by Ray Clark
Gardener heard running water beyond a door in the wall nearest to him. He was about to ask about it when he was suddenly caught in what he suspected was an earthquake. The sound was horrendous as the whole room shook, dislodging dust from above. He lowered himself to his knees, wrapping his hands around his head, trying to block out the sound and whatever destruction might follow. It finally passed. He straightened up, wincing.
“The trains – you get used to them. Come and sit down.” The giant chuckled before introducing himself as The Bear. He called to the vagrant working the spit. “George, three bowls of chicken broth, please.”
As Gardener crouched to sit, he was about to ask a question when the running water stopped. He turned his head, and Bob Crisp came through the door in a bathrobe.
“Mr Gardener! I’m pleased to make your acquaintance again. Please, be seated.” He glanced over at George. “Only the best china, please, George.”
Bob Crisp finished drying what little hair he had and took his place opposite Gardener.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been run over.” As Gardener’s senses returned, so too did his thirst for knowledge. “Why am I here?”
“Ah. ‘One of the greatest pains to human nature is the pain of a new idea.’ I don’t suppose for one minute the thought of mingling with us, in order to find me, seemed like a good idea to you.”
George approached the table with four bowls of chicken broth on a tray. He placed one in front of each of them before sitting with his own.
Gardener felt nauseous. He wasn’t sure whether it was his apparent lack of health or state of mind. Dining with vagrants was not his idea of fun. “What happened to me?”
Bob Crisp sighed. “The underground world of Leeds is split up and run by gangs. Pretty much like any other major city in England. I’m afraid you were set upon by one of those. You took a bit of a pasting. They left you for dead. It was George who found you.”
The beating explained the pain. The thought of gangs patrolling the city’s streets at night, involved in underground warfare, was a prospect he found chilling. And a topic he hadn’t the time to discuss.
“Look, you need to explain a few things to me. Where am I? What time is it?” Momentary panic overtook Gardener. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. “In fact, what day is it?”
“You must eat your food.” Bob Crisp passed around baguettes. They were sealed in packets and had yesterday’s date. Gardener didn’t want to know where they came from.
“Please, just answer my questions. My son’s life is at stake.”
“Your son?” Bob Crisp stopped eating. “Is that why you’re looking for me?”
“Among other reasons.”
“Fair enough.” He put down his spoon. “It’s Wednesday. As you can see from our magnificent time piece, it’s eight o’clock in the evening.”
Gardener jumped up and was rendered breathless from the pain in his ribs. “Oh, Christ!”
A quick calculation told him he’d been missing twenty-four hours without contacting his family. A quick search of his pockets informed him he no longer possessed a mobile phone. Nor his wallet.
“You appear to have lost something, Mr Gardener?”
“My mobile phone, my identification, my money. Everything. What happened? How did George know who I was?”
“You were mistaken for a vagrant. We’re not very well liked, you see. You’ve suffered head injuries and bruised ribs. George stumbled upon you, found you unconscious with your warrant card laid next to you. The gang must have realized you were not a vagrant after all. You’ve been out this entire time. You will need medical attention. You can never tell with head injuries.”
Gardener studied Bob Crisp. He reckoned the man was in his mid-fifties from his lined, weather-beaten face out of character with his smooth, bald head. Whether it was the velvet voice with the clipped English accent, the educated manner, whatever, he felt he could trust him. That was saying something.
Bob Crisp rose, taking Gardener by the arm. They made themselves comfortable on the three-piece suite in front of the fire.
“What’s happened to your son?”
The vagrant grabbed a menthol cigarette from a nearby table and lit it. Gardener sat back and told him what he knew, explaining the case in detail. Crisp barely interrupted. When Gardener finished, the well-spoken vagrant merely stared at the dancing flames.
He finally spoke, quietly. “‘I should renounce the devil and all his works, the pomps and vanity of this wicked world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh.’” He paused. “I’ve done you no favours, Mr Gardener. I should have spoken out sooner.”
