Impression (DI Gardener 4)

“We have not blamed either of you, Mr Summerby. We were trying to eliminate you from our inquiries.”

“So you say. Well, I’m the one in charge now. Not you two. I’ve got the gun, so we’ll do things my way.”

“Going back to our youth, are we, son?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know very well what I’m talking about,” challenged Reilly. “You born-again Christians are all alike. You’ve done something terrible in your life, and suddenly you wake up one day wanting to confess everything to God, hoping he’ll forgive you so you can set the record straight and start again. What a crock of shit, son. You will never cleanse your soul as long as you have a hole in your arse. You know it and I know it, so why don’t you put that fucking gun down and let us sort this mess out?”

You could always count on the Irishman to speak his mind, despite being at a disadvantage, thought Gardener.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think he does,” said Rydell.

Gardener glanced at Rydell. He was early twenties, with black hair in a short back and side fashion. He was very slim, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket with leather boots. His complexion, however, told Gardener he was far from healthy. But they all knew that.

“You know something we don’t?” Reilly asked Rydell.

“I know a lot you don’t.”

Rydell remained seated, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. But then, why would he? thought Gardener. He was dying. That’s what his medical files had indicated.

“I suspect you’re here because you already know I’m responsible for the double murders over the last four days.”

“That much we’d worked out,” replied Gardener. “We know about Stapleton, Morrison, Sargent, and Fisher. And we’re pretty sure we know why you did that. All of those people crossed you in some form or other.”

“Me and my father,” said Rydell. “He was a good man. He didn’t deserve what happened.”

“A lot of good men don’t deserve what happens, son,” said Reilly. “But there are ways and means of doing things, and there are laws to protect and help people.”

“He’s right,” said Gardener. “You simply can’t take the law into your own hands. I know what they did was wrong, but why poison Vincent Baines and the chemist?”

“Poison them?” repeated Rydell. “If they’ve been poisoned, it had nothing to do with me. My mission didn’t include those two. It brought me here to finish what I’d started. Had my illness not been terminal, the outcome may have been different.”

For some reason, Gardener believed Rydell. If he said he wasn’t responsible for the poisoning of Vincent and the chemist, it had to have been Raymond Allen.

“What?” said Sally Summerby. “You’re dying, so you get back at the people who have wronged you? What has my daughter ever done to you?”

“Nothing,” said Rydell.

“Then why take her?”

“Like I’ve said, he knows why.” Rydell pointed to Summerby. All eyes went in his direction.

He raised the gun. “Don’t you dare blame this on me!”

“Calm down, son. Don’t be too hasty.”

“He’s blaming all this shit on me,” shouted Summerby, staring at Reilly. He aimed the gun back at Rydell. “I’ve never met him before, and I have no idea who he is, and he’s trying to tell me it’s all my fault.”

“You’re right,” said Rydell. “You haven’t met me… until today. But you have met my sister.”

Chapter Sixty-one

Time stood still. The whole room became a vacuum, the atmosphere having been sucked out with that one statement.

Gardener glanced at Rydel