IMPURITY

by Ray Clark

  Reilly spoke up. “Seeing as we have a warrant, you’ll have no objection to me having a nosey round, will you, Mr Summers?”

  “So long as you have no objection to my butler joining you.”

  “None at all. In fact, I’d appreciate the company.” The butler was summoned, and the pair of them left the study, leaving Gardener alone with Summers.

  “So, where was I?” Gardener feigned losing his train of thought. “Oh, yes. Plum, Thornwell, and Myers all worked as Santas for you. They sometimes doubled as clowns. They never appeared in the films you make, did they?”

  “Not at all, Mr Gardener. The film side of my business is strictly separate.”

  “And the only films you’re involved with are travel documentaries?”

  “I’ve told you.”

  Gardener left the desk, studying the movie posters. He scrutinized each one. The frames, the edges, everything he could take in, down to the most infinitesimal detail. He was certain the man was involved, and if he was going to avoid being dragged over hot coals for the warrant he had acquired, he needed evidence. Maybe he also needed a change of tactics. “Are you a big movie buff, Mr Summers?”

  “Yes. I’ve always loved the cinema, particularly the old-time musicals. They don’t make them like that anymore.”

  “No. And have you always wanted to be involved with films?” Gardener had moved over to the door in the corner. The aroma of perfume was stronger. He turned to face Summers, leaning back against the door.

  “No. Not really, Mr Gardener.” Summers stood up. “Look, if you’re here to establish where I was last night, I’ve told you. All this talk of films is leading nowhere. I run a film production company that has nothing to do with my theatrical business. Now, I appreciate you have an investigation to carry out, but I suspect you’d be better employed elsewhere. The only common link for the three Santas is that they worked for me. I had nothing to do with their deaths and, if necessary, I can provide alibis for the nights they were murdered.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. But what really gets me, apart from the fact they all worked for you, is their common interest in pornography. I find it hard to accept they all had such an obsession with it, that they should end up starring in the films themselves.”

  “Pardon?” said Summers, clearly disturbed.

  “You heard me. I have in my possession a pornographic film in which Herbert Plum was having sex with underaged girls. And not just any underaged girls.”

  Gardener walked slowly across the room, to within an inch of the entertainment agent. His disgust of the man was beginning to increase. He could smell guilt, but he needed more. “Teenagers that are currently on the missing persons list. So, that makes more than one common link, Mr Summers.”

  Even through the cigar smoke, Gardener could see that the colour in his face had drained.

  When he finally spoke, his once calm reserve had disappeared. “Are you saying that the people I employed to work with children are part of a paedophile ring?”

  “I seem to remember hinting at it last time, only you weren’t so concerned then.”

  Gardener sat back down.

  Summers opened a cupboard door in the desk, grasping a bottle of whiskey and a tumbler. After pouring, he downed the fiery liquid in one. He poured another.

  Gardener could see he was shaking. He felt he needed to be sympathetic, make the man think he was apologizing to him. Perhaps that would knock him off balance.

  “Mr Summers, I’m only trying to do my job. If it looks like I’m persecuting you, it’s only because I’m trying to get to the bottom of things and, at the same time, help you prove your innocence.”

  It was some time before Summers spoke. When he did, his mood had changed yet again.

  He stood up, closed all his diaries, placed them at the end of the desk. “You said you wanted my books. They’re all here. I think it’s only fair to tell you, there is a fourth person employed within the group. His name’s Harry Clayton. You’ll find all his details in the red diary on top. But you won’t find him until Monday. He’s on holiday in Spain. On Monday morning, you’ll find him at the Debenhams department store in the city.” Summers sat down.

  Gardener wasn’t sure how to read his mood. In the short time he’d been there, he’d seen so many changes. Self-confidence, surprise, fear. “Why didn’t you tell me before? It would have made my job easier. It may have led us to the killer. We may have prevented Myers being killed, which could have led to information about what’s going on. Have you any idea why someone would want to kill these men?”

