IMPURITY

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IMPURITY Page 15

by Ray Clark


  “Well, I’m sorry, Inspector, but you’ve obviously made a mistake. Hasn’t he, Mabel?” She glanced at her sister. Mabel nodded, seemingly unsure what to say.

  “No mistake. During the search of his flat, we discovered pornographic material.”

  “How do you know it was his?” retorted the landlady, her arms folded defensively.

  “Was it yours?” asked Reilly.

  The landlady scowled. “It most certainly was not.”

  “Then it must be his,” said Gardener. “We also found a sex drug called Papaverine, which could suggest he led a very active sex life. That would contradict your story of him having very little contact with the outside world. Have you any further comment to make?”

  “Why should I? I’m not his keeper,” she retorted.

  Gardener stepped over to the table and leaned in close. He’d given her every chance. “No, you were a little closer than that, weren’t you? You were his lover, isn’t that right, Olive?”

  She almost jumped out of her chair. “Who told you that?”

  “You’re not denying it, then?”

  “I... I...”

  “Everything we found in his room, and the information we’ve since gathered, point to him being involved with someone. I’d rather it was you than two missing schoolgirls.”

  Olive Bradshaw dropped her hands in resignation, her eyes watering. She fished her handkerchief out from the sleeve of her cardigan and blew her nose. “I’m sorry, Mabel.” Her voice was barely audible. “Please, don’t be angry with me.”

  Mabel stood up, wrapped her arms around her sister. “Don’t upset yourself, Olive. I’m not angry, but I am disappointed that you couldn’t have told me.”

  “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. We’ve always been close.”

  Gardener was confused. Today she appeared concerned for the deceased. The night of his murder she was only worried about the cleaning bill. “So, you were having a relationship?” he asked.

  Olive Bradshaw merely nodded. Although she had helped to solve one mystery, a number still remained. Plum’s connection with Warthead for one. Gardener withdrew the artist impression from his inside pocket.

  “Do you recognize the man in the photo-fit?”

  She made an effort to study it before replying, “No.” She passed it over to her sister.

  “Oh, the poor man, I’d know if I’d seen him before.”

  “What do you want him for, Inspector?” asked Olive Bradshaw.

  “We think he may have abducted the missing schoolchildren. But he was also seen with Herbert Plum on a number of occasions in the pub.”

  “Oh, surely not.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I can’t believe Herbert would have anything to do with the missing children.” Once again, she hid her face in her handkerchief.

  “You’re positive you’ve never seen the man? He’s never been to the house?”

  The landlady composed herself. “I’m sorry, Inspector. I’d remember if I’d seen him.”

  Gardener believed her. “It’s important. Anything you do remember, no matter how trivial, let me know.”

  “Inspector, Herbert was a good man. A kind man. I can’t believe he would have anything to do with children.”

  Mabel offered to make tea. Gardener suspected it was a good excuse for her to leave the room. Both detectives declined her offer. He turned back to Olive. “How would you describe your relationship with him?”

  “I was lonely. Mabel hasn’t always been here, and even when she was, she had her own circle of friends. Herbert and I often shared an evening in front of the telly, a night in the pub. Sometimes I’d visit his room and we’d have a cup of tea...” She let the sentence fade, sniffing and sobbing.

  “You were good friends. It was a casual relationship.”

  “Yes.”

  Gardener sighed, disappointed. He sensed he was going to glean little more information. He was pleased at having cleared up the relationship angle, but he had hoped for more. Plum was as much a mystery to her as he had been to everyone else. “I’ll leave you my card, Miss Bradshaw. But please, think about what I’ve said.”

  Olive Bradshaw nodded. Mabel returned with the tea.

  Gardener changed the subject. “Christmas is going to be quite hectic for you both, what with the move. When are you expecting to go?”

  “Next week, Inspector. Quite frankly, I’ll be glad to see the back of this place. There’s no good memories here.”

  “You will remember to let me have your new address, won’t you?”

  The two detectives made for the door. The landlady followed them. Gardener turned.

  “One more thing. On the night of the murder, you said you heard the commotion. What exactly do you mean by that?”

  She paused, as if in thought. “The noise.”

  “What kind of a noise? Did you hear any raised voices?”

  “No. Furniture banging around. A crash. Mable and I were outside the Carter woman’s door. We’d had an argument.”

  “About what?”

  “The flat next door to her. She was complaining about us moving boxes in and out, as usual.” Olive quickly turned to Mabel. “But she’s not bothered about the noise when she’s entertaining, is she, Mabel? No. She’s quick to complain when it suits her, that one. I’ll be glad to see the back of her, and no mistake.”

  “What happened after you heard the banging?”

  “I went up the stairs, and shouted to Herbert,” replied Olive Bradshaw. “Asked him if he was all right. He didn’t reply.”

  For the first time, Gardener noticed an expression of guilt on the landlady’s face. He had never come across anyone who changed their moods so quickly. She was impossible to read.

  “You heard a crash but no raised voices. He gave no reply to your inquiry. Did you shout again? Or try his door?”

  “I tried the door, but it was locked.”

