Impression (DI Gardener 4)

Morrison shook his head. “I heard you. I was too busy taking it all in. What do you mean, sitting? On what?”

“In,” said Gardener, “not on.”

“In what?” Morrison repeated.

“Frank Fisher’s wheelchair.”

You couldn’t have cut the atmosphere with a chainsaw, thought Gardener.

“Are you two having a laugh? His wheelchair?”

“Oh, life’s just one big comedy routine for us, son,” said Reilly. “We love nothing better than a good old murder mystery which keeps us on our toes and drags us out of bed at all hours. That’s if we even manage to get to bed!”

“Frank Fisher’s wheelchair? What was he doing in Fisher’s wheelchair? Where the fuck was Frank?”

“He was at home, leaning over his basin in the bathroom,” said Gardener.

“Leaning over his basin? Has somebody beaten him up as well?”

“No,” added Reilly. “They cut his throat.”

“No,” said Morrison, standing up again. “This isn’t happening.”

“It is, and it was,” said Reilly. “So, within the space of two days, we have four people dead, three of which are connected to you. We found your brother dumped in a shop doorway, one of your drivers beaten to death in a very public place, and your disabled accountant sliced and diced in his bathroom minus his wheelchair that your dead driver just happened to be occupying. Pretty sick, isn’t it? Is this all getting a bit too much for you?”

“You’re fucking right it’s getting too much,” shouted Morrison.

Reilly changed topics. “So where were you last night, Billy?”

“Well I wasn’t at home, was I? You lot shifted us out.”

“That’s not the best answer you could have given. We know you weren’t at home. What we want to know is where you were? Did you pay a visit to Richmond Hill to silence your disabled accountant who might well have been in on everything?”

“Maybe he was about to blow the lid and take everyone down,” said Reilly, “and you thought, I can’t have that.”

“No, no, no, for God’s sake,” shouted Morrison. “I’ve killed no one.”

“Then maybe you thought you’d silence Sargent while you were out. Tracked him when he was leaving The Vesper Gate in Kirkstall,” continued Reilly. “Noticed he was drunk, thought it was the perfect opportunity to see him off as well. All your troubles taken care of.”

“Silence him? Why would I want to shut him up?”

“Because he was in on whatever your brother and the prostitute were up to. We found her diaries and her phone. One of the conversations between her and Barry was recorded. Your brother mentioned a new point of contact, a man by the name of Alan Sargent. She kept a record in her diary.”

“Anything you want to add, Billy boy?” said Reilly.

“Such as?”

“Do you want to share any thoughts with us about your brother, the prostitute and Alan Sargent? Maybe even Frank Fisher?”

“Maybe he was in on it all as well,” said Reilly. “You know, him being an accountant, he could really cook the books, couldn’t he?”

“How many times do I have to tell you lot?” shouted Morrison. “If they were up to no good, I knew nothing about it. Seems they were taking me for a right mug. Quite frankly I wish our Barry was here now, I’d bloody well throttle him for what he’s done to me.”

“Temper, temper, Billy,” said Reilly. “You’re not convincing us of your innocence with talk like that.”

“So come on, Mr Morrison, where were you last night?” Gardener asked.

Morrison sighed heavily. “We were moving in with my wife’s sister most of yesterday, thanks to you.”