Impurity (DI Gardener 1)

Chapter Thirty-six

Gardener stood up and stretched his aching muscles, sighing loudly as he did so. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was still early, a little after seven o’clock. He’d spent the last three hours in the garage tending to the needs of the Bonneville.

He’d arrived home a little after one o’clock. The house was still warm. Everyone had retired for the night. He’d made some tea and sat near the fireplace, trying to figure out the mess he called his mind. As much as he liked the minister, he simply couldn’t see himself being anything more than a friend. It was far too early to start a relationship with anyone. Maybe he never would again. Even if he hadn’t been frightened of starting something physical, the timing was not right. His workload was too demanding.

Gardener had fallen asleep in the chair, empty mug in hand. He awoke two hours later when the room had chilled. Instead of going to bed, he made another drink, changed into his work gear, and slipped into the garage, confident that it would help him relax and think more clearly.

He’d really made some headway with the Bonneville. He’d managed to lift it into a specially made frame his father had put together years ago for his own bikes. From there he’d removed the wheels and the exhaust pipes, both of which were going to need extensive renovation. But he wasn’t going anywhere. He had time on his side.

He’d read that the bike had a compression ratio of 8.5:1, was fitted with an alloy head, a half-race inlet camshaft, and Amal Monobloc carburettors fed by a remote float chamber. None of which he fully understood the function of, but all of which were now on the bench in front of him. He was happy with what he’d achieved.

The garage door that led into the house opened. His father walked in. “Here you are.”

“Morning, Dad.”

“I was getting a little concerned about you. Your bed’s not been slept in. Kettle’s boiled. Would you like something?”

“Please. Where’s Chris?”

“In his room.”

They headed into the kitchen. Malcolm put a cup of herbal tea on the table, sitting opposite Gardener. “You look as if you haven’t slept all night.”

“Well, not much of it anyway. I was home about one. Fell asleep in the chair. Woke up a couple of hours later and went into the garage.”

“Looks like the Bonneville was a good investment.”

Gardener thought about that. “I’m beginning to think so. I just wish Sarah was here to see it.”

“I’m sure she’s watching from somewhere.”

“I sincerely hope so.” He sipped more of his tea.

“How’s Chris?”

“Disappointed. A little concerned. Maybe you should have let us know you were home.”

“I know.” Gardener took another sip. “About last night. It wasn’t what you think. In fact, far from it.”

Malcolm leaned forward. “You don’t owe me any explanations, son. There are some things in our lives we should keep private. I should think my son’s love life might be one of them.”

“Chris might be looking for answers.”

“It’s a difficult time for him. Psychologically, he probably hasn’t recovered from his mother’s death yet. Give him time, he’ll come round.”

His father’s response, although wise, did nothing to alleviate his guilt. “What did you end up doing yesterday?”

“I took him into town. Spent a bit of money. We had dinner, tea, and then went to the cinema as planned.”

Although his father was seventy, he was fit for his age. He stood a little over six feet, with a full head of steel grey hair and a strong, angular face. Gardener envied his father’s physique and his complexion, which – in his opinion – had been the result of a good standard of living and plenty of fresh air.

“Stop worrying about him.” His father paused. “Hark at me. I worry about you. You work all the hours God sends. It’s time you thought about yourself. Did something with your life other than work.”

“I have to work hard,” replied Gardener wearily. “These cases won’t solve themselves.”

“There are other policemen.”

“But they all take their orders from me. It’s not the type of job where you can switch off. There’s always someone committing a crime somewhere. Almost every minute of every day. The problem I have at the moment is two murders on my patch at the wrong time of the year. Not that there’s a good time, but Christmas fast approaching doesn’t help.”