by Ray Clark
The door was open. Gardener noticed that the Crime Scene Manager, Steve Fenton, had laid out the stepping plates. He was standing on one, simply staring around the room. He wore a scene suit, but not a mask. His eyes were watering. Fenton nodded to them as they approached.
He stepped out of the room using the plates. “I was here first, sir. I thought I might as well put the plates out for you.”
Gardener suspected the repugnant smell would stay with him long after the case had been closed.
Fenton introduced Mr Singh, the landlord, who had remained outside the door.
Gardener ignored him, glancing around. The room was dirty, with a threadbare carpet. The windows were covered with old nets and tattered curtains that had never been washed, in his opinion. Apart from a small table and chairs, Myers had a bed, and an armchair placed in front of a DVD player. The television was on but the screen was blue. Gardener noticed the DVD player was switched on but not playing. He could see a tiny bathroom leading off from the room they were in.
“Jesus Christ!” said Briggs.
What was left of Myers was in the exact same condition as Plum and Thornwell when they’d been found. Stripped of innards with a layer of wet skin stretched over the skeletal frame.
Gardener glanced at Singh. The senior officer estimated he was around fifty, balding, with a face full of grey curls like a ball of wire wool cascading down over his bloating belly. He was dressed in a variety of ill-fitting grey robes, which were overdue for a wash. Or perhaps they weren’t dirty. Maybe it was only their colour. His shifty eyes focused on Gardener as he started to rant and gesticulate.
“Myers, not a very nice man, oh no. He owed me money. This man did not pay rent for one month. And look at the place. How am I to rent it again?”
Gardener couldn’t figure how he’d been able to rent it at all. “How long has he been your tenant, Mr Singh? Any problems?”
“Two years. Plenty. Mostly rent. Always late.”
Gardener noticed Reilly had joined the CSM. Briggs appeared stunned. It was the first time Gardener could recall seeing him speechless. Gardener continued with a series of questions, all of which led him to the conclusion that Myers was no different than Plum. He was a loner, no friends, behind with his rent, always paid cash. It was a carbon copy. With one exception. Where there had been a difference of opinion on Plum’s popularity, there didn’t seem to be for Myers.
Gardener glanced around, thinking. Was it a business deal that had gone wrong? It seemed unlikely. None of the dead men appeared to have had a brass farthing. He was convinced they were linked by an isolated incident – but what? And were there any more involved? Would it all come back to the smarmy entertainment agent?
Gardener turned to Singh. “Any idea what he did for a living, how he earned his money?”
Singh shook his head, indicating he didn’t.
“Sir?” Fenton interrupted his train of thought. “You might like this.” Fenton held a syringe. He’d been searching through the remnants of the Chinese takeaway.
“Found it down there.” Fenton pointed to a dark corner.
Gardener observed the dilapidated structural condition of the building. A damp stain shaped like Ireland ascended the wall. Cobwebs hung in all corners. Grimy, once-white paint blistered on the skirting boards and doorjambs. He studied the banister rail. Surprisingly, it remained solid, with no signs of impact damage. The spindles were coated with Chinese gravy. He glanced over, noting the position of the body two floors below.
“What do you think, Sean?” His sergeant was standing behind him.
Reilly peeked over, thoughtfully, his arms folded across his chest. “He obviously disturbed the killer. And paid the price.”
“I wonder if he saw who it was. He was delivering the Chinese, walked in on them. Had to be disposed of. What do you reckon?”
“He definitely interrupted whatever was happening. From the position of the body, I’d say he fell all the way down. Over the edge, not down the stairs. Whoever the killer is, I think they shot straight out of here, barged into him. The rest is history.”
Gardener heard Fitz’s arrival two floors below. He used the stepping plates to stride back into the room. The locations and the conditions in which the victims lived were beginning to piss him off. Dirty people in dirty surroundings. How anyone could live in such squalor was beyond him. Pete Nash, however, was not part of the equation. He had been an accident. Singh suddenly reared up at Briggs. “The man was a liar, a thief, and a cheat.” He then turned to Gardener. “You go look in the bathroom. Two suitcases.”
“Sean, take a look, please. What are you suggesting, Mr Singh?”
“He was leaving. Look at the apartment, it’s bare!”
Gardener couldn’t tell. He’d naturally assumed that Singh was one of those landlords who charged the Earth for their accommodation, showed up once a week for the rent, and then conveniently disappeared when faced with complaints or repairs. “What’s missing?”
“Everything!” said Singh, waving his hands around once more. “Bathroom empty of towels, toilet rolls, shaving equipment. His clothes are in suitcases. Everything! People always take advantage of me.”
Gardener wondered why Myers had planned to leave. He stood with his hands in his pockets, scrutinizing every inch of the room. Myers was not taking a holiday. His living arrangement was his choice. There were no personal ornaments, no paintings, no magazines, no newspapers, no photo-frames containing pictures of immediate family. On the walls, lighter patches indicated there had been paintings. There was nothing at all to tell them about the man who’d been killed.
