Impurity (DI Gardener 1)

Reilly pulled Summers closer still. “You know where he is, don’t you?”

“Detective Sergeant Reilly,” shouted a panting Dawson.

Summers screamed like a frightened child. “Please, get him off me. I’ve never killed anyone.”

Briggs managed to break Reilly’s hold. The Irishman backed off, still blazing.

“Can I have a word in private, Sean?” Briggs asked, already walking toward the door.

Outside, in the corridor, he went on the attack.

“Jesus Christ, Sean! Have you lost your bloody marbles? In front of his solicitor, as well!”

Reilly lowered his voice. “That bastard’s guilty, and you know it.”

“I’ll admit the evidence is stacked against him,” said Briggs. “But there’s still a long way to go, and without a confession, we have to keep pushing.”

As Briggs went back to the door, he turned to face Reilly before opening it. “Let me take it from here.”

Briggs returned to face Summers and Dawson.

It was Dawson who spoke. “That was the most appalling behaviour I’ve ever seen from a policeman. I shall, of course, be filing a complaint, and probably a lawsuit.”

Dawson mopped his brow yet again.

“Feel free to do what you want. But until I’m satisfied of your client’s innocence, he’s staying in custody. Now, if you’d like to come back tomorrow, we’ll resume questioning him.”

“You haven’t heard the last of this.”

“No, I don’t suppose we have,” replied Briggs.

Dawson turned his attention to Summers. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Derek. Don’t you worry about a thing. Don’t say a word to anyone without me.”

Summers merely nodded, too distraught to reply.

Reilly watched as Dawson left, oblivious to the solicitor’s scowl.

Chapter Seventy-one

Shortly after six o’clock, when Reilly had calmed down, he tried to contact Gardener for the fourth time. His superior’s mobile was still switched off.

He called Malcolm, who confirmed he had not heard from his son.

Reilly leaned

back in his chair and sighed, concerned.

He’d sent him into the city. He would have to go and retrieve him.

Chapter Seventy-two

Gardener shook himself awake and groaned. He felt rough, groggy. He struggled to focus. The pain in his head resembled a hangover. Every muscle in his body ached, especially his ribs. Gardener’s mouth was dry. Remnants of a coppery taste lingered. His eyes cleared. His vision returned.

Gardener tried to raise himself, but the soreness in his ribs wouldn’t allow much freedom of movement. He became aware of how tender his face was. His left cheek appeared to be housing a tennis ball underneath the skin. He touched it, wishing he hadn’t.

“Keep still. You’ll hurt yourself.” The voice was deep and resonant.

Gardener glanced in its direction and understood why.