A few whistles went around the room.
“The bloody hell was he doing with it all?” asked Anderson.
“Nothing,” said Reilly.
“He must have had something in mind.”
“We might never know what that was, now,” said Gardener. “And what really bothers me is, we might never actually get an answer as to what he was doing with Nicola Stapleton. They’re both dead.”
“What about his brother?” Briggs asked.
“We’re still no further on there. The business had no financial problems. He still claims he knows nothing about the prostitute or the house in Hume Crescent, and he nearly threw up when we announced that Barry was into drugs.”
Briggs turned to Gardener’s partner. “What do you think, Reilly? Victim or suspect?”
“I think he’s telling the truth, sir. I genuinely don’t think he killed his brother, or had anything to do with it. But as the boss man pointed out today, he might be another victim.”
“I also asked him to move the family out of the house to stay with relatives so we could make a thorough search of the place.”
“Bet that went down well.”
“We’ve closed the business down so we can check for drugs, and whether or not Barry was running things from there. Which reminds me, we also found his phone. Has anyone had a chance to check it out?”
Patrick Edwards nodded. “There’s loads of stuff on it. We’ve got all his contacts, so that’s a good start, especially if they’re druggies. Might even be the two who live in the flats. Nicola Stapleton’s number is used a lot, and there are a few recorded conversations that we need to listen to in more detail.”
Gardener continued. “We also found out the name and address of the accountant from Billy Morrison. A man called Frank Fisher, lives on Richmond Hill in sheltered accommodation.”
“Sheltered?” asked Briggs.
“Yes, he’s disabled.” Gardener glanced at Frank Thornton and his partner Bob Anderson. “I’d like you two round there first thing in the morning.”
Both men nodded.
“Good work this morning, you lads, by the way. Colin mentioned a homeless shelter yesterday. Frank and Bob went back this morning, and the matron in charge had been left a box by Nicola Stapleton. In the box were her diaries, some letters she’d written to her parents and never sent, and her mobile. Also, we found a medical card for a private clinic in Leeds. Sean and I nipped over there this afternoon.”
Briggs intervened. “I took the liberty of phoning her parents this morning. Broke the bad news. They’re coming over tomorrow. Any news from the clinic?”
“Yes,” said Gardener. “Some of it good. She was a carrier of hepatitis B. Although she didn’t give her doctor a list of clients, we have managed to obtain a list of everyone attending the clinic with a similar complaint. I want someone on that tomorrow. Go through the list and see if any name from the clinic cross matches any of the clients on her phone. Whoever killed her may have had unprotected sex with her. Not necessarily on the night he killed her, because Fitz has found no evidence to suggest she was interfered with, but he may be a client.”
Gardener was updating the ANACAPA chart as he went along, which was now a mess and resembled a road atlas. He turned back to the group. “Has anyone had a chance to go through her phone?”
“Still working on it,” said Sharp. “But we have found something interesting. About a month back Morrison phoned her and mentioned a new driver he had by the name of Alan Sargent, and that he was her new point of contact.”
“For what?”
“Didn’t say.”
“Alan Sargent is also mentioned in her last diary,” said Paul Benson.
“Does it say why?”
“No. All I noticed on one of the pages was ‘new contact’, and his name. Never saw anything after that.”
Gardener sighed. He would solve the case if it killed him. He asked, “Anyone anything else to add?” He hadn’t expected anything. They’d all put in another good day’s work, and they were all tired.
“Okay. The two most important actions tomorrow morning are these: Anderson and Thornton, go and see Frank Fisher. I want the company books. Colin, get an address for Alan Sargent and pay him a visit.”
Chapter Thirty-eight