by Ray Clark
Although the conversation was pleasant, it felt stilted at first. He couldn’t help but shake the feeling that Malcolm and Anei were hoping something would develop further between him and Jacqueline. They knew it wouldn’t.
He returned to the task at hand. In total, there had been forty-eight witness statements on the night Sarah died. No one knew Warthead by name, though some had seen him in and around the city before. Reports confirm he made his escape that night by running down Bond Street, disappearing through the dark arches.
The name of the man Warthead killed was Tony Parsons. He’d owned his own IT business in Skipton, close to where he lived. He’d been married with a daughter. Tony had been on a night out with some of his employees, a mild stag night of sorts. He’d left them to catch the last bus home. One witness statement, however, stood out above all the others. One of Tony’s colleagues, a man called Glen Cooper, said that Tony had suffered the year from hell because his son had died of a drug overdose back in January. Gardener wrote down the address in Skipton.
The weather was pleasant but cold – blue skies, plenty of sunshine, no heat – as he headed out to investigate. He arrived in the market town forty minutes later. It took him another ten minutes to find the house he wanted. It was a detached mock-Tudor with a double garage and well-kept lawns. There were gas mantles on either side of the front door set back in an alcove. He knocked loudly and rang the bell.
The door opened. The girl who answered was no more than sixteen. She had short dark hair and was neatly groomed. Clear skin and white teeth. She wore the tightest blue jeans he had ever seen, with a cream-coloured sweater hanging off one shoulder so you could see the black bra strap. “Where’s the fire?”
Gardener smiled, flashed his warrant card. “DI Gardener, Major Incident Team. I’m sorry, it was a bit loud.”
The girl glanced at his hat. She blinked several times, staring more intensely, lifting herself up a little. “You the sheriff, then?”
“You could say that.”
“God, that was quick. I didn’t mean to jump that red light. It can’t have been more than half an hour back.”
Gardener held up his hand, shocked that she was actually old enough to drive. “Stop right there. I’m not bothered about the red light. I’m here to speak to a Mrs Stella Parsons.”
“How did you get that hole in your hat?”
“It wasn’t easy.” He thought the girl was lovely, probably meant no harm to anyone, but she was a typical airhead. He suspected it would be hard work to glean the information he wanted.
“Who did you say you wanted to talk to?” Behind her he could hear loud rock music coming from another room. He also noticed an iPod lead over her shoulder.
“Can I ask your name?”
“Lyndsey Branningham.” Stella Parsons had obviously moved on. He couldn’t blame her.
“How long have you lived here, Lyndsey?”
“My parents bought the place about six months ago.”
“Are they in?”
“Do you think I’d be playing music this loud if they were?” She bellowed over her shoulder to someone to turn it down. Another teenager appeared from the room in question, dressed only in his boxer shorts.
“Oh, fuck,” he shouted, and flew back into the other room.
“He’s not with me,” she said.
Eager to move things along, Gardener continued with his questions. “Do you know the people who lived here before?”
“Not really,” replied Lyndsey. “But from what I’ve heard, they had an awful time. The husband was killed in Leeds about a year ago. I think he was shot. The year before that, they had lost their son to drugs, and the wife finished up in a psychiatric ward. I don’t know where, though.”
Gardener’s heart sank. Right place. Wrong time. That left no one to verify the story for him.
“It was a right night from what I’ve heard, a copper’s wife was…” Lyndsey Branningham stopped mid-sentence as if she’d worked out whose wife it had been and what the hole in the hat was all about.
He thanked the girl for her time, then went about trying another dozen houses down the same road. Most of them confirmed the story, adding little more. One neighbour, however, gave him gold when she recognized the profile of Warthead. She figured Warthead was the reason the son had died of a drug overdose, and that the father had made it his mission to seek out revenge because he figured the police had done nothing to help.
By the time Gardener headed for home, it was dark and he was really tired. He was bloody hungry, but his appetite was diminishing pretty quickly.
