by Ray Clark
“Am I pleased to see you,” said Gardener.
“The feeling’s mutual. What the hell’s going on back there? Don’t tell me you’re responsible for that carnage?” Reilly glanced over. “What’s happened to your face?”
“It’s not just my face.”
Gardener told Reilly about his previous twenty-four hours. How he’d struggled to find Bob Crisp, the beating and, finally, his eventual meeting with the vagrant and the revelations he’d heard. He also mentioned Warthead’s spectacular finale.
“I knew it! I fucking knew it.”
“You knew what?” Gardener was momentarily puzzled. His body had started to ache as the painkillers wore off.
“We’ve got Summers back at the station.”
“On what charge?”
“The discs we retrieved from Myers’ flat. I watched them again last night, with Briggs. We were about to leave. I’d forgotten to switch it off, and another film started on the same disc. It was an amateur video of Warthead with a teenager in the panelled library.”
Gardener sighed. “How did you recognize it?”
“A coat of arms on one of the walls.”
Gardener fell silent, digesting the information, quietly elated that something was finally going right.
“Well done, Sean. Bob Crisp told me about the coat of arms. If you move it, a secret panel opens and leads you down a set of stairs to another room.”
Reilly left the town centre, heading toward Summers’ house.
Gardener checked the clock on the dash. It was almost two in the morning. He hoped and prayed the butler had not done anything with Chris. Assuming he was being held prisoner at the house.
“I knew that bastard was guilty,” said Reilly. He then told him about the incident at the station.
Gardener seethed inside at the thought of what Summers may have been planning to do with Chris. What he may already have done. “I hope to God Chris is all right.”
“Another five minutes and we’ll be there.”
Gardener shifted in his seat. “So, we know he’s a paedophile. Is he a killer?”
“I wish I could answer that question. I’d be willing to stake my career on it.”
“It’s always possible his employees have been blackmailing him,” suggested Gardener.
“He makes the films, they all have a fallout, and he starts killing them because they know something about him?”
“Something along those lines. The problem with that is they also stood to incriminate themselves by putting him in the spotlight.”
“Maybe they didn’t care. But I don’t hold with that one, though.”
“There’s a missing link here, Sean. I’m pretty sure he’s in it up to his neck. But there’s still one piece of the jigsaw puzzle outstanding. The curare and the plant serum.”
Both men fell silent. Gardener needed Sharp’s portfolio. Maybe the document would provide the final nail in Summers’ coffin. He also needed to contact Fitz.
Before Gardener realized where they were, Reilly had parked the car on Summers’ drive.
He eased himself out of the vehicle, pulling up on the grab handle with his left arm, comforting his ribs with his right. The silhouette of the house provided a gloomy backdrop against a clear sky.
The pruned bushes resembled a group of standing stones. Gardener was aware of an overpowering silence as the darkness closed in on him. The night had grown more chilly. A faint breeze on the back of his neck unsettled him further. Although he knew he had to go in, he was petrified at the possible outcome.
Reilly patted his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”
The front door was locked.
“Let’s try round the back,” said Gardener.
“Fuck that!” Reilly reached down and hefted a stone planter over his shoulder. He took a step back, ran at the door, and hurled the concrete figure through the glass section.
To Gardener, it sounded like a bomb exploded. The glass shattered, the plant stand disappeared, and, to their amazement, the house remained silent.
“No alarm? That does surprise me.”
“Who cares if there is?” replied Reilly.
With the door unlocked, the two men raced through the study into the library, lighting up each room as they entered. Reilly pointed out the coat of arms and moved it. To their left, a whole section of books glided silently inwards.
Gardener stopped at the opening, peering into the gloomy recess. He could smell leather and furniture polish. He breathed in, glanced upwards, his insides churning. “Please, God, let him be okay.”
Reilly found a light switch. They both descended the illuminated stairs to the film studio.
It was exactly as Bob Crisp had described, with cameras, lights, scenery, and the director’s chair.
Gardener spotted a door in the corner. He scurried over. It was locked.
“Chris!” shouted Gardener. There was no reply. He pushed against the door, but it wouldn’t move. He knew he didn’t have the strength to force it down himself.
“Sean, go and see if that creep of a butler is around.”
As Reilly climbed the stairs, Gardener struggled to lift his leg. With all the strength he could muster, he ignored his pain and crashed it into the door above the handle. Although it didn’t give, he knew it wouldn’t take much pressure before it did.
Then he heard a voice. “Dad?”
“Chris?”
Chris sounded distant. Maybe the walls were thick. Perhaps he’d been woken up by all the noise. Either way, it was one of the most inviting sounds he had ever heard. If nothing else, Chris sounded okay.
“Chris, don’t worry, I’m here. Stand well back from the door. I’m coming in.”
Renewed enthusiasm charged through his body. Gardener glanced around the studio, noticing a fire extinguisher. He picked it up. It was heavier than he’d anticipated. He struggled with the hydrant, but seeing his son again gave him the encouragement he needed.
With every ounce of strength he had, he lifted the red canister and charged the door, shouting as he did. He misjudged his aim, running into the doorframe instead, knocking himself completely off his feet. The pain from his ribs nearly killed him.
