by Ray Clark
“What did he do?”
“Took the rap,” replied Reilly, disappointed. “He’s claiming it was all down to him.”
“He’s claiming he killed them all?”
Reilly nodded.
“He’s lying, he’s not capable. He’s even older than Batman’s butler and that’s saying something,” said Gardener, even more frustrated.
“We know he’s lying, boss, but we’re still gonna have to investigate his claims. All he’s done is delay the inevitable and made our jobs a lot harder.”
Gardener went to the sink for a glass of water, when a wave of nausea overtook him. He stopped dead in his tracks as a new thought entered his mind.
He turned, picking up the photo of Summers from the table, studying the eyes closely.
He knew immediately that he had seen them before.
Chapter Seventy-eight
Summers closed the rear door of the taxi and paid the driver with cash through the front window. As the vehicle turned and meandered back down the drive, Summers peered into the darkness at the silhouette of the house, which was anything but inviting.
His mind was a mess, full of thoughts he couldn’t hold on to. Uppermost, however, was who had been responsible for killing his colleagues? He knew for a fact that Alfred wasn’t, despite claiming he was. The butler was too old, too fragile and did not really have the intelligence to carry out such a plan. Apart from that, he spent most of his days tending to Summers, and pampering to his every whim. Aside from the shopping he did once weekly, the man hardly ever left the house.
So why had he taken the blame?
Originally, he had suspected one of the four Santas, but now they were all dead. What he didn’t know was why. Was there any connection to him, or had they all been killed for some other reason: crossed some other person? It was possible. But he certainly didn’t think that hanging around was a good idea, in case he became the next victim. No, it was time he made himself scarce, until the heat died down. If it ever would. He didn’t think he was off the hook yet.
Question was, where to go: the police had his passport.
Summers climbed the steps to the front door, shocked to see one of the windows had been smashed; furthermore, whoever had done that had used one of his own planters, another possible reminder that he may be connected to the murders of his friends.
A sharp tapping sound to his left spooked him. Summers glanced around, strained his eyes but it was too dark to see anything.
Quickly, he reached into his left side jacket pocket and pulled out his house keys. Once inside with the door locked, he’d feel better. Although why, he wasn’t sure. Whoever had smashed his window could still be in there.
Glancing around the house, he noticed the place was in darkness. That could work to his advantage if he had an intruder. At least he knew his own house.
Quickly rushing in, he turned and locked the front door and immediately switched on the light. Apart from the mess that the planter had caused – soil, glass and the like – nothing else was out of place.
Summers took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the landing, he switched on another light. Nothing untoward.
He crept over to his bedroom and opened the door carefully. With the light on, he studied the room. All clear. He reached up to a wardrobe and pulled a suitcase down and onto the bed. Rifling through drawers and cupboards made him feel like a burglar.
He slipped into the en-suite bathroom and collected everything he thought he might need for a few days.
As he stood by the bed, he strained his ears, but the house was quiet. He hadn’t yet come across anything missing so, what the hell had happened at the front of the house, he had no idea.
A sudden thought hit him. Although the police may have gone through the place, he could pretty much guarantee they wouldn’t have found everything capable of incriminating him. He had two separate safes hidden within the ground floor of the house that he needed to check on.
Summers dropped his toiletries on the bed and left the room, taking the staircase to the ground floor.
He ran down the passage to the back of the house, to his study.
As soon as he opened the door, he stopped dead in his tracks, shocked. Why was the study the only room in the house with the lights on?
He peered around the room. Everything was in order. He crept forward very slowly, glancing into every corner. As he reached his desk, he bent down, slowly circling the piece of furniture. There was no one squashed into the gap behind, where he normally sat.
He turned and faced the door in the corner – the one that led into the library. Creeping slowly forward, he picked up a letter opener from the desk. It wasn’t much but it might come in handy.
As he opened the door, he had his second shock. The coat of arms was at an odd angle and the panel was open, allowing access to the film studio.
Summers was sweating profusely, his breathing heavier. His stomach rumbled and he considered himself lucky there was nothing in it, otherwise he couldn’t guarantee how long it would stay there.
Studying the library, he realized it would be impossible for anyone to hide. He had no alternative but to take the steps down into the film studio, meaning any element of surprise was now gone.
He could always turn and flee. But it would all depend on who was waiting for him. If it was that lunatic Irishman who tried to kill him at the police station, Summers would be wasting his time. He couldn’t outrun him in a month of Sundays.
No, he wouldn’t do that. It was his house and it was up to him to check and see what was happening.
He strolled to the edge of the stairs. Staring down, he could see the lights were on.
“If there’s anyone down there you’d better come out now.”
There was no reply.
“I’m armed,” shouted Summers. “The police are on their way.”
The silence was deafening.
He descended the steps, the paper opener held out at arm’s length, his other arm on the banister to steady himself.
It seemed like hours before he reached the bottom. When he did, he received his third and near fatal shock.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Chapter Seventy-nine
The surface of the table was covered with paper. Reilly and Malcolm were standing, bent forward, reading passages. Chris was still in his room.