  “No, Mr Gardener, I haven’t.” Summers sipped his whiskey. “I should have thought the fact that they were child molesters and killers would be reason enough.”

  A knock on the door disturbed them. It was Steve Fenton. “Sir, have you got a minute?”

  Gardener glanced at Summers. “Stay there. I’ll be back.”

  Outside the study, the rest of the squad assembled with Fenton and Reilly. Fenton held out a pack of syringes.

  Gardener’s stomach turned. “Where did you find them?”

  “Bathroom, in the en-suite bedroom.”

  Gardener took them from Fenton.

  The butler broke the suffocating silence, as though he’d read Gardener’s mind.

  “They’re for Mr Summers, sir. His condition, you know.”

  “What condition?” Reilly asked.

  “He’s a diabetic, sir. I sometimes have to help him.”

  Reilly shook his head, raised his arms in the air. “He has an answer for everything.”

  Gardener grew irritated by the fact everyone had an alibi. “In that case, I want you to get a sample of the insulin, and give it to one of my officers for testing.”

  The butler turned, but Gardener stopped him. “The room in the corner of the study. Where does it lead to?”

  “It’s the library, sir.”

  He turned to Fenton. “Well done, Steve. Have you found anything else?”

  “No. Clean as a whistle.”

  “In that case, follow him and get the insulin sample.” Gardener was disappointed he hadn’t found more, but the syringe was a start. He and Reilly returned to the study. Reilly strode past Summers and into the library. Gardener watched Summers, wishing he had the ability to read minds. Reilly came back out of the library, nodding. “It’s clean.”

  Gardener gazed at Summers. “Write down the name and address of your doctor.”

  “Pardon?” asked Summers.

  “Just do it,” said Gardener.

  The agent did so, passing over the paper.

  Gardener took his hat from the desk and placed it on his head. Both policemen headed for the door, but Gardener turned back. “There is one more thing, Mr Summers.”

  The agent glanced up. “Yes?”

  Gardener hesitated. “No, maybe it doesn’t matter.” He turned to leave.

  Summers stopped him. “What is it?”

  “It’s a long shot. I really don’t think you can help me.”

  “Try me.”

  Gardener pulled the photo-fit of Warthead from his inside pocket, unfolded it, and held it aloft for Summers to examine. “You wouldn’t happen to know him, would you?”

  The hesitation was so minimal, that unless you had an obsession with catching the person who had killed your wife, you would never have noticed it.

  “No, I’m sorry, Mr Gardener, I don’t.”

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  Gardener and Reilly left the mansion and headed out to the car. “Did you find anything, Sean, anything at all?”

  “No. The butler was like a shadow.” Reilly sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, boss. I want to wrap this case up as much as you do, but I couldn’t find anything to tie Summers in. I feel the same as you. He’s a creepy little bastard. He has an answer for everything, but there’s no evidence to suggest he’s your man. You know, as much as I hate him, if he has killed three paedophiles, who cares?”

  “Don’t t
hink I haven’t thought of that already. But at the end of the day, we have a job to do, whatever we think.”

  “More’s the pity.” Reilly started the car and drove off. “More’s the fucking pity.”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  It was a little after six-thirty when Gardener arrived home. Back at the station, he’d had another run in with Briggs about the lack of evidence to support his theories. More annoyingly, the incident in Beechtown with the press had reached his ears. All he really wanted was to take a shower, go to bed, pull the covers over his head, and stay there forever.

  As he entered the kitchen, the various aromas of a full Christmas dinner made his mouth water. Malcolm was by the cooker, wearing an apron and oven gloves. Chris was next to him, also wearing an apron, and a chef hat. The heat was welcoming.

  “Come on, Dad.” Chris offered his father a glass of wine, taking him by the hand.

