“Good to meet you at last, Mr Gardener, Mr Reilly. I’ve heard such a lot about you.” The desk sergeant offered his hand. “I’m Maurice Cragg.”
“Maybe we’d best leave now, then,” replied Reilly.
Gardener sensed Cragg was close to retirement. His features were solid and dependable, and the detective suspected that was probably a good measure of his character. He had close-cropped, iron grey hair, and a hard, rugged complexion – his face pock-marked. He was stocky, but not fat.
Gardener asked if there was somewhere they could talk, and Cragg took them through to the back room. He mentioned that although he was officially off-duty, he had no wife and family to return home to, so he was happy to put in an extra few hours to help.
Gardener and Reilly explained what they had found so far, and the fact that he would like to take over the station for the investigation.
“What can you tell us about Old Man Armitage, Maurice?”
“He’s a bit of a legend round these parts. Been running that business most of his life. Shop belonged to his father. He came into the business when he was fifteen. It’s a very old-fashioned place, run in an old-fashioned manner. You won’t find any computers in there, keeps everything in his head.”
That wasn’t what Gardener wanted to hear. It would certainly slow down the investigation.
“So he’s not likely to be involved in this, in your opinion?” asked Reilly.
Cragg’s expression could have frozen an active volcano. “No, Mr Reilly, not a chance.”
Gardener noted his opinion. “Okay, Maurice let’s get things sorted here and maybe you can give him a call. He needs to know what’s happened and we need to speak to him.”
Chapter Twelve
Graham Johnson lost his concentration for only a couple of seconds, less than the time it took to blink. The blade of the screwdriver slid forward, bounced into the guts of the phone he was working on, then somehow jumped clear and scraped across the ball of his left index finger.
“Bollocks!”
Graham hurled both screwdriver and phone across the room, where it bounced off a bench and disappeared behind the rest of the mess in the shop. That was the third one he’d ruined, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock.
What the hell was wrong with him?
After he’d checked his finger and decided he would live, he glanced in the direction of the items he’d thrown. He’d never see them again. The benches were covered with hard drives, keyboards, tower carcasses, speakers, and monitors.
Some would ask how he could ever find anything in such a godforsaken place. Finding time to clean would be a bonus. But business was booming, and it was all his. Everyone that came to him did so through word of mouth. He was very good at what he did, and he didn’t rip people off.
If his work was so profitable, why then did he not hire himself a cleaner, his mother had asked on more than one occasion. The answer to that one was pretty simple. Who in their right mind would want to attempt to clean up the mess he’d created? He had spent years making it; it’d probably take even longer to fully straighten out. That aside, though, he valued his privacy, and didn’t relish the intrusion into his work environment.
It wasn’t as if he couldn’t put his hands on any of the things he really wanted. That’s what surprised most people. Customers often entered, and the expression on their faces was one of such distaste that he could almost read their minds. They were trying to invent an excuse to leave: wrong shop; I’ve left my wallet at home; I don’t think you’ll have what I’m after. He’d heard them all. Within minutes however, he could overcome even the most awkward interaction with his devastating repartee and his charming manner.
Graham glanced at his watch and made his way to the back of the premises, deciding it would soon be time for his morning cuppa and a daily dose of the pop quiz on the radio. He’d have no problem finding that; it was the one item he refused to throw around no matter how foul his mood.
Graham eventually returned to the shop with tea and biscuits. He located a free stool and switched on the radio. The station was midway through playing one of his favourite oldies, We’re Through by The Hollies.
The bell to the front door pinged, and in walked two likely lads carrying a laptop. They were of school age – though why they weren’t attending classes today, he had no idea. Neither one of them could have weighed more than seven stone wet through. Both were wearing T-shirts, with faded denims that had vertical slits all the way down. Both had ginger hair and wore glasses.
The song on the radio finished and the DJ announced the quiz was about to start.
“You do know what time it is, don’t you?” said Graham to the pair. The brothers glanced at each other and then said “No” in unison, leaving Graham to ponder if the rest of their meeting would be spent the same way. He lifted his biscuits and pointed towards the lads as if he were holding a loaded shotgun.
“It’s quiz time. But if you guys behave yourselves, I’ll let you stay. If you manage to answer the questions correctly, I may even let you have a biscuit. And if you answer one that I can’t, then you can tell me why you’ve brought the laptop in.”
The brothers glanced at each other with concerned expressions, perhaps wondering what to make of the idiot with the biscuits.
“Do you understand the rules, boys?” asked Graham.
“Yes, sir,” replied one, nervously.
“Good, then let’s get started.”