Gardener glanced at Reilly, pleased with Colin Sharp’s dedication, disappointed by his own lack of perception.
“Got it,” said Reilly. “Derek Summers started his working life with a newspaper. Seems he was quite committed. Worked his way through the ranks. Made senior editor in ’79. A quick worker, by the look of things. He actually took over the newspaper in 1980. The report says he made his money by selling a couple of Van Gogh paintings.”
“They would have been his father’s,” interrupted Malcolm. “Anei told me Sid’s father had brought the treasure back. She said it was German. He obviously saw it as his insurance. I’ll bet his poor mother didn’t know about the Van Goghs.”
“I’ll bet she didn’t,” said Reilly. “According to the report, and the witnesses Sharp has managed to speak to, Sid Summers died of pneumonia. Sources say Derek blamed the newspaper for sending his father out to cover a story in bad weather.”
“Why would his father need to work if he had the proceeds from the stolen treasure?” asked Malcolm.
“Who knows? Perhaps there wasn’t as much as you think. Maybe his despicable son had managed to filter it away over the years, leaving the old couple penniless,” offered Reilly.
Gardener was sitting in a chair, physically and mentally worn out. His ribs were killing him. “Does it say anything about Jacqueline?”
Reilly held the report aloft. “Not a lot. She was born in 1972, but for some reason disappeared around 1985.”
“Which was obviously when she went to live with her aunt,” said Malcolm.
After searching, Reilly found another file. “Wait a minute. She we
nt to university in 1990. From there, she attended the ministerial college in Bristol. Finally, in 1997, she started her first ministerial circuit in Cornwall.”
“Have we got any paracetamol, Dad?” Gardener asked.
Malcolm nodded, reached into a cupboard, passing two over with a glass of water. Gardener swallowed them. He was deflated by all the new information. He ran his hands through his hair, scraped his scalp, and then slammed them down on the table.
“Why didn’t I see it? All the signs were there!” Gardener raised his head, his eyes meeting Reilly’s. “It’s Jacqueline.” His tone was one of total humiliation, as if all the blame was his own.
“She had the access to the plants. She told me she’d studied biology. She even intimated how bad her relationship with her father was. He was a nasty piece of work. She told me a few of the things he’d done. She obviously chose to leave out some of the more emotionally distressing incidents. She was harbouring so much hate for him. I’m certain her father abused her. Perhaps the others were in on it as well. It accounts for her living with her aunt and taking the Romanian family name.”
Gardener glanced at Malcolm. “For God’s sake! Why didn’t I see it?”
“Jacqueline... a killer?” Malcolm seemed stunned, defeated. “No, she can’t be, son. You must have it wrong.”
“I saw her on Monday morning in the store, minutes after it had happened. She said she was with her aunt.” Gardener glanced at his partner. “Sean, ring the station, will you? Get someone to go over all the witness statements, check all the names. Tell them what they’re looking for.”
“There must be some mistake,” said Malcolm, still refusing to accept it.
After a strained silence, Gardener heard his partner replace the receiver. “They’re on to it.”
“What do we do now?” Gardener asked.
Reilly’s hard eyes softened. He shrugged his shoulders. “What are your choices?”
Gardener turned to his father. “They’re not coming back, are they? Jacqueline and Anei?”
Malcolm sighed, his expression one of defeat. “It doesn’t look like it. But if, as you say, Jacqueline’s killed them all, she won’t leave without finishing the job.”
Gardener rose from the chair and picked up the phone. He rang the vicarage, hoping he might hear the minister’s voice. No one answered. He phoned Anei. The call remained unanswered.
“Sean, grab your car keys.”
“Where are we going?”
Gardener thought about that. “Could be one of two places. The airport, or his place.”
“If he’s on bail we’ll have his passport,” said Reilly, “so I doubt he would try to leave the country.”
“But she can.”
“Not without finishing what she started,” added Malcolm.
“In that case, there’s only one place to go,” said Gardener, glancing at Reilly, “if he’s right, they’re all at his place.”
Chapter Eighty
“Hello, Father,” said Jacqueline, “at last, we meet again.”
It was probably the first and only time in her life Jacqueline had sensed genuine concern in her father’s expression. It certainly wasn’t surprise.
He glanced around the film studio, probably assessing whether or not he had an advantage. He may well have, thought Jacqueline. After all, his only competition was his daughter, and her aunt Anei, who was currently sitting opposite Jacqueline, in the director’s chair to his right, with her hands in her pockets.
Summers turned to Jacqueline and made a move toward her. His arms were spread openly, as if welcoming her but, as long as he had the letter opener in one of them, he would be a danger.
“Jacqueline, Anei, it’s so good to see you both.”
“Don’t you dare come near me!” she spat venomously; a warning finger raised. From behind her back, she brought the syringe into view, pressing the plunger: the clear liquid inside jettisoned out.
Summers stepped back, maintaining his position at the bottom of the stairs, without further comment. The tension could have been cut with a knife.