  In the living room, the table had been set for five. The place had been transformed with decorations, balloons, spray snow, and a huge tree with dangly toys and presents in one corner. A log fire roared heartily. Spook jumped down from Gardener’s armchair, curling around his legs, meowing.

  A lump formed in his throat. It was exactly the same sort of greeting Sarah would have given him. She’d always believed Christmas should be special, no matter what was happening in their lives. Particularly with his job. He could see her clearly in his mind. The pitch of her voice rising the more excited she became. How her eyes glistened with emotion, especially on Christmas morning when they were all unwrapping presents.

  Gardener hadn’t realized, but his father was standing behind him. He glanced at Chris.

  The pair of them must have worked so hard. In the time it had taken to walk from the kitchen to the living room, he had all but forgotten about serial killers, paedophiles, drug dealers, and smarmy entertainment agents. It was nearly Christmas. Tonight was about his family.

  “Don’t you like it, Dad?”

  Gardener placed his arm around his son’s shoulder. “I love it, son.” He turned to his father. “You must have been at it all day. You look tired, Dad. Come and sit down.”

  “I’m fine, but I’ll have a few minutes. Everything is almost done.”

  Gardener sat down and put his slippers on. Spook curled up on the mat in front of the fire. His father sat next to him.

  “I’ve invited Anei and Jacqueline. I wanted us all to have Christmas dinner together. No doubt you’ll think I’m a sentimental old fool, but Anei has made me feel special, and I wanted to do something for her.”

  “Why tonight? Why not Christmas Day?” asked Gardener, a little taken aback, unsure of how he really felt about it.

  “Jacqueline and Anei are spending Christmas in Romania. Anei wants to go. She’s not been back to her homeland since she left. Chris, you go and run your poor old dad a hot bath, and I’ll finish off in the kitchen,” said Malcolm, glancing at his watch. “They’ll be here by seven-thirty, and I want everything just so.”

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Gardener found himself running through the park. Up above, grey storm clouds were brewing. Brown leaves crunched underfoot due to a mild ground frost. The park was empty of people and animals, creating a feeling of isolation.

  He was running while he was staring at the sky. The shapes of the clouds were frightening him. He knew something nasty was going to happen, but he couldn’t figure out what. Only that it would involve him. He tried to remember why he was there. Was he searching for someone? Meeting somebody?

  He halted at the bridge that crossed the small stream. As he walked over, he could see dead fish in the water. Fishermen were sitting on boxes at the side of the bank, their rods cast. Why? Couldn’t they see the fish were dead? He was about to start running again when he noticed his mother and father. They were not walking but gliding. His mother was constantly admonishing his father for the forgotten TV license.

  Gardener panicked. He had to tell her. He reached into his jacket for his mobile phone, but neither the jacket nor the phone were there. Glancing down, he noticed all he had on was a pair of shorts.

  As he stared ahead, his parents disappeared. He could see Sarah in the distance, sitting on a bench, staring vacantly ahead as mothers pushed their children on swings. That was why he was here. He was here to meet Sarah. She had something to tell him. He started running towards her, somehow aware that if he didn’t, she would be in danger. Leaving the bridge, he turned right, following the path. Gardener froze in his tracks as he saw the vagrant called Bob Crisp.

  Crisp was staring at him, waving his arm. He was talking as well, but Gardener couldn’t hear anything. He was reluctant to move any nearer. But he had to if he wanted to reach Sarah.

  She was in some kind of trouble. He closed his eyes, ran as fast as he could. As he passed the vagrant, he heard something about a new life and that he must save Sarah.

  What the fuck was he going on about? He already knew he had to save his wife. He simply didn’t know why.

  Gardener opened his eyes and found he was only yards away from her. Sarah’s golden blonde hair was swinging carefree in the wind. She was dressed in a white cotton dress, his favourite. The one he had bought her for their anniversary.

  Running towards her, he opened his arms, aware that a shadow was approaching from his right.

  The cockney accent startled him. “I told you. Stop meddling in my affairs!”