Was Myers an associate of Plum and Thornwell? Perhaps he was. Maybe he’d found out who was responsible for their deaths. Maybe it was Summers. Had Myers also worked for Summers? If he had, why hadn’t Summers told them? He must have known it would trace back to him. With Myers dead, would they find Summers had vanished?
Reilly appeared at the door. “I’ve found something you might want to see, amongst his personal documents.” Reilly handed Gardener an old invoice, a bill for commission, from Derek Summers. From behind his back, he produced a Santa hat. At least one of his questions had been answered.
Gardener passed the invoice to Briggs.
He scanned it, glancing at the senior officer. “Summers didn’t tell you about Myers, did he?”
Gardener shook his head as he stepped over to the window and opened it. He needed fresh air. Outside, amidst the desolation, still no one had gathered to see what was going down.
He turned back to Briggs, his finger pointing accusingly, his anger evident in his voice.
“Summers knows about all of these deaths, and I’ll lay odds he knows why.”
“Maybe he does. Bring me hard evidence.”
“Haven’t we got enough evidence here? Why is he withholding information? What is he hiding?”
Briggs glanced at the landlord. “Mr Singh, would you go downstairs now, please? I’d like a private word with my officers. We’ll sort it out from here.”
Singh left, complaining about the mess and the rent arrears and how he was going back to Asia.
Briggs turned to Gardener, who was now in conference with his sergeant. “Reilly, what are your thoughts on Summers?”
“I agree with the boss. It wasn’t what he told us, it was what he left out. I got the impression he was too careful with his answers.”
Briggs eyed Gardener. “Did he make any reference to Myers? Or anyone else that worked for him, apart from the two dead ones?”
“No. But he’s hiding something. I don’t know what, but so help me God, I’m going to find out. Look at the evidence. Three elderly men, all dead, all living alone in slums. All working for Summers. Maybe it’s a grudge. Maybe they have something on him.”
“So, what else do you know about him?”
“Nothing,” answered Gardener. “You had to be there to know what I’m talking about. He’s sly. He’s creepy, and he’s lying. I asked Co
lin Sharp to look into his background.”
“I think the boss is right,” Reilly added. “That man makes your spine tingle. He didn’t show an ounce of concern that his employees had been killed.”
“What do you want to do?” Briggs asked.
“We’re going back this afternoon. I want a Section 8 search warrant for his property and anything else I want. Even if Summers isn’t the killer, I’m pretty sure he’s involved. There’s a link, and I’m going to find it.”
Briggs was about to respond when Fitz walked into the room. “Nothing new here, then,” said the pathologist.
“Steve Fenton has another syringe, Fitz.”
Fenton passed it over.
“Anything else I need to know?”
“No,” said Gardener, “I think we’re about finished. Steve, you and your team carry on searching.”
Gardener turned to the pathologist. “Fitz, the body downstairs, anything to tell me?”
“I’d estimate time of death around ten o’clock last night. I can’t say for certain, but I think the fall killed him. I’ll know more when I’ve examined him.”
Gardener walked out of the room and called PC Benson up the stairs. “Benson, the team is on their way. Take a couple of constables with you and comb the area. I doubt you’ll find anything, but try all the same.”
Gardener pointed at the syringe Fitz held. “Fitz, I need the analysis as quickly as possible.”
Fitz nodded.
Gardener turned back into the room and stood silent for a moment. He strode over to the DVD player, bent down, ejected the disc. He put it back in and waited for it to load before pressing the play button.
When the action started, Briggs’ jaw dropped. “Oh, Jesus Christ!”
They watched, horrified, as the two missing teenage girls, whom they’d all struggled to find, were degraded in front of their eyes. The perverted recipient of their attentions was none other than Herbert Plum. In a Santa suit.
Chapter Fifty
Neither detective waited for an invitation before pushing past the elderly butler as he opened the door.
“Is Summers at home?” inquired Gardener.
“He is, sir, but he’s with a client.”
“Tell the client to leave,” Gardener called over his shoulder as he headed towards Summers’ study.
The elderly butler tried to keep up. “He gave me explicit instructions not to be disturbed.”
Gardener was tiring of the old butler. He gave Reilly a nod. The butler was thin and wiry and at a guess, seventy years old, with white hair and a complexion similar to stiffened grey cardboard. Reilly placed a hand on the butler’s shoulder. “Listen, Jeeves, I’m sure it’ll look a lot better if you disturb him. You get my drift?”
The butler nodded. “I’ll see to it, sir.”
When they were finally allowed to see Summers, he was sitting at a cluttered desk enshrouded by smoke. Gardener reached the middle of the room and smelled perfume. He wondered who had visited and how they had left. As he glanced around, his eyes came to rest on a door in the corner, which he had somehow failed to notice on his previous visit.
“I find this intrusion highly irregular, Mr Gardener. You’d better have good reason.”
“There’d be little point being here if I hadn’t.” Gardener sat down, removed his hat, and waved away the smoke around his head. Reilly remained standing. “There have been further developments. I have more questions for you.”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
“I doubt that very much,” replied Gardener, silently seething. “Which is why I have a search and seize warrant for your premises and your books.”