“What are you talking about?”
Bob Crisp took a drag on his cigarette and blew out more smoke. He turned to face Gardener, his eyes imploring forgiveness.
“I used to work for Derek Summers. The man you call Warthead is his son. I know nothing more. Not even the identity of his mother. From what I have gathered, the misshapen head and the warts are a genetic defect. Another story is that Summers beat the girl who carried the child, and the result is what you see.”
“How were you involved with Summers?”
“I’m a solicitor by profession, Mr Gardener. Many years back I was disbarred, discredited. I now live underground in fear of my life. Hence, the reason I travel nowhere without The Bear. All because of Derek Summers. He’s a nasty piece of work, sir, and you must learn not to trust a word he says. He is a depraved person. I know nothing of his childhood, nor any family save a daughter whom, according to rumour, he abused. And the son you call Warthead. I have no idea where the blame lay for the things he does.”
Gardener’s flesh crawled. Could Summers be everything all rolled into one? Abductor? Paedophile? Killer?
Bob Crisp’s face bore a saddened expression. He too had suffered at the hands of Derek Summers. Gardener had the impression Crisp was pursuing exoneration. As if he was guilty by association.
“Bob, can you prove any of what you’re telling me? How do you know? How does my son tie in?”
“Knowledge is of two kinds. We know a subject ourselves, or we know where we can find information about it. Derek Summers makes the films himself. He makes them at home.”
Gardener thought about Reilly’s comment. He’d said he didn’t think they’d seen the whole house. “Where?”
“He has a secret underground chamber that you wouldn’t know about unless you’d stumbled across it. Like I did. Are you familiar with the house?”
“A little. Not as much as my partner.”
Crisp chuckled. “‘What is friendship? A single soul dwelling in two bodies.’ The Irishman. You should value his friendship. He is your closest ally. Do you know the library?”
“The room beyond the study?”
“One and the same. Above one of the panels is a coat of arms. Move it and you gain entry. Down there you will find the film studio, cameras, lights, everything you need. It’s a multimillion-pound industry, Mr Gardener, governed and controlled by very dangerous people. As I found out.”
The Bear suddenly threw more logs onto the fire as the vagrant called George returned to the spit. Despite the roaring flames, it felt cold. Gardener felt despondent, consumed by the icy flames of defeat. How many times had they interrogated Summers, only to let him slip through the net? He couldn’t believe he had let Summers go. Gardener urged Crisp. “What did you find out, Bob?”
“All I needed to know. It was late. I was in the office sorting through a lawsuit against Summers. A female client. He’d been withholding money. He said her act was substandard and she’d cost him a fortune. She claimed he’d tried to interfere with her. He beat her almost senseless when she spurned his advances. He only beats women and children.
“I left the office and went to the house. The butler said he was in the library. As I entered, I noticed the coat of arms cocked over to the right. A false wall panel lay open. I heard voices coming from a set of stairs b
eyond. At the bottom, I found Summers in a director’s chair, behind one of the cameras. A grown man and two teenage girls were on the bed. Need I say more, Mr Gardener? Summers was also naked. Another teenager performed oral sex on him. Whether he’d been careless in leaving the panel open, I’m not sure. Whether the butler knew, I’ve no idea.”
Crisp lit another cigarette, lost in the haunting memories. After what he’d described, Gardener couldn’t blame him. He felt there was more to the story. George and The Bear paid little heed, as if they’d heard it all before.
“I was outraged, as any decent person would be. I threatened to call the police. Summers also made threats. Within a week, I’d been disbarred, discredited as a corrupt solicitor. Summers had forged documents and payments to make it look as if I had been directly involved. My own wife and child were killed in a horrific car accident. Faulty brakes, they said. The car had only passed an MOT that same afternoon. So, I know different. I can prove none of what I’m saying.