Chapter Fifty-five
“Where the hell have you been? I expected you at nine o’clock! I’ve got a store full of people out there! Most of them children expecting to see Father Christmas.”
Harry Clayton had finished changing into his suit. He was sitting down tying his bootlaces. “For God’s sake, give us a break. I’m only a few minutes late.”
Harry struggled with his laces as he tried to listen to his boss. Before leaving the Spanish mainland, he’d had an all-day bender with some of the locals. It had continued late into the night, almost until the departure of his early morning flight. The flight had been his only chance to sleep. If he were being honest with himself, he shouldn’t be here. Still, plenty of coffee should put him on the right track.
“You’re more than a few minutes late, Clayton. You’re an hour, to be precise, and I’m not happy about it. I’ve had mothers on my case since the store opened. No one’s given me a break. I’ve even had the kids nagging me as well. Sort yourself out.”
Harry Clayton studied the store manager. He was tall and gangly and bespectacled, with a complexion like a piece of ciabatta bread. His hair was lank and greasy. The texture of his voice was so rough, if you closed your eyes, you’d have thought you were having a conversation with Marge Simpson. He was permanently grumpy, something else Harry couldn’t stand.
The store manager gave a final warning as he headed out of the changing room. “I’ll be talking to Summers about you.”
“Fuck you!” said Harry, after the manager had left. Harry didn’t care. He only had till the end of the week before the Christmas holidays started. He could spend the break having another big drinking session with Myers, set up the next venture.
Harry’s business trip to Spain had been successful. The contacts had been impressed with the new pornographic material he’d supplied. Harry had returned with some good stuff as well.
He wasn’t sure about the new snuff-and-sex films. They were a little too gross for his tastes, but from what the Europeans had said, the market for it was increasing. It wasn’t his forte. He’d stick to teenagers.
Another sharp rap on the door distracted him. The manager was still on the warpath.
“Clayton, move yourself.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming!”
Harry shuffled out, finally dressed. Satisfied, the manager accompanied Harry to the grotto. The store was fit to bursting, full of Christmas cheer. Most of the staff wore Santa hats, although a few of them dressed in full costume. Bells were ringing, carols were playing, children were shouting and screaming, and the building was engulfed by a dazzling display of colours. The aromas of pine and fruit and brandy permeated Harry’s nostrils.
The approach to the grotto made Harry feel like a superstar taking the stage of a pop concert. It was set inside a huge, open front marquee. Harry climbed on his sleigh. Here Comes Santa Claus invigorated the crowd. Children cheered noisily. Harry waved constantly as the reindeer pulled him along his journey to the grotto.
His home for the day was another sleigh set amidst an array of snow-covered pines. Grey painted boulders were strategically placed around the grotto for his elves to sit on. Carefully concealed fog machines enhanced his arrival. A resplendent light show and a ringing of bells hidden inside the pines all added to the spectacle of his arrival.
Harry jumped off the moving sleigh and stepped into the grotto, still
waving. He felt that his entrance was over the top, but he had a job to do and played along with it. He boarded the second sleigh, positioned a few inches in front of a curtain that backed onto a corridor with toilets.
Harry sighed as the music subsided. He was hot and tired and already had no desire to be there. He hadn’t even started yet.
Chapter Fifty-six
Three coffees and two hours later, Harry had entertained at least a dozen kids. Although the caffeine had boosted his energy, he was in need of food and a toilet break. Harry had one more little girl to see. She was six years old and suffered Down Syndrome. The elf took the girl by the hand. Her mother held her other hand, and together they strolled towards Santa Harry.
“Hello,” said Harry, as he took the girl’s hand. “What’s your name?”
“Christina,” replied her mother.
“Hello, Christina.” He lifted the girl onto his knee. “How old are you?” The little girl wrapped her arms around Harry’s neck and smiled at him dolefully, her big, sad eyes staring into his.