He was barely aware of Reilly running past him and bouncing into the door with his whole body. It opened with a crash, slamming into whatever was behind. Reilly switched on the light. Chris shielded his eyes with one hand as it bathed his room. In the other he held a lamp, much like one would a sword.
The Irishman helped Gardener to his feet. Chris dropped the lamp and ran out of the room. Gardener noticed his son was dressed only in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, neither of which, he knew, belonged to him.
“Dad!” shouted Chris.
Gardener felt his son’s arms wrap around him. Despite the pain, he was overwhelmed with how good it felt to see him again. “It’s okay, son. It’s okay. Everything will be all right.”
Gardener felt Chris shaking, like a frightened sparrow he’d saved from a cat. “It’s going to be okay, Chris. Trust me.”
Inside the room, Reilly threw furniture around, turning the place upside down. When he emerged, he held Chris’s soiled clothes.
Gardener saw them and eased Chris’s arms apart. He steadily lowered himself so he came face-to-face with him. He winced as he realized Chris had a black eye and a scratch across his cheek. His son’s face must have mirrored his own.
“What’s happened to your face, Dad?”
“Never mind me, son. What about you?”
Chris’s cheek was swollen. It was obvious he’d taken a fair punch. He remembered Bob Crisp’s words, that Summers only beat women and children. The rage within Gardener was building. He was going to crucify Summers. Trails of dried tears on Chris’s face increased Gardener’s anxiety.
“I’m okay, honest. I was ready for him,” Chris said.
“What do you mean?”
“I was ready.” Chris glanced back into the room. “That lamp, on the bed, I modi
fied it. I was going to fry them if they came near me again.” He stared at the Irishman. “That’s what you’d have done, isn’t it?”
Reilly laughed. “I reckon I would so.”
“Chris,” said Gardener. “I have to ask you something.” He needed an answer. But he was dreading it. “Did Summers… did he… interfere with you?”
Chris, puzzled, shook his head. “He just smacked me around when I knocked a tray out of his hand.”
“That’s all? He didn’t touch you? You know, down there?” Gardener lowered his eyes to his son’s waist for emphasis.
“No, I promise.”
A wave of relief swept over Gardener. Reilly passed over Chris’s clothes. Gardener could smell the overpowering scent of stale urine. He appreciated how disturbing his son’s ordeal must have been, resurrecting painful memories of his own childhood. “Is this why you’re wearing someone else’s boxers?”
Chris didn’t answer the question. “I have to show you something.” He took his father by the hand into the room and showed him all the clothes he’d found in the cupboard.
Gardener stood up, seething inside. “I’m going to kill the bastard. I’m going to the cells tonight, and I’m going to kill him.” Gardener’s voice was even and controlled, unlike his mood.
“You’re in no fit state, boss. And if we’re going to do anything, we’ll do it by the book.”
“What? Let a jury send him to prison so you and I can pay our taxes to keep him in luxury?”
“It’ll hardly be luxury when he’s behind bars. You know as well as I do what happens to filthy perverts.”
“What kind of a smarmy bastard lawyer has he got?”
“Not good enough to keep him out of jail.”
As much as he hated the idea, he knew his partner was right. He was in no fit state to deal with Summers right now. Even if he had been, he wouldn’t have managed to persuade the duty sergeant to let him. He felt so tired, he could have slept for a month.
Gardener paused and then sighed in defeat. “Take us home, Sean.”
“You’re both coming back to ours. Laura’s running a bath, and she’s calling your old man to tell him the news.”
“I need to go home. The portfolio,” persisted Gardener.
“I’ll take you in the morning. Read it with a clear head. Then you and I can take a trip to the cells and deal with him properly.”
As much as Gardener wanted to deal with Summers personally, he knew he couldn’t. Sean was right again. He would read the report when he was in a better state to understand it, physically, mentally, and emotionally. He hoped to God it contained what he needed.
Gardener wrapped his left arm around Chris’s neck and extended his right hand towards Reilly. “I owe you one, Sean.”
“You’d have done the same for me. All that matters is that this wee lad of yours is okay.”
Gardener nodded. “I take it you didn’t find the butler.”
“Lucky for him, no.”
Chapter Seventy-six
Gardener replaced the receiver. He joined Laura, Sean, and Chris around the breakfast table. The tiled kitchen was large and spacious, coloured floor to ceiling in different shades of grey, with a black and chrome tubular-framed table and chairs. Along with fully fitted cupboards and a breakfast bar, Gardener noticed a large, full wine cooler. Strip lighting had been installed underneath the units. The kitchen opened out onto a dark wood conservatory, with a computer and a selection of prints Laura had developed during her work as a freelance photographer.
“Good news?” Reilly asked.
“I think so. Fitz confirmed the contents of the syringe were from the plants.” Gardener grabbed a slice of toast and glanced at Chris. He seemed to have settled.
Both he and his son had cleaned up before going to bed. It had been Gardener’s first opportunity to check his injuries. He had a swollen cheek and a cut across his forehead. His chest and stomach were covered in purple bruises, some of which had turned yellow. Laura had bandaged his battered body. Gardener had insisted he neither had the time nor the inclination to go to hospital.
