Impression (DI Gardener 4)

Fitz approached the body and glanced down at it.

“You two just don’t give in, do you?”

“Come on, Fitz,” said Reilly. “You’re up now, no point going back to bed.”

Fitz smiled at the sarcasm. “What do we know?”

“Nothing much,” replied Gardener. He took the elderly pathologist through what the butcher had told him. Fitz leaned into the doorway and dropped to his knees for a closer inspection.

Gardener shouted to Colin Sharp. “I want a tent around the front of this shop as soon as possible.” Sharp nodded and reached for his phone.

“A tent?” questioned Wrigglesworth. “You mean I can’t open today?”

“I doubt you’ll be open for the rest of the week, Mr Wrigglesworth.”

The relative silence that followed was suddenly broken by a loud whining noise, as if from a lead guitar. The group glanced upwards. Gardener spotted an open window, and determined the music was playing from inside Morrison’s flat.

He sighed loudly. He didn’t know the song, but did recognize something important about it. Although it wasn’t the Millhaven song he’d heard playing at Nicola Stapleton’s house, it was definitely the same singer.

Chapter Nine

John Wrigglesworth unlocked the front door to the flat and let both detectives in. Gardener glanced around.

“How many rooms does it have?”

“Four,” replied Wrigglesworth. “Living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom.”

“Does he live here alone?”

“As far as I know.”

The living room was a standard size, around thirteen-feet square. It was clean and smelled fresh – but that could have been from the open window. A brown cord carpet covered the floor. Gardener saw a pair of two-seater settees, a TV, and a Sky system. One wall housed a fireplace with a mirror above it. Other than that, there was nothing to suggest it was someone’s home: no personal items, photos, or ornaments.

The song had stopped playing as they approached the front door, but had now started again. Gardener found the CD player and extracted the CD.

“Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds,” he said to Reilly. “Who the hell are they?”

“Someone who doesn’t rely on Simon Cowell for a living.”

The SIO held up the CD: Murder Ballads. “You don’t recognize it, then?”

“No,” said Reilly. “But the title fits. He’s doing a fucking good job of killing the songs.”

Gardener glanced in the bedroom: one bed, one wardrobe, one chest of drawers, and one chest at the end of the bed. The bathroom contained only the basics. Judging by what was in the fridge, the kitchen was an alien landscape to Barry Morrison. Gardener glanced inside the waste bin. It wasn’t full, but the takeaway cartons were mounting.

Reilly opened up one of the cupboards, which contained half a loaf of bread and two tins of beans. Morrison was no chef. Judging by what he’d seen on the doorstep, the man was dangerously unhealthy. The reason why was here in front of them. He preferred eating out to cooking at home.

“When did you last see him, Mr Wrigglesworth?”

“Yesterday.”

“How did he seem?”

“He were never any different. Never had a lot to say. Always seemed as if he wanted to be s

omewhere else.”

“What do you mean by that?”