  Gardener glanced at Warthead, saw the gun aimed at Sarah.

  “No. Don’t shoot!” But Warthead didn’t listen. Gardener stared at his wife as the gun went off. The white dress turned a deep shade of red. Sarah disappeared.

  Gardener shouted. He was losing her all over again…

  The next time he bellowed, he woke up and fell to the floor. The landing was a bad one. He hit the bedside cabinet with the corner of his eye and rolled into the wall.

  “Fucking hell!” he shouted, reaching out for the bedside lamp. He only succeeded in dragging that to the floor. Gardener lost his temper, threw it across the room. Why did he always dream about Sarah? More to the point, why her death?

  He stood up, pulling his dressing gown from the bed. The clock read 02:05.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Twenty minutes later, he was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of herbal tea in one hand and a photograph of Sarah in the other. In front of him was his hat, her parting gift. The one that meant so much to him.

  He placed the tea and the photograph on the table and picked up the hat. Even now, he still couldn’t work out why she had bought it. He’d never told her he wanted one, and she’d never shown any interest in hats all the time he’d known her. But she had bought it for him, and he loved it. He wouldn’t part with it.

  He poked his finger through the bullet hole, thinking how lucky he’d been on that night.

  The bullet could so easily have blown his head apart. Maybe Sarah would still have been alive.

  Gardener thought about that possibility for some time. He wouldn’t have liked that. Not because he would have been dead and she would have lived, but because he couldn’t stand the thought of her having to suffer like he had.

  Gardener grew extremely angry. One careless moment was all it had taken. One stupid instant when he couldn’t forget the fact that he was a policeman. He put the hat on the table and placed his head in his hands, trying desperately to think through the night in question, and everything that had happened since.

  Where had Warthead been? Why the cockney accent, if he really was from Yorkshire? How had he managed to evade Gardener all along?

  He tried to clear his mind, to think rationally. He would have to delve into the police records. As far as he could remember, they didn’t even have a name for Warthead. Unless of course, Craig Sutton had been right, and he was called Felix. Gardener stood up, put his cup in the sink. He would have to find out the name of the man who had been killed. If he’d been marrie
d, then maybe Gardener could go and see his widow. See if she knew anything of any value. It’s possible that it was not an isolated incident, but a deliberate one.

  There had to be a connection with his current case. He could leave no stone unturned. It needed resolving. And although it was personal, it was possible that he could avenge Sarah’s death in the bargain. Only then did he feel he could have the hat repaired.

  Gardener crossed the kitchen, slipping into the garage. He removed the cover from the bike, popped in his favourite CD, and listened to Cher’s Love And Understanding while he started work.

  There wasn’t too much left to do before the machine was completely stripped down. He would then have to examine everything carefully. Some parts would need replacing, while others could be repaired. He would need an estimate of how much it would cost. He also needed to set a timescale for completing the restoration. The biggest decision would be the frame. It would need taking back to bare metal and being treated before priming and painting it. He wondered whether or not he should do it, or farm it out.

  The question of what to do with the bike when he’d finished was a major one. Would he sell it?

  Or would he keep it and ride it?

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Gardener checked the clock on the wall. It read 2:30. He’d been in the police station for three hours, chasing down all the archive material he could find relating to the death of the man involved in the fracas with Warthead. It was warm, and he was tired because he’d had little or no sleep in the last thirty hours. He picked up the bottle of water in front of him, unscrewed the cap, draining half the contents in one go.

  He reflected on the meal last night with his family and the minister’s. His father had cooked perhaps one of the best traditional roasts he had ever tasted. Maybe he thought that because he had had little chance to grab any decent food in quite some time. Police diets left a lot to be desired. Most of the lads survived on McDonald’s because that was usually the only thing open at four o’clock in the morning. He’d always remained adamant that he would not eat junk food, preferring to go without rather than subject his system to that rubbish.