He had also telephoned Malcolm, informing him that he and Chris were fine. His father had been unhappy about their decision to stay with Sean and Laura, saying that he wouldn’t be settled until he saw them both for himself.
Gardener had slept with Chris in the spare double bed. Although both felt secure at having found one another, neither of them had relaxed enough to sleep soundly.
“He seems more content,” said Laura.
“At least he’s safe.”
Reilly ruffled Chris’s hair. He turned to his boss. “So, where do we go from here?”
Gardener finished eating his toast, staring out the window. The sun was up, and the garden was full of chattering sparrows. Despite being Christmas Eve, there was a distinct lack of seasonal atmosphere.
“The way I see it, Derek Summers is by far the most likely suspect. We have enough evidence against him for everything but the murders.”
“What about the plants?”
“We have to start with what we know. Who we know. That means Anei.”
Laura rose from the table. “I’ll make another pot of coffee. Chris, would you like to come and see the fish?”
“Okay.” He left the table with an understandable lack of enthusiasm.
Gardener realized his son had been through quite an ordeal. He knew it would take time to adjust. He was grateful to Laura for the diversion.
Reilly shook his head. “I’m struggling to see where Anei fits into it. I just don’t think she’s capable. I’m sure she’s over seventy. I know she has the means and the knowledge, but she isn’t strong enough.”
Gardener eased back in his chair. In the other room, he heard Laura talking and Chris laughing. It was a boost to him. “I think the best thing we can do is get back home and have a look at Colin Sharp’s portfolio. I’m still convinced it’s Summers, and the missing link we’re looking for will be in there – if Sharp has done as good a job as usual.”
Chapter Seventy-seven
Gardener observed the tearful reunion between Chris and his grandfather, appreciating how close the two of them had become. He could see how relieved Malcolm was to have them both back safe and sound.
They were sitting around the kitchen table. His father had made tea. He’d given Chris a milkshake and a couple of chocolate bars. Gardener was surprised when Chris said he was going to his room to watch TV. Spook had followed. Gardener thought it best to let his son adjust in his own way.
Colin Sharp’s portfolio was spread across the table before him. Gardener was impressed with Sharp’s work, as usual. His colleague’s dedication should be rewarded with a promotion of some description.
Gardener glanced up at his partner. “There’s no shortage of material. Our only problem is the time to go through it all.”
“Would you like me to help?” offered Malcolm.
“Thanks for the offer, Dad, but I wouldn’t know where to start you off.”
Malcolm stared at the mountain of paperwork, sifting through the small piles. As he came across a photograph, he picked it up and studied it. “I don’t like the look of him.”
Gardener stared at the picture in his hand. “Derek Summers. The photo doesn’t do him justice, believe me. He’s far worse than he looks.”
“Have you found anything that links him to the curare and the flytraps?” Reilly asked Gardener.
Gardener sighed. “No, not yet.”
“No, it can’t be.”
Gardener glanced at his father. The colour had drained from the old man’s face, leaving a pale, anaemic complexion. He noticed Malcolm’s shaking hand as he held the photograph.
“Dad? What’s wrong?”
Reilly stood up. “I’ll get him a glass of water.”
Gardener reached out to steady his father’s hand. “Dad, what is it? You don’t look well. Is something wrong?”
“I think I know who this man is,” said
Malcolm, at last.
Reilly sat down, placing a tumbler of water in front of Malcolm.
“How do you know him?” asked Gardener.
“Anei once showed me a photograph of her sister Irina’s husband. He was a footballer. In the photo, he was holding a trophy. There was a report underneath.” Malcolm took a sip of the water. “His name was Sid Summers.”
Gardener and Reilly stared at each other. Gardener’s head started to spin, his mind a jumble of thoughts. “You sure about that?”
“I’m sure, son.” He dropped the photo. “I’m sure.”
Gardener riffled through the files. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Paper flew everywhere. “It’s here.” Gardener held up a sheet for Reilly to see. “The names of Derek’s parents. Sid Summers and Irina Bâlcescu.” He let the paper fall. “Is this the link, Sean?”
“I’m not convinced. What about the plants?”
Gardener thought about it. “If they all grew up on a farm, had a farm shop, maybe he picked up that knowledge from his mother or his aunt.”
“I’m not buying that either, son,” said Malcolm. “From what I’ve heard, they haven’t seen each other for years.”
Gardener felt he was clutching at straws. His explanation was desperate, full of holes. His frustration threatened to overtake him.
Reilly’s phone rang. He answered but remained in the room. “You’re joking! Tell me you’re not serious.”
Gardener rose from the table, staring at his partner. Reilly ended the short call, an expression of defeat on his face.
“What’s wrong?” asked Gardener.
“You’re not going to like this.”
“There’s not much I do like about this case so maybe you’d better tell me.”
“Summers just got police bail, with conditions.”
“What? How?”
“Not enough evidence to hold him on a murder charge. Smarmy lawyer. Contacts in high places, you name it. But it was the butler who nailed it for him.”