“A week later, my house had been reduced to ashes and, so too, had my life. I’ve been here ever since. Underground. You’ve no idea, Mr Gardener, what you’re up against. Such power. ‘Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ You may fare better than I, with the influence of the police behind you.”
“Why have you never told anyone?” asked Gardener.
Crisp’s satirical cackle echoed off every wall. “Why indeed? What is it Robert Frost once said? ‘I never dared be radical when young for fear it would make me conservative when old.’ I have nothing left to lose. Unlike you, with your son.”
Gardener’s bones chilled to the marrow.
“Go to the house tonight, for you have little time to lose. Save your son, he’ll be there.”
Bob Crisp rose and reached into a cupboard on the wall. “Take these.”
“What are they?”
“Painkillers, of course. Your body is weak. You’ve eaten nothing. Not that I blame you. I, too, would have no appetite.”
Gardener swallowed them down with a glass of water taken from the table.
“Here.” Bob Crisp held out money.
“I can’t take your money, Bob. You’ve done enough for me already.”
“Then a little more won’t hurt. We have money if we need it. Now, The Bear will escort you into Leeds. Take a taxi, go and rescue your son.”
Gardener hesitated. There was so much more he wanted to ask.
“For God’s sake, Mr Gardener, go!”
Gardener extended his hand to the vagrant. He had no idea how to thank Crisp for what he’d done. It had taken courage to reveal his story. Gardener doubted he could ever repay him.
Crisp shook his hand and then turned his back on Gardener, signalling the end of the meeting.
The Bear nodded.
Chapter Seventy-three
Chris spent the whole day in fear of his life, tormented by the thought of what they would do to him when they returned. Eventually, though, he’d fallen asleep. He’d woken with a start, unaware of the time or date. He was hungry. Preying slightly heavier on his mind was his survival, finding a way out of his situation.
The first thing he did was remove his boxer shorts. They smelled horrible. He left them on the floor before using the en-suite bathroom to clean up. When he was finished, Chris sat and thought about his father and the Irishman, and how they would go about changing the situation.
He figured the best thing he could do was set a trap.
He studied the room. The only thing he found he might be able to use was a small lamp on the bedside cabinet. He searched the place for something he could use to remove the plug.
When he was quite sure there wasn’t anything, he decided to plug the lamp in, switch it on, remove the shade, and smash the bulb. He thought that would make it live. The next time one of those idiots came into the room, he’d give them something to think about. With a bit of luck, he might even kill the pair of them. He wasn’t a copper’s son for nothing.
The next thing he had to do was find something to wear. He couldn’t very well stay naked.
Rummaging through a cupboard in the bathroom brought him little in the way of results, until he spotted something that didn’t add up. At the back of the cupboard, underneath the towels he had pushed to one side, he could see a material he couldn’t quite identify.
Chris banged on the back of the cupboard. It didn’t sound right, nor was it hard like it should have been. The panel was false.
He glanced around the bathroom in nervous anticipation. Running out into the bedroom, he checked the door. It was still locked. He went back into the bathroom. He didn’t care now how much noise he made. If those two creeps came to see what he was doing, he would electrocute them both.
Chris smashed his fists into the panel four times. It gave him the encouragement he needed to continue. Once he had the panel clear, he dragged out all the clothing. There were a number of school uniforms. From what he could tell, two were female and one male. Inside one of the blazers he saw the name ‘David Vickers’.
He also found a pair of boxer shorts, which he recognized as his friend’s. They were clean. He slipped them on.
Chris felt terrible. He tried to imagine what his friend had gone through, but his mind simply wouldn’t allow it. He slammed his fists into the bathroom door, tears in his eyes. He ran back into the bedroom and grabbed the lamp. Sitting on the bed with the lamp in his hand, he waited.