Jacqueline studied her father. He had changed little since she’d last seen him, which was more than twenty years ago. His face had aged accordingly. What most people shrugged off as laughter lines could only be crevices of guilt, following a life of fraud and deception and, most likely, debauchery. He was dressed in a crumpled grey suit with a white shirt and a grey tie. He smelled of stale sweat.
“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”
Her father bore a puzzled expression. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
Anei rolled her eyes and groaned.
“Don’t patronize me! You didn’t stop at me, did you? Raping and defiling your own daughter wasn’t enough for you.” Jacqueline fought to keep her emotions under control. Feelings she had harboured for years. It would be so easy to lose it now. But she couldn’t allow the reptile who had claimed to be her father the satisfaction of seeing that happen. “In fact, it was just the start. You had whetted your appetite with me.”
“Jacqueline, please.”
Here it is, she thought, the personality change. He’d obviously decided that ignorance wasn’t going to work. His next tactic would be sympathy. She knew only too well, even after all these years, that once he realized all was lost, he would become angry. Perhaps he would resort to violence.
“Jacqueline, please listen to me. You have to understand, we were drunk, we didn’t know what we were doing.”
“Don’t you dare use that excuse on me! You knew perfectly well what you were doing.”
“No, Jacqueline, we didn’t...” He eased himself away from the bottom step.
“Stay where you are!”
She found it hard to believe one person could store up so much hatred for another. “You knew exactly what you were doing. Not once did you stop to think about me. About how I felt.”
Jacqueline trembled with rage. She felt cold, hollow. Her insides churned. She thought she would be sick as she struggled desperately to hold on to her dignity. “I was too young to realize what you were doing when you first started. How convenient my mother’s death must have been. You had the perfect excuse. You could sleep with your little girl whenever you wanted. Because your wife had died, you used your daughter for comfort.
“You insisted it would be our little secret, that we were doing nothing wrong. At first, I suppose I thought there was no harm. It was just a cuddle. It didn’t take you very long to start touching, though, did it? Our little secret you said, yet again.”
“Jacqueline, please…”
“Shut up! You told me everything we did was natural, that every father and daughter did it.” Jacqueline shuddered. “My mother had died, and all you could do was abuse me.
“Did you ever love my mother? Have you ever loved anyone but yourself? You have no idea how I felt. I desperately wanted to tell someone. Even at that young age, I didn’t think it was right. Do you know how unlucky I was? I had one friend at school.”
She thought back to that day, the time when she’d finally decided to confide in Jayne. Jacqueline could still picture her friend’s long, black, braided hair, the pretty blue eyes, her wide, innocent smile. How her life had almost crumbled with her friend’s answer.
“Eventually, I found the courage to tell her. And do you know what she said? She told me her father did it to her.
“You disgust me! What you couldn’t get from your wife, you took from me. I was ten years old. I needed comfort. I wanted reassurance that I could make it. I needed you because I had no mother. And what did you do?”
“It wasn’t like that,” he replied, as if her accusations were unfounded.
She noticed the expression in his eyes, realizing his mood was changing. “Well, what was it like?” She glared at him. “In fact, don’t bother explaining. I’ve heard enough of your lies to last me a lifetime.”
Her father’s wrath was escalating, despite his silence. He w
as beginning to lose control. His mouth was a grimace, his fingers clenching and unclenching. His eyes were impenetrable.
She didn’t care. There was nothing more he could do to harm her, and it only served to make her task easier.
Jacqueline’s voice lowered to a whisper. “You’ve no idea how frightened I was the night you really decided to take control. You’d all been drinking to celebrate your takeover of the newspaper. God knows what little stunt you’d pulled to manage that one. My bedroom door shot open. I remember the light flooding in, and your slobbering, drunken silhouette filling the gap.”
Jacqueline glanced upwards. She wanted to kill him now, but realized how much better it would make her feel if she could possibly instil even a portion of the fear into him that she herself had felt thirty years previous.
“You dragged me from my bed. Down the stairs. The four perverts you called your friends were all waiting for me. For their prize. I have no idea what you’d said to them, but the look on their faces told me all I needed to know. They were all dressed in Santa suits. I realized what my present was going to be. Have you any idea what I was thinking? Four men, all standing there, knowing there was nothing I could do. Nowhere to run. Did you even care?”
Her father’s fists balled, ready for attack. He was no match for Jacqueline.
“I tried to run. I thought, at least if I made the effort, you might spare me.” Jacqueline forced a restricted chuckle. “God, how wrong I was! All I received for my effort was a punch in the face. I remember hitting the cupboard, chipping my tooth. A constant reminder to me of that night. As if I needed one.” She fought hard to restrain her tears.
“Venin,” spat Anei.
“Jacqueline!” The depth of his voice carried a warning, as though, somehow, he could still control his little girl.
“Don’t! Don’t try to stop me!” She paused, long enough to regain her composure. Why she was explaining to him, she didn’t know. Perhaps he should be made aware of her feelings, past and present. Maybe she wanted to shame him. One thing she knew for certain, she somehow had to release her own pent-up emotions.