Impurity (DI Gardener 1)

The vagrant grabbed a menthol cigarette from a nearby table and lit it. Gardener sat back and told him what he knew, explaining the case in detail. Crisp barely interrupted. When Gardener finished, the well-spoken vagrant merely stared at the dancing flames.

He finally spoke, quietly. “‘I should renounce the devil and all his works, the pomps and vanity of this wicked world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh.’” He paused. “I’ve done you no favours, Mr Gardener. I should have spoken out sooner.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bob Crisp took a drag on his cigarette and blew out more smoke. He turned to face Gardener, his eyes imploring forgiveness.

“I used to work for Derek Summers. The man you call Warthead is his son. I know nothing more. Not even the identity of his mother. From what I have gathered, the misshapen head and the warts are a genetic defect. Another story is that Summers beat the girl who carried the child, and the result is what you see.”

“How were you involved with Summers?”

“I’m a solicitor by profession, Mr Gardener. Many years back I was disbarred, discredited. I now live underground in fear of my life. Hence, the reason I travel nowhere without The Bear. All because of Derek Summers. He’s a nasty piece of work, sir, and you must learn not to trust a word he says. He is a depraved person. I know nothing of his childhood, nor any family save a daughter whom, according to rumour, he abused. And the son you call Warthead. I have no idea where the blame lay for the things he does.”

Gardener’s flesh crawled. Could Summers be everything all rolled into one? Abductor? Paedophile? Killer?

Bob Crisp’s face bore a saddened expression. He too had suffered at the hands of Derek Summers. Gardener had the impression Crisp was pursuing exoneration. As if he was guilty by association.

“Bob, can you prove any of what you’re telling me? How do you know? How does my son tie in?”

“Knowledge is of two kinds. We know a subject ourselves, or we know where we can find information about it. Derek Summers makes the films himself. He makes them at home.”

Gardener thought about Reilly’s comment. He’d said he didn’t think they’d seen the whole house. “Where?”

“He has a secret underground chamber that you wouldn’t know about unless you’d stumbled across it. Like I did. Are you familiar with the house?”

“A little. Not as much as my partner.”

Crisp chuckled. “‘What is friendship? A single soul dwelling in two bodies.’ The Irishman. You should value his friendship. He is your closest ally. Do you know the library?”

“The room beyond the study?”

“One and the same. Above one of the panels is a coat of arms. Move it and you gain entry. Down there you will find the film studio, cameras, lights, everything you need. It’s a multimillion-pound industry, Mr Gardener, governed and controlled by very dangerous people. As I found out.”

The Bear suddenly threw more logs onto the fire as the vagrant called George returned to the spit. Despite the roaring flames, it felt cold. Gardener felt despondent, consumed by the icy flames of defeat. How many times had they interrogated Summers, only to let him slip through the net? He couldn’t believe he had let Summers go. Gardener urged Crisp. “What did you find out, Bob?”

“All I needed to know. It was late. I was in the office sorting through a lawsuit against Summers. A female client. He’d been withholding money. He said her act was substandard and she’d cost him a fortune. She claimed he’d tried to interfere with her. He beat her almost senseless when she spurned his advances. He only beats women and children.

“I left the office and went to the house. The butler said he was in the library. As I entered, I noticed the coat of arms cocked over to the right. A false wall panel lay open. I heard voices coming from a set of stairs b

eyond. At the bottom, I found Summers in a director’s chair, behind one of the cameras. A grown man and two teenage girls were on the bed. Need I say more, Mr Gardener? Summers was also naked. Another teenager performed oral sex on him. Whether he’d been careless in leaving the panel open, I’m not sure. Whether the butler knew, I’ve no idea.”

Crisp lit another cigarette, lost in the haunting memories. After what he’d described, Gardener couldn’t blame him. He felt there was more to the story. George and The Bear paid little heed, as if they’d heard it all before.

“I was outraged, as any decent person would be. I threatened to call the police. Summers also made threats. Within a week, I’d been disbarred, discredited as a corrupt solicitor. Summers had forged documents and payments to make it look as if I had been directly involved. My own wife and child were killed in a horrific car accident. Faulty brakes, they said. The car had only passed an MOT that same afternoon. So, I know different. I can prove none of what I’m saying.

“A week later, my house had been reduced to ashes and, so too, had my life. I’ve been here ever since. Underground. You’ve no idea, Mr Gardener, what you’re up against. Such power. ‘Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ You may fare better than I, with the influence of the police behind you.”

“Why have you never told anyone?” asked Gardener.

Crisp’s satirical cackle echoed off every wall. “Why indeed? What is it Robert Frost once said? ‘I never dared be radical when young for fear it would make me conservative when old.’ I have nothing left to lose. Unlike you, with your son.”

Gardener’s bones chilled to the marrow.

“Go to the house tonight, for you have little time to lose. Save your son, he’ll be there.”

Bob Crisp rose and reached into a cupboard on the wall. “Take these.”

“What are they?”