Impression (DI Gardener 4)

In the boom period, thought Gardener, when the Conservatives had made it possible for council tenants to own their own house at a knock down price.

“I can’t imagine Nicola Stapleton owned hers. Any idea who did, or was it council property, too?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think it belonged to the council anymore. None of them do. Nearly everyone round here bought their house. There are plenty of flats that are council-owned, or private landlord.”

Gardener wondered if Nicola Stapleton’s pimp owned her house. He could do to find out who did.

“Did she live alone?”

“As far as I know.”

Gardener paused slightly, before delivering the all-important question. “Did she have any children?”

“Oh no. I think she was a bit too careful for that. Well, I mean, what kind of a person in her line of business would have children? Put a bit of a dampener on things, wouldn’t it?”

Gardener pulled out the photograph of the girl he’d found underneath Nicola Stapleton, carefully wrapped in an evidence bag, and passed it over.

“Do you recognize the girl in this photograph?”

Beryl Potts squinted at it before speaking. “Just a second.” She reached into the sideboard, pulled out a pair of glasses, drawing the picture in close as she put them on to study it again. “I think I do.”

“Who is it?” asked Gardener.

“Do you mean to tell me you don’t?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Gardener, wondering why she would think he might.

“It’s the little girl that went missing from Esholt about two weeks ago.”

Chapter Six

Saturday 20th August

It was a little after five in the morning when John Wrigglesworth pulled up to the rear of the shops, switching off the lights and the engine. He was late; not that it mattered, he owned the shop.

He ran his hands through his hair and down his face. He was tired. He had taken over his father’s business twenty years ago. Little had changed, including the staff. He was sixty-three years old and despite loving what he did, there were times when he considered selling up and retiring.

He sighed heavily as he jumped out of the car, leaving the decision for another day. He was sure his wife and family would be happy to help him with that one.

With the car locked, he walked around to the front of the block. Glancing up at the sky, he saw that dawn had broken. The rest of the shops were in darkness. He doubted their owners had even woken up yet, let alone thought about opening.

A butcher, however, needed to do a lot more than sell his product before his doors were unlocked.

John heard male voices as he approached the main road. Despite the hour they were laughing and joking, obviously on an early shift like him. Turning the corner, he noticed little traffic other than public transport.

Of the two men he’d heard, both were late fifties, one smoking and coughing. Why people lit those things he would never know. Both men were dressed in flat caps and dark blue overalls, with heavy footwear, suggesting the engineering trade. One carried a hold-all, the other had his slung over a shoulder.

“Aye, aye, here he is,” shouted one, sniggering.

“Sweeney Todd’s got nowt on you, lad.”

John had no idea what they were talking about.

“Aye. I often wondered why your pies were so good.”

“Looks like your secret’s out this morning, John.”

“What the hell are you on about?” asked Wrigglesworth. “Have you been drinking? Just coming home instead of going?”