Imposition (DI Gardener 5)

Carrie Fletcher froze. “You mean you haven’t got him?”

“No. We held on to him for three days. Questioned him relentlessly. But we had nothing to keep him on. He had a rock-solid alibi. We had to let him go.”

“And you’ve no idea where he is now?”

“I’m afraid not. We went to pick him up last night but we couldn’t find him. Have you any idea where he might be?”

Carrie Fletcher shook her head and clenched her fists. “No. None at all. I’ll be honest with you, I’m not happy about that man being on the loose. I really do not trust him. He’s a wife beater and an accomplished liar.”

Reilly leaned forward. “He may be, but do you think he’s a murderer?”

Carrie Fletcher returned the Irishman’s stare, but never answered the question.

Chapter Thirty-one

Patrick Edwards entered the music shop to a grave-like atmosphere. It wasn’t unusual for Terry not to have customers, but he always had the radio playing. Not today.

As he glanced around, Terry Jones appeared from the back of the shop and slipped in behind his counter. He was dressed as usual in a white shirt, brown tie, and a stained brown apron. “Thanks for coming, Patrick.”

“Call sounded urgent.”

“I think it is.” To back up the statement, Terry’s complexion was unusually pale. The shopkeeper was nervous. His body language spoke volumes. For some reason, Terry Jones was a man under pressure.

“Go on, then,” prompted Patrick.

The two had known each other for about eighteen months, pretty much around the time that Patrick had started his own band. The bigger music shops in Leeds were okay, but the bass player in the band said his dad knew the man who ran the music shop in Bursley Bridge personally, and that he would treat them right when it came to buying equipment. “I’ve had that Robbie one in here.”

“Robbie Carter? Today?”

Terry shook his head. “No, yesterday.”

“What did he want?”

“His guitar.”

“Surely he doesn’t think anyone’s stupid enough to bring it in here, does he?”

“I’d say he was covering all his bases. He told me his wife had bought it for him, and that it was stolen the night she died.”

Patrick nodded. “What else did he say?”

Terry Jones dropped fifty pounds on the counter. “Said that was mine if I came across it and told him first, not the police.”

“And you haven’t seen him since yesterday?”

“No.”

“He hasn’t contacted you at all? Not even by phone?”

“No. Why?”

“Have you seen the guitar?” he asked, removing his pad and pen.

Terry Jones swivelled his head in the direction of the back room. “It’s in there.”

The shopkeeper shuffled out from behind the counter and locked the front door, turning the sign to “Closed”. “Come with me,” he said.

Patrick followed. Sitting in amongst the equipment was a young man with a terrified expression. He was late teens at a guess, wore a suit jacket, blue T-shirt, and a pair of blue jeans and leather shoes, all good quality. His hair was combed in short back and sides. He was clean-shaven. Patrick caught the aromatic fragrance of a Lynx deodorant.