The expression on the agent’s face could have frozen an active volcano. His pupils dilated. Gardener felt as though he was staring down a double-barrel shotgun. The cigar on which Summers had been about to take a drag remained motionless in mid-air. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. I have two officers in a squad car outside, with two men from forensics. I also have a search warrant for your premises.” Gardener handed it to Summers for inspection.
“This is outrageous! I don’t know what you think you’ll find.”
“For your sake, I should hope nothing.”
“I will, of course, seek legal advice, Mr Gardener.”
“Feel free,” Gardener smiled. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like the team to make a start, and I’d like you to answer my questions.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not at all, you’re helping with enquiries,” Gardener said as he left the room. He went out to the squad cars and motioned for the forensics team to begin. He then rejoined Reilly and Summers in the study, continuing on as if he never left. “Last night, Mr Summers, where were you?”
Summers re-lit his cigar. “Attending a Christmas dinner hosted by the Entertainment Agents Association.”
“Where? What time did it start and finish?” Gardener asked.
“The Queens Hotel in Leeds. Started about six-thirty. Finished around midnight.”
“Were you with anyone?” asked Reilly.
“No, I went alone.”
“How convenient,” Reilly sneered.
“Did you stay all evening? Where did you go once you left?” asked Gardener.
“As a matter of fact, I didn’t. I left at eight. I didn’t feel too well. I came straight home.”
“And your butler can verify your return?”
Summers hesitated. “No, I gave him the night off.”
Gardener wondered why he paused. “So, you went out for the evening, alone. You took ill, came home alone to an empty house. Spent the rest of the evening how? By yourself?”
“I don’t like your implications, Mr Gardener.”
“And I don’t like your answers, Mr Summers. Were you by yourself for the rest of the evening?”
“Yes, but before I went to bed, I had a phone call from the chairman of the association. Checking on my health, you understand. I’m sure the phone company’ll have a record of the call.”
“We’ve no doubt they will,” retorted Reilly. “But what would it prove? It doesn’t prove you were here. All it tells us is that a call came to your house. We want to know your movements for last night. And you’ve told us, but you have no way of proving where you were.”
Summers smirked. “But surely you have enough brains to realize, Mister, er...”
“Reilly!”
“Quite. Surely you realize there are people who can verify I was at The Queens between six-thirty and eight in the evening?”
“Maybe they can, and you’re going to give us a list of names so we can check it out. But we’re more interested in your movements after you left. The ones you seem to have difficulty proving, do you not?”
Summers grew defensive. “I think it’s time you told me why you’re here.”
“Does the name Frank Myers mean anything?” asked Gardener.
For the second time in as many minutes, Summers bore an expression of displeasure.
“What about him?”
“He was killed last night, at his home.”
“And you think I had something to do with it?”
“You tell me. What concerns me is why you lied to me the last time we met. I asked if you had anyone else working for you in the same capacity as Plum and Thornwell. You said you hadn’t.”
“Which was true.”
“Then can you explain why he was in possession of a bill for commission from you?”
“He owed me money.”
“How could he if he didn’t work for you?”
“When you came to see me, his employment had already been terminated.”
“Do you really expect us to believe that?” snorted Reilly.
“You can believe what you want,” said Summers, resting back in his chair, sucking on the cigar.
Reilly leaned in closer to Summers. “We’re beginning to. And from where I’m standing, it doesn’t look so good for you.�
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“When and why did you terminate his employment?” inquired Gardener.
“He was arrogant. Turned up for work when he felt like it, had a drink problem. He was rude to customers. I finished him at the beginning of December.”
Gardener didn’t feel as though he was progressing. Summers had an answer for everything. Except, of course, the missing two hours. “Something else you never told us about was his association with Plum and Thornwell.”
“I didn’t know there was one.”
“Come on, Mr Summers. You run an entertainment agency. They all worked as Santas for you. Are you telling me they didn’t know each other?”
“I told you last time, Mr Gardener. I didn’t socialize with them. I have no idea what they got up to in their private lives. I do have more important things to think about.”
“Like your film production company?” Gardener sensed Summers’ discomfort. “Tell me a little more about it.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
“You like that line, don’t you?” said Reilly. “If only we could believe it.”
Summers sighed loudly as if he’d said all there was to say on the matter. “It’s a film production company. We specialize in travel documentaries. Teams of people drive all over the country, filming resorts, hotels, places of interest. We use it to promote holidays in Britain.”
“What’s your involvement?” asked Gardener.
“I put up the money.”
“And that’s it?”
“Yes, Mr Gardener, that’s it.”
“Where is it based?”
“Buckinghamshire, inside Pinewood Studios.”
“Rather a long way. How did you become involved?”
“I think you’re straying from the point. I thought the reason for your visit was to establish my movements last night.”
Gardener stood up fast, banging his fist on the desk. “Don’t tell me my job. I’m investigating a series of murders. I’ll ask whatever questions I please. Do you understand me?”
Summers didn’t answer, but his expression said they had him worried.