“She’s very shy,” said her mother, an attractive brunette. “She’s six.”
“Well, Christina, who’s six, let me see if I can find you a present. Would you like that?”
Christina laughed. She had a gap in her front teeth where one had fallen out. Harry reached into the sack on his left and pulled out a small box. He passed it to Christina before delving back into it. The second box he had was much larger than the first. “Now then, Christina! What do you think of these?”
The little girl lunged forward, excitedly. The girl tightened her grip. The force of her charge pushed him backward. She was stronger than he’d imagined. Christina screeched loudly into his ear, and Harry detected an odour of Coco Pops on her breath. He tried to remove her arms, but she seemed to be caught on something. Christina jumped around on his thighs, narrowly missing his genitals. The little girl let go, and Harry felt a sharp pain on the left side of his neck.
“My, my, she is excited.”
“I’m so sorry,” replied her mother, smiling, lifting Christina off Harry’s knee. “I’ve never seen her like that before.”
“Don’t worry about it,” scoffed Harry, wiping his neck with a handkerchief. As he inspected the piece of cloth, he noticed a speck of blood. The girl must have scratched him.
Harry stood up to straighten out his robe. He was sweating. With the heat and the lights and Christina jumping around, he’d grown weary.
Christina’s mother strolled away, the girl holding her hand, gazing up at her. She clutched both of her presents tightly to her chest with her other arm. Christina’s mother was talking to her, smiling. They glanced back at Harry. He watched, continuing to wipe sweat from his forehead and the back of his neck.
Harry started to shake. He felt hot and cold at the same time. Checking his watch, he realized it had been sixteen hours since he’d last eaten. It was high time he paid the canteen a visit. As Harry was about to move, his pulse raced. His heart was pounding, as though it was too big for his body. He also noticed his breathing had changed. He had to sit down. He’d gone longer without food in the past. It must have been all the alcohol.
Harry sat on his sleigh. His breathing quickened, making his vision blurred around the edges. The pressure inside his head was slowly building, as though his skull was shrinking. Then the pins and needles started. His toes, his fingers, his arms; even inside his head. Within seconds, the pain grew more severe, red-hot needles on the inside of his skin.
Harry managed to stand up. One of the elves approached and asked if he was all right.
Harry’s breathing was so erratic he couldn’t calm himself down enough to reply. He opened his mouth, but the sound that came out was a restricted gurgle. He heard the elf shout for assistance.
Another two quickly appeared. They all fussed around Harry, asking stupid questions he couldn’t answer. Concerned customers had now gathered at the entrance to the marquee, their curiosity mounting.
Harry staggered blindly around the grotto-like Frankenstein’s monster, clutching his chest. His entire body felt as if it was on fire. Searing pain raced through every muscle. His nerve endings tingled. He slumped to his knees, his hands gripping the sides of his head, his eyes screwed tightly shut.
Harry suddenly bellowed. His deep, guttural roar startled curious shoppers. Women and children screamed hysterically. Mothers pulled at their offspring, covering their eyes. The elves scattered in all directions. “Oh, Jesus! For Christ’s sake, help me!”
Harry raised himself to his feet. He opened his eyes and saw the pizza-faced manager pushing his way through the crowd. Harry thought he was going to explode. Blood charged around his body like an express train. He trembled violently and lost the use of his legs again. He was aware of Pizza-face talking to him, shaking his hands and pointing his finger. He then tried to shield Harry from the shoppers with the flaps of his jacket.
Harry had passed the caring stage. The tremors in his body were now so savage he could neither see nor hear the manager.
Chapter Fifty-seven
Gardener heard the near hysteria as he entered the store. What should have been a happy throng of Christmas shoppers was more like a mob of extras in a disaster film. Two mothers ran past him, clutching their crying children, their faces a mask of confusion. A well-dressed woman smashed into a nearby display of crockery in a frenzied attempt to escape.
