. You know what happened to David Vickers. It’s up to me to catch the person responsible, see it doesn’t happen again.”

  “Whatever!” Chris shouted. He slammed his spoon down and left the table, storming out of the kitchen.

  Gardener stood up, following Chris through the living room, up the stairs and into his bedroom. He wasn’t leaving it. He’d been intending to apologize to his son and, as usual, the debate had escalated out of control very quickly.

  “Don’t walk out on me, Chris. We won’t solve anything.”

  Gardener was appalled as he stopped suddenly and examined the state of the room.

  “When was the last time you cleaned up? Look at it, it’s a tip!”

  Chris’s bed was unmade. Drawers and wardrobe doors stood open, their contents spilling out onto the floor. The bin overflowed with crisp packets and chocolate wrappers. Endless piles of CDs were out of their cases.

  “Oh, you’ve noticed something!”

  “I couldn’t fail but notice, could I?” shouted Gardener. “Before you go anywhere, I want your room spotless.”

  Chris made to push past him. Gardener halted him by placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’ve told you once already, don’t you walk away from me.”

  “What difference does it make if my room’s clean or not? I doubt you’ll see it for another year.”

  For a split second, Gardener saw Sarah in his son’s face. During their frequent disagreements, Sarah displayed an infuriating, pouting-mouth expression that followed a line of sarcasm. Chris had inherited the trait.

  “You don’t care anymore.”

  “Stop saying that!” Gardener yelled.

  “Okay, if you care, what happened to the new trainers I asked for?”

  “Trainers? What trainers?” Gardener was momentarily stunned, unable to remember any conversation regarding trainers.

  “If you’d been listening, I told you I needed a pair of new trainers for the five-a-side trials. I haven’t got them, so I probably won’t get picked.” Chris edged past him and headed for the stairs. “It’s always the same. You’re never here. When you are, you never listen! It could have been me instead of David Vickers, but I doubt you’d have noticed.”

  “Don’t you dare say that! You come back here now and apologize, you little…” Gardener chased after him but wasn’t quick enough. Chris was out the back door, and riding his bike down the path.

  “Chris? If you don’t come back, you’re gonna be in serious trouble, young man.” Gardener was furious, running after his son, determined not to let him put too much distance between them.

  Chris glanced back. Judging by the alarmed expression on his face, he wasn’t staying around if he could help it. Malcolm emerged from the potting shed.

  Gardener raised his hands in the air as Chris turned the corner and shot down the main street. Gardener turned to face his father, infuriated. It was more than the episode with Chris that had caused his mood. He felt he was beginning to lose control of everything.

  Malcolm put a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, son.”

  “You should have heard the way he spoke to me.”

  “Give it a rest. He’ll come back when he’s calmed down.”

  Gardener turned without saying anything. Back in the kitchen, the telephone was ringing.

  He couldn’t work out what was going wrong between him and Chris. Maybe it had something to do with the anniversary of Sarah’s death preying on his mind. The phone continued to ring. Gardener couldn’t for the life of him remember Chris saying anything about trainers. Did a memory loss constitute being a bad father?

  Still the phone rang. He went back inside and lifted the receiver. “Stewart Gardener.”

  “Sir, it’s Frank Thornton. Is your mobile switched off?”

  Gardener checked and found it was. Couldn’t remember when he’d done that.

  “What can I do for you, Frank?”

  “I have a couple of messages. They sound important. Derek Summers has made contact. He’s free this afternoon if you want to see him.”

  “Good. Ring Sean and have him pick me up. What’s the second?”

  “Janet Soames, she has important information for you. Very urgent, so she says.”

  “Did she leave a number?”

  Gardener wrote down the details, then dialled her after hanging up on Frank. “Mrs Soames? Detective Inspector Gardener here.”

  “Oh, Mr Gardener. I’ve been trying to contact you. It’s about David Vickers. I spoke to one of my friends yesterday. She saw the boy who took David from school. Apparently, they were in the post office on the day in question. He had quite a bit of money. Bought David some computer games.”

  “Can you give me your friend’s details? Would she recognize him again?”

  “Oh, yes. It was his face, you see. She said she’d never forget the face. It was strange, misshapen. Covered in warts.”

  Gardener felt nauseous, allowing the phone to drop.

  “Mr Gardener... are you still there?”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  The car journey was spent in near silence. It was only after Reilly parked the car and killed the engine that he turned to face Gardener.

  “Is something bothering you, boss?”

  Gardener paused before he spoke. “You remember the night Sarah died? I had a run-in with a youth I nicknamed ‘Warthead’.” Gardener rubbed his forehead. “We may have found a witness who saw Warthead with David Vickers on the day he was abducted. Buying him presents.”

  The call to Mrs Soames had left Gardener enraged. During the year following Sarah’s death, he had constantly been on his guard where Warthead was concerned. He’d watched every street corner, scanned faces in crowds. For a short period immediately after the incident, he’d questioned known thugs. No one claimed to have known the youth. As time had passed, he’d been convinced their paths would probably never cross again, particularly as the youth had a cockney accent. The chances were he’d disappeared back down south.

  “Have you spoken to this witness yet?”

  “Not yet. Janet Soames called to tell me.”

  “Okay,” said Reilly. He pulled his mobile out. “I’ll get Colin Sharp onto it. He can update the whiteboard.”

  Mushrooming grey clouds hovered menacingly overhead, typical of a December afternoon, as Gardener stepped out of the car and studied his surroundings. Derek Summers’ huge house was Tudor, set in an enchanting forest with ornamental carvings and shaped bushes. A circular fountain stood proudly as the magnificent centrepiece on the gravel drive. The lawn was neatly trimmed. The building was well kept, with clean windows and freshly painted walls. The grounds, as far as Gardener could see, were litter free. There was obviously money to be made in the entertainment industry.

  “I wouldn’t mind a slice of this!” said Reilly.

  �
�We are in the wrong business, Sean.”

  As they approached the steps leading to the house, the front door opened. An elderly butler emerged to greet them. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Can I help you?”

  Both detectives flashed their warrant cards before introducing themselves.

  “Mr Summers will see you shortly. If you would like to follow me.”

  Gardener and Reilly exchanged glances but followed as requested. They were shown to a study, where they politely declined an offer of refreshments. The butler closed the door behind him as he left.

  Gardener paced the parquet floor. The panelled walls were decorated with a variety of old-time music hall and film posters. Aside from the oversized writing desk and matching chairs, the only other decoration was a Persian rug.

  Gardener turned to his partner. “Do you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “Exactly. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. When have you ever been in a house and felt so isolated, so cut off? You’d expect to hear something.”

  The study door opened. The host entered.

  “Gentlemen.”

  Gardener’s dislike of Summers was instant. He was small and balding except for a fringe of hair over his ears. He wore thin, wire-framed spectacles over a small snub nose. His moist lips were thick. He was dressed in a charcoal grey pinstripe suit with a white shirt and grey tie.

  Summers chose to sit at his desk. Before speaking, he lit a cigar. “Now, what can I do for you?” he asked with a condescending air.

  Gardener studied the agent’s gold cufflinks with matching Rolex watch before answering.

  “I’m DI Gardener. This is my partner, DS Reilly. We’re investigating the death of a man we understand worked for you.”

  “And it was so urgent you couldn’t wait till normal working hours?”

  “I’m not fortunate enough to work normal hours, Mr Summers.”

 

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