Impurity (DI Gardener 1)

She lit a cigarette, sighed, and slumped down heavily on the sofa. A cloud of dust billowed up around her.

He loathed cigarette smoke, but it was her flat.

“Where’s your baby?”

“With me mother.”

“What can you tell us about the man upstairs?” He picked up a photo of Nicki, her baby, and a third woman, perhaps her mother.

“Is he dead?” She exhaled a cloud of smoke.

Gardener glanced in her direction but didn’t speak. He figured his expression would be enough to answer her question.

“I didn’t like him. What’s it all about?”

Nicki started as Reilly spoke from the other side of the room. “We’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Come on, Nicki. What happened in the flat upstairs is serious. It’s our job to investigate. It doesn’t matter whether any of us like it or not. We need to work together,” said Gardener. “We’ll ask you a few questions, then we’ll be out of here. All we’re after is a little cooperation. Now, you said you didn’t like him. Why was that?”

“He were so high and bloody mighty. Thought he were above everybody. Look at this place. It’s hardly the Ritz, is it? Used to prance around as if he owned it. Professor Plum I used to call him, of Tudor Mansion.” Nicki snorted laughter. “A big, fat, ugly slob who thought he were important.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Do you know what he used to call us, all of us? ‘My dear.’ Slimy bastard. Is he dead?”

Gardener ignored her question. “So, we’ve established you didn’t like him. Why?” He replaced the photograph and strolled over to the window, his back to Nicki.

“He were a

pervert.”

Gardener turned to face her. “Clarify that statement.”

“He flashed at me once.”

“Where?”

“Up there on the top landing. It were ages ago.” As she finished her cigarette, she lit another with the stub of the first. “He were drunk. Bloody fond of a drink, he were. Always comin’ home late, pissed, causing a racket, shoutin’ and bangin’ into things. Used to hammer on me friggin’ door as he went past, thought it were funny to wake the baby. Anyway, he did it this night. She were at bingo…”

“Who?” Gardener asked.

“Olive Bloody Bradshaw.” Nicki Carter leaned forward but remained seated, her expression angry. “You wanna ask her about him. There’s summat goin’ on between ’em, if you ask me. Well, this Friday night he comes home drunk, as usual. It were about midnight. Starts bangin’ on the door. I couldn’t hear what he were sayin’ because I had the telly on. Did it about three times. I got up in the end. When I opened the door, he were halfway upstairs. I asked him what the bloody hell he were playin’ at, and he just turned round, had his cock in his hand, said I could play with that if I wanted and just started laughin’. Bastard!”

“Did you report it?”

“What’s the point? What would you lot have done? It were my word against his. By the time you lot had got here he’d have been asleep. He’d have denied it anyway.”

“That’s not the point, Nicki. We can’t do anything if you don’t tell us.”

The girl stood up and walked into the kitchen. She came back with a can of lager. “Do you want one?”

“No, thank you. We’re on duty.”

Sitting back down, she took a long drink, and followed it with a guttural belch. “Nasty bastard as well; had a right temper. Cornered me on the stairs once, outside me flat. I were rushin’, gettin’ the baby ready to take to me mam’s. As I got outside, he were rushin’ by the door. We bumped into each other.”

Gardener noticed the expression on her face, a mixture of fear and disgust. He could tell she hated Plum but suspected it went deeper than one or two isolated incidents.

“He dropped a brown paper bag, and a load of porn mags fell out,” she continued. “I picked one up, see, to have a laugh. I could just imagine him, sat up there most nights playin’ with himself over these mags. Went bloody mad, he did. Pushed me up against the door. All he did were stare at me, didn’t say nothin’. Picked up his mags and pointed a finger at me, then carried on upstairs.”