  Gardener struggled to believe she would let such an incident go by uninvestigated. Especially with someone she was sleeping with. “That’s it? You weren’t concerned? A sixty-year-old man on his own? He could have had an accident, may have needed your assistance. We’re talking about a man you had a relationship with. You must have felt the impulse to do something, surely?”

  She grew defensive. “As I’ve already said, Inspector, I wasn’t his keeper. He liked a drink. I thought he might have been drinking, knocked something over. We were late for bingo.”

  “I see.” Gardener paused. “So, you just left? You were late for bingo, so you didn’t hang around to see if he eventually opened his door?”

  “No.”

  Gardener locked eyes with Olive. “Or, in fact, if someone else opened his door?”

  Chapter Forty-four

  Nicki Carter was hesitant with her answer. “I’ve seen him. Don’t know him, but I’ve seen him.”

  “Where?” Gardener studied the girl. The bruise under her left eye had disappeared. Her clothes were cleaner than the last time they’d met. She was wearing a white T-shirt with blue denim jeans. The flat was cleaner. The fresh smell of lavender polish hung in the air. The baby was once again with Nicki’s mother. Gardener wondered what the reason was. “Come on, Nicki, I have to know.”

  “Outside school.”

  “Which one?” Gardener’s patience was wearing thin. Everywhere he went, people had half-stories to tell him. They only seemed to tell him what they wanted. No one took anything seriously. As if they were all playing games. “Was he with anyone?”

  “Middle school, near Old Lane.” She didn’t answer his second question. It was obvious she was holding something back. Nicki Carter nervously lit a cigarette.

  “Who was he with?”

  After a pause, she replied. “The pervert, Plum.”

  Frustrated, Gardener sighed. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that before?”

  The girl was anxious, rubbing her hands together in circles. “You never asked.”

  Gardener fumed. “The last time
we spoke, you said Plum was a pervert. The man in the photo-fit is wanted for questioning in connection with the missing schoolchildren. We know these two had an allegiance. You knew about it, but never mentioned it. Why?”

  “He were dead, for God’s sake. I didn’t think it mattered. The bastard got what were coming to him anyway.”

  “That’s not the point! You withheld important information from me. If you’d told me two weeks ago, we might have got to the bottom of this and had people charged. You’re damned lucky I don’t charge you with obstructing the course of justice.” Gardener was so pissed off, he felt like arresting all of them. Nicki Carter, Olive Bradshaw and her sister, and Summers. The whole fucking lot.

  “I’m sorry.” Nicki Carter took a drag on her cigarette.

  He didn’t really think she was.

  “Why were you at the school?”

  “Collecting me sister. Me mother were busy.”

  “So,” said Gardener, trying to calm down. “You saw Plum and Felix together. Doing what?”

  “Nothing. Just hanging round the gates. When Plum saw me, he said summat to the other bloke, and they both left.”

  Gardener changed the subject. “We’ve been speaking to Olive Bradshaw.”

  “What’s wrong with that old bag, now?”

  “She said you’d had a disagreement the night Herbert Plum was killed. You never told us that either. What was it about?”

  “Same as always. Odd noises coming from next door. All sodding hours. She’s another one who doesn’t care how much bloody noise she makes.”

  Gardener hunched his shoulders as he felt a cold draft skate across the back of his neck. He turned, noticed an open window. “Did you hear anything on the landing above? Voices? Crashing furniture?”

  “No. Can’t say I did.”

  “So, you heard nothing. Olive Bradshaw indicated it happened around 6:30pm. Did you hear anything afterwards? Like his door closing? Someone running down the stairs?”

  “No. I’ve said, the bairn were upset most of the night. So, I were seeing to him.”

  Gardener was ready to scream. Couldn’t someone give him something to go on?

  Chapter Forty-five

  Back down the stairs, Gardener knocked on Olive Bradshaw’s door. No answer came. He glanced at his watch. “I don’t believe it. Where the hell are they now?” The whole scenario was really starting to infuriate him. “Come on,” he said to Reilly. “Let’s go.”

  Gardener strode down the path, determined to find answers to his questions. He unlocked the car and was about to open the door when a familiar throbbing sound to his left diverted his attention. A man riding a motorbike pulled up opposite them, killed the engine, and rested the Bonneville on its side stand.

  “Look at that!” said Gardener to his partner.

  “Is that the same as yours?”

  “Give or take a few years.”

  Gardener strolled over. The rider removed his helmet and nodded. Gardener envied the bike, wondering if his would ever match the one in front of him. The Triumph was in pristine condition, shined like a pin, with new wheels and new tires. All the chrome was highly polished, and the paint job was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. “Nice machine. How long have you had it?”

  The man smiled. He was in his mid-fifties with a small amount of grey hair at the sides of his head, a grey moustache and beard, and small lens spectacles. He was a little overweight, but he handled the bike well. “About seven years, now, mate. Mind you, spent the first three doing it up. Why? Are you interested?”

  Gardener detected a Liverpool accent. “I’m restoring one at the moment.” He passed the man a business card. “Maybe you can let me know where to get the parts.”

  The rider smiled, passing over his own business card bearing the name Jeff Harrison. “Do one better than that, mate. I own the business. Give us a ring when you’re ready, and I’ll sort you out a good deal.”

