Impression (DI Gardener 4)

Home was a converted barn on the side of the Leeds-Liverpool canal, about two miles outside of Rodley. The lower section of the building allowed for secure parking for his bikes. The upper section was divided into living accommodation, featuring three bedrooms, a bathroom, a living area, and a kitchen.

To the rear of the property, all open fields. The canal ran along the front. It was a pretty sought-after residence, especially during the summer. Many people who walked their dogs along the towpath while watching the boats pass by had often made him an offer.

A noise from the TV in the living room distracted his thoughts. At the moment, he had a houseguest. In the short term they were fine, and his wouldn’t be staying long.

He thought of his family again: father, mother, and sister, all gone. He had no fear of dying. If what they said was true about the afterlife, he would meet up with them all again. He owed his father so much.

Chris had started his working life at an early age. When he was little more than eight years old, his first employment had been in a filling station. The garage belonged to a friend of his father’s who happened to mention over a drink one night in the pub that he needed a Saturday person for a bit of cleaning. Chris had been suggested because he’d been helping his father at his yard. By the time he was ten years old he had progressed to working in the shop a little, checking and marking stock after deliveries, before helping to serve on the pumps.

He felt a sudden pain in his stomach, but it soon passed. He had no idea if it was a symptom of his condition. He thought once again about Trent’s offer to try yet more drugs. What was the point? The ones he’d tried had not worked. It was doubtful anything else would.

Chris finished his water and chucked the plastic bottle in the blue bin as he passed. Upstairs in his study, he checked his computer manifest and the deliveries for the evening ahead. Saturday night was usually quiet. He picked up the blue phone and set it aside. That would go with the blue bike. Blue were Medicare’s colours, and that was the company he worked for on a weekend.

He printed off the manifest in the order he chose to do the drops. He always worked to a circular route and was pretty much in the same place at the same time every week. There were those who reckoned they could set their clock by him, which was how he liked things.

Chris had a very methodical mind, planning everything to the last detail: he always knew where he was going to be, and when. A different bike and a different phone for each client, contracting for each company on set days. His bikes had a specially adapted frame to hold all five phones, with a Bluetooth connection fitted inside his crash helmet should an emergency arise.

Glancing at his watch, he realized he would have to leave soon. He turned and left the study and made his way to the kitchen, to prepare a drink for his houseguest before leaving.

The room was spotless, clinically clean: a place for everything, and everything in its place. Chris could not abide mess. Life had to be like that. You had to be in control.

Pity he wasn’t now.

Chapter Twenty-two

Earlier in the day, Raymond Allen had shadowed Vincent – the man who considered himself a detective. He couldn’t find a date, thought Allen.

He’d followed him into Oldham’s chemist on Guiseley Road. Vincent and the owner, John, were big pals. Thick as thieves, following an incident a few years back. Although Allen had to be careful, he’d managed to stay close without being seen. Vincent was rattling on about a double murder in Batley, reckoned he was going to use his influence to find out what was going on.

That was a laugh. The police wouldn’t listen to him. He’d failed at almost everything in life, which Allen found interesting considering Vincent’s family tree: every one of them had been in the newspaper game, starting with a distant relative by the name of Edward Baines, who’d bought and turned The Leeds Mercury into something special. All Vincent had managed was a second-rate daily blog on an obscure racing website.

Allen and Vincent had history: a spell in the Rampton high security psychiatric hospital had been the result for Allen. He’d spent his time well, studying true crime and medicine.

Vincent’s conversation with Oldham had given Allen an idea. He’d taken a bus to Batley, and Hume Crescent. The scene tape separated the house from the crowd of onlookers, but they were there in numbers.

Speculation was rife. The occupant had been s

tripped naked, tied to a chair, raped at least a dozen times, savagely beaten up – there was blood all over the house. It would take a specialist team months to clean it up. She’d been stabbed a dozen times and pinned to the floor, reports varied from a kitchen knife to a spear.

From there, he’d visited the second murder scene, which was the same as the first but no one knew anything for certain. The story doing the rounds was the body in the doorway had been poisoned.

Allen had returned to the Morrisons store in Guiseley, where he’d kept an eye on Oldham’s shop, and the windows of Vincent’s flat above. Little or no activity had been seen. Didn’t surprise Allen. He’d be sat listening to Johnny Cash and poking his nose into the murders.

Allen jumped off the wall, grabbed his carrier bag, and crossed the main road, heading toward the local library.

Inside, he counted only four people and two members of staff, one of which he asked about Internet access. Eventually Allen sat down and placed the carrier on the chair next to him, removing a thin paperback publication entitled Foul Deeds & Suspicious Deaths In Leeds. The library was open till seven o’clock, so he had plenty of time.

For half an hour he sat quietly, studying three cases: one committed in 1865, one in 1881, and one that really cornered his attention involving a man called Samuel Birchall in June of 1866.

Chapter Twenty-three

Following the bombshell that Sally Summerby had dropped about the girl in the photo not being Chloe, Gardener’s world had nearly collapsed.

“Who the hell is it?” Gardener had asked, back in the car.

“I’ve no idea,” replied Reilly. “But I wouldn’t like to be in Goodman’s shoes when she finds out.”

“Doesn’t really bode well for us, either. I thought things were looking up when we had a name.”