As Gardener quickened his pace, he could see a man dressed as Father Christmas on his knees in the middle of the grotto. He’d covered his face with his hands, and he was screaming. At his side, a man dressed in a suit glanced round anxiously. Gardener climbed the steps into the grotto, flashed his warrant card. “Stewart Gardener, Major Crime Team. What’s happening? Who are you? Who’s he?”
He stared down at the man in the Santa suit, hoping, praying it wasn’t Harry Clayton.
“I’m Andy Farlow, store manager. This is Harry Clayton. I’ve no idea what’s wrong him.”
Gardener leaned down to help the man. The Santa’s screaming reached a pitch of uncontrollable terror.
He gripped Clayton’s arms and tried to talk to him. His words were drowned out by Clayton’s hysterical shrieks.
Clayton’s hands flew outwards suddenly and seized Gardener’s jacket. As Clayton screamed, Gardener almost gagged. He’d smelled it before, but never in the early stages. He twisted his face away from Clayton, staring at Farlow, his expression complete bewilderment.
“How long has he been like this?” shouted Gardener. Farlow didn’t reply.
A sound emanated from Clayton’s throat, a cross between a burp and a gurgle. Unable to contain the mounting pressure, Clayton’s body started to disintegrate. His eyes went first, forced out of their sockets. A dirty brown liquid gushed outward, down Clayton’s face, into his mouth.
Horrified, Gardener let go, but he wasn’t quick enough. Clayton vomited, splashing Gardener’s jeans, and a little of his shirt. Gardener fell backward and scrambled to his feet, unable to do anything but watch helplessly as every orifice of Clayton’s body leaked the black and brown sludge. Clayton eventually fell to the floor of the grotto, twitching, screaming, gurgling – totally debilitated.
Gardener turned. Andy Farlow stood behind the nearest pine. Helpless, he examined the crowd, hoping to spot someone he recognized from their investigation, someone he suspected. He flipped open his mobile, called the station, requesting every available officer, SOCOs, the Home Office pathologist, and an ambulance.
When he was finished, Gardener dragged Andy Farlow from behind the pine. “I appreciate you’re not well, but this is a crime scene. I want every member of your staff to help maintain the crowd and keep them as far away from this grotto as possible. Lock all the doors and don’t let anyone leave, or let anyone in except my officers. Do you have a first aider on site?”
The manager nodded weakly. Gardener was about to ask whom when a man appeared. He was short, fat, and bald, and carried the first aid box
with him. Gardener doubted that would help in the slightest. He pointed to Clayton, and the man immediately responded.
At the back of the grotto, Gardener noticed an opening in the curtain behind the sleigh. Beyond the curtain, a corridor led to the toilets. He found them empty. Other than a cleaning closet, there was nothing else. Despite the panic in the store, his footsteps echoed in the empty, silent passage. As he approached the rear of the grotto, a syringe dangling in the curtain caught his eye. A wave of cold fear passed through him. His throat dried almost instantly.
Gardener took a handkerchief out of his pocket, clasping the syringe with it before stepping back into the grotto.
Clayton lay motionless, slowly dissolving. Gardener heard popping and bubbling sounds as the compound within tore him apart. The first aid man had given up. His expression was a mixture of panic and sorrow. Andy Farlow stood by the entrance, talking to an assistant, who was trying his best not to stare.
“Stewart?”
He turned. “Jacqueline?” He guided her towards the middle of the store. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”
“Too late. I’ve already seen it. The poor man. What happened?” Jacqueline’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “What’s happened to you?”
“A long story, as always.” He showed her the syringe. “I was too late again. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve brought my aunt for a little shopping spree, but I seem to have lost her.” The minister stared wildly around the store. Gardener noticed the medical team running down the centre aisle, followed closely by Reilly and a couple of constables.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find her. I need you to go over to the front doors of the store. Eventually we’ll get round to taking a statement from you both.”
“Of course.” She touched his arm and smiled.
Chapter Fifty-eight