  Gardener smiled. “Much appreciated.”

  “No problem. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to dash.” He pointed to the house behind him. “Mother’s not too well. Hasn’t been right for a couple of weeks, not since that nasty business over the road. The one you’re probably investigating, given what your card says.”

  “Sorry to hear it.” Gardener tipped his hat. “Hope she goes on okay. I’ll give you a ring.”

  The man gave him a thumbs-up sign and walked down the path to his mother’s. Back in the car, Gardener glanced at Olive Bradshaw’s house before turning to Reilly. “I don’t know who to believe anymore. What to believe!”

  “I don’t think you can put much store in what the Bradshaw woman says. She is a strange one.”

  “Isn’t she just? When I met her on Friday night, she was going mental about the mess, complaining about the commotion. We interviewed her on Monday, and she was totally different. Today, she had us believe she had feelings for Herbert Plum, but she wasn’t prepared to investigate the disturbance because it would have made her late for bingo. I can’t understand the people around here. What the hell’s wrong with them, for God’s sake?”

  “They’re either very stupid or very frightened. Could be that someone’s controlling it all very carefully,” offered Reilly.

  “I can’t believe anyone would have that much power.”

  Reilly’s eyes met Gardener’s. “I’ve a feeling that before this is over, it’s going to get very nasty. We’ve opened up a big can of worms. What worries me is who we’re going to find wriggling in it before we’ve finished.”

  A knock at the car window on Reilly’s side startled him. The Irishman pushed a button.

  The window descended.

  “Excuse me, gentleman, but aren’t you the two detectives who were caught up in the churchyard murder?”

  “Who the hell are you?” asked Reilly.

  “Dave Bennett. I’m with The Yorkshire Press.”

  Gardener studied the man. He was in his late forties with salt-and-pepper-coloured hair, a tanned but wrinkled face, dark brown eyes, and a false smile. He was tall and gangly, and wore a suit from the 1960s which had not stood the test of time. He had to stoop to peer into the car. Even from where he was sitting, Gardener could smell his bad breath. “I’m sorry, Mr Bennett, but we have no comment to make.”

  “Mr Gardener, isn’t it?”

  “Go away,” said Reilly.

  “The public has a right to know what’s going on. Are you visiting these premises in connection with the church murder? I know a body was found here last week.”

  “We are here on police business, but I’m not prepared to comment any further.”

  “Well, can you tell me, is there a connection between the missing schoolchildren and the murders?”

  “I’m not in a position to comment at the moment.”

  Dave Bennett put his head completely inside the car, forcing Reilly to hold his breath. “A colleague of mine informs me you arrested a local drug dealer only this week. Was it about the murders or the schoolchildren?”

  “A local person did help us with our inquiries, but we didn’t arrest him,” replied Gardener. “Perhaps your colleague isn’t as good as he thinks he is. Now, if you don’t mind, we have other business to attend to.”

  Bennett was persistent. “Is it true you’re pursuing your wife’s killer in connection with the case?”

  Gardener’s temper hit boiling point. Fucking journalists. How the hell had Bennett come by that piece of information? How was it that the people he loathed most in the world seemed to have the habit of asking the most personal questions? Was he in the middle of some huge conspiracy? “Roll your window up, Sean.”

  Reilly did, suddenly amused by the fact that Dave Bennett had been quick enough to remove his head, but not his tie.

  “Well, look what we have here, boss.”

  Bennett banged on the window, sudden apprehension carved into his features. “Mr Gardener, you’ll have to answer these questions eventually,” he shouted.

&nb
sp; Reilly started the car and waved, smiling as he did so.

  “My tie. You’ve got my tie!” The expression on the reporter’s face was priceless as Reilly inched the car forward.

  Chapter Forty-six

  “Stewart?”

  “Jacqueline?” He stepped backward, glancing at her uncomfortably. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was about to ask you the same question. My aunt lives here.”

  Jacqueline was the last person he’d expected to see. The situation was bizarre. “I’m here to collect my father.”

  “You’d better come in.”

  Gardener did as he was asked. Jacqueline closed the door. She was traditionally dressed for ministerial duties in a long black gown with a white scarf. She smelled fresh. White Linen, if he wasn’t mistaken. Sarah’s favourite. From the kitchen, he detected the unmistakable aroma of fresh bread.

  “This is awkward,” she said.

  He knew what she meant and felt it as much as she obviously did. “It doesn’t need to be. About the other night…”

  “Please.” She held up a hand. “You don’t have to explain. I understand. Believe me, I’m a minister.”

  He simply nodded, appreciating that she really had figured out what he was feeling.

  “Another time, another place.”

  “Yes, I know,” she smiled. “You’d have jumped at the chance.”

  Gardener laughed. “I wouldn’t have put it quite like that.”

  Jacqueline smiled as well. “Forgive me for changing the subject, but do you mean to tell me that the elderly, well-mannered gentleman in my aunt’s kitchen is your father?”

  “Sounds like him.”

  “I can’t believe it. Did you know anything about it? He’s been here since I have, and they’re getting on very well together.”

  “He’s been here all night.”

 

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