Impurity (DI Gardener 1)

Gardener studied his watch. Six hours he’d been in the city centre. It felt like six years. At two o’clock in the morning, the bustling metropolis was an alien environment to him – a collection of unfamiliar landscapes in a world where he no longer felt socially adept. Late night revellers spilled out of clubs singing Christmas carols, filling their faces, or groping each other while waiting in taxi ranks.

In the early hours, the city streets smelled of fuel and vomit and urine as drunks fought to gain access to doorways or telephone booths or anywhere they could find to perform bodily functions. The noise was phenomenal, more akin to rush hour on a Friday night. Unlike peak time, however, the noise and the crowds died quickly, leaving Gardener alone.

He was sitting on a park bench on the grounds of St John’s Church, next to the kiosk where he’d first met Bob Crisp. Despite not knowing where to start, the obvious answer had been the city’s down-and-outs. Surprisingly, there were very few around. Those he had come across were either intoxicated or refused to speak to him, possibly realizing that no matter how he dressed, he was not one of them. The few who were prepared to give him the time of day were rendered mentally incapacitated at the mere mention of Bob Crisp, or The Bear.

Gardener felt totally inadequate. More than once he’d questioned his motives and his actions. Shouldn’t he be out searching for Chris, rather than some vagrant that may or may not have the answer? Gardener was confident his son had been lured away by Warthead. Like the other teenagers. Shouldn’t he be searching for Felix, or whatever he called himself?

His spine crawled. He felt sick to the stomach as the words of Lesley Vickers returned to haunt him. A vivid mental picture of the day they stood by her son’s grave entered his head. It might be y

our son next time. He couldn’t let that happen. Anger was building within Gardener like a volcano. If he so much as caught sight of Warthead, he’d kill him on the spot with his bare hands. After he’d found out where Chris was.

He stood up and sighed. It was late. He was tired, hungry, and cold. He smelled. His mood was totally despondent. The only person in the world that mattered to him was missing – God knows where, being subjected to God knows what. He didn’t have a clue where to start his search. Nor could he find the one person his partner suspected may provide him with answers.

Could life be any worse?

As if on cue, a voice behind him spoke up and said, “Well, look what we have here, boys.”

Chapter Sixty-eight

Chris heard the rattle of crockery beyond the door at the far side of the room. The door unlocked, and in stepped the small man and the elderly butler he’d seen yesterday. At least, Chris thought he was a butler.

“Ah, Christopher. And how are you this morning?”

Chris didn’t reply. He didn’t want to. He was struggling to remember exactly what had happened. He could recall leaving school to go to the chip shop, but he’d never made it there. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the room in which he was now being held prisoner.

“I’ve brought your breakfast, young man. Of course, not knowing your preference, I’ve chosen cereal and toast. I hope you like it.”

Chris was frightened. No one had done anything to him since he’d woken, but he was still unsettled. He had no idea where he was, how long he’d been here, or why. Or what these two wanted of him. As he glanced around the room, it reminded him a little of his dad’s bedroom. It had a big bed, a sink in the corner, a separate shower room. It was clean and warm, but not to his taste.

“I do wish you’d talk to me, Christopher.” The small, bespectacled man turned to the butler. “Don’t you, Alfred?” He turned his attention back to Chris. “It’ll make things easier for you in the long run.”

Chris realized the advice was probably good. It may be better for him if he played along. He found himself thinking about David Vickers, wondering if he’d been in the same situation. He didn’t want to end up like his friend. His guts swelled, his fear mounting. “Where am I?” he asked.

“I see you’ve found your voice at last. Such a sweet little sound, don’t you think, Alfred? You don’t need to know just yet. Not that it would make much difference. You couldn’t do anything about it.”

Chris wrinkled his nose. He could smell stale cigar smoke on the little man’s clothes, and on his breath. He turned his head away from them. “You can’t keep me here forever.”

“I have no wish to.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Because I want you here. For now.”

Chris turned on his captors. “Why? When my dad finds out, you’re in for it. He’ll sort you out, both of you. He’s a cop.”

The thought of his father brought a tear to his eye and a lump to his throat. He remembered their recent argument and the things that had been said. He’d made his point, but he didn’t feel any better about it now. He couldn’t understand why he’d done it.

“It’s taken you a while to mention your dad, hasn’t it? I must admit, I wondered when you would. It may come as a shock to you, but I know your father.”

It did come as a shock to Chris. If the little man knew his dad, then why hadn’t they met before? That meant he had a record. It was a thought that terrified Chris. One that regurgitated the memory of his friend David. He felt pressure on his bladder.

“Well, if you do know my dad like you say, then you’ll know what a mistake it is trying to keep me here.” Chris’s bravado made him feel a little better.

“You’re sure about that, are you?”

“Too right, I am. When he finds out I’m here, you’ve had it!”

The little man laughed. “Oh, I doubt it.”