Chapter Seventy-four
The night air was growing distinctly chilly. Cold enough to snow. It was after midnight. Gardener found himself momentarily suspended in the middle of a repeat performance from the previous evening. Late night revellers were clearing out of the pubs and clubs. He had chosen not to take a taxi, but to try making contact with Reilly instead. Despite his injuries, he struggled down Park Row and onto Boar Lane in search of a phone booth.
He felt conspicuous, vulnerable. In view of the beating he’d taken, he was extra careful not to stare at anyone too long. One wrong glance and he’d be in serious trouble. He was in no fit state to defend himself.
Halfway down Boar Lane, Gardener spotted his phone booth. As he drew closer, the door opened and a youth came out. Gardener stopped dead in his tracks. A chill spiralled throughout his entire body, his revulsion mounting.
For one split second, Gardener’s eyes locked with Warthead’s. In that fraction of time, his whole world froze.
It was impossible to describe his feelings, there were so many. Anger, bitterness, sorrow.
Above all else, Gardener’s hunger for revenge was so strong, all physical impairments were forced to the back of his mind. He knew he was going to kill Warthead, despite the consequences.
Warthead took off, running down Boar Lane towards Duncan Street and the Corn Exchange.
Gardener followed, ignoring the pain in his head, his arms, his legs and, most of all, his bruised ribs. He decided not to shout at the freak, choosing instead to focus all his efforts on catching him.
Gardener heard police sirens to his right, coming across New Briggate. What happened next stunned the injured officer.
The traffic light at the Boar Lane and Briggate intersection changed to green, and the stationary car proceeded ahead.
Warthead took a chance to cross the road onto Duncan Street. Cutting across New Briggate like an atomic warhead, what later turned out to be a stolen Range Rover wasted the front end of one car, and bounced upwards in the collision. The car careened wildly out of control, taking Warthead and a portion of nearby railings straight through the plate glass window of the Burger King on the corner.
The series of explosions and shattering glass brought Gardener to his senses. He rounded the corner to confront the devastation.
A crowd milled around the Burger King so fast, he thought they must have emerged from the shadows. Most of them were okay, simply trying to figure what had happened. They were, however, ignoring the people that did need help. A number of victims had sustaine
d cuts. Some had more serious injuries. One youth staggered around, his hand covering his right eye, blood pouring through at an alarming rate. His girlfriend was by his side, screaming at him to lay down while she found some help.
Most people had forgotten about their takeaway. Some had thrown their food right on the ground. At least six people were already on their mobiles. Only three were calling for help. Sickeningly, the others were filming.
Gardener pushed his way through the oblivious crowd. The stolen Range Rover’s engine was still on maximum revs and had taken most of the customers in the fast food restaurant through the counter and into the storeroom. Dead bodies lay amongst the debris of glass, tables, chairs, and neon menus. Miraculously, two people had survived. They were staggering around with severe injuries.
The car’s engine died abruptly with a crash and a clang as it seized up. The car then backfired, sending shockwaves through the crowd, most of whom were already backing away.
Gardener also retreated as the police arrived on the scene, urging people to let them through.
Before he stepped aside, he caught sight of the mangled, almost decapitated corpse of Warthead, trapped underneath the front wheel of the Rover.
Gardener turned and cursed, and slipped back around the corner onto Boar Lane, furious at the fact he’d been cheated of the chance to vent his anger on his wife’s killer.
Behind him, the sirens of the ambulance service wailed as they came to deal with the dead and the injured.
In front of him, a car screeched to a halt. The passenger door opened.
“Get in, now!” Reilly shouted.
Chapter Seventy-five
Gardener stepped back, confused.
More ambulances, more squad cars, and more people swarmed the accident behind him.
“For Christ’s sake, boss, get in the car,” Reilly shouted again.
Gardener relaxed. A feeling of security returned. He hadn’t recognized his colleague’s vehicle. The last thing he’d needed was to jump into a car full of hoodlums. Once inside, Gardener closed the door. Reilly made a U-turn on Boar Lane, heading out towards Kirkstall.