“In here.”
One of them went back outside, returning quickly.
“Grab the chair and a stretcher. We’ll need a body bag as well.”
Three more police cars sped down the main street, coming to a halt at one side of the first ambulance, careful not to block it in.
The peaceful summer evening had suddenly come alive. Half the village was out of their front doors, spectating. Further down the street, people were standing outside the pub. Most had had the forethought to carry their drink with them.
Briggs approached. “What’s happened?”
“Well, we certainly have our man,” said Gardener.
“Rydell?”
“And Gareth Summerby,” offered Reilly.
“What? They were working together?”
“It’s a long story,” said Gardener.
“I’d still like to hear it.”
“You will.”
The first set of medics brought Rydell out. He was wrapped in a blanket, strapped to a wheelchair. They rolled him toward the ambulance.
Sally Summerby was frantic, pleading. “Please Chris, please tell me where you have Chloe.”
“You mean we still don’t know where she is?” Briggs asked.
Gardener ran over to the ambulance, stopped the medics from putting Rydell inside.
“Come on, Mr Rydell. I know you’ve suffered, probably more than anyone else I know, but please don’t make Mrs Summerby face the same fate.”
Rydell coughed, a nerve-racking jolt that must have caused intense pain.
“We have to get him to a hospital, sir,” said the medic.
“Please, Chris,” begged Sally. “I have to know. If you haven’t killed her, please don’t leave her to die. She’s only five years old. She needs me. She’s the innocent one in all of this.”
“Come on,” said Gardener. “Do the right thing and tell her.”
Rydell smiled at Gardener.
He then turned and glanced at his motorbike and trailer… and waved.
Sitting inside, waving back, smiling, clutching the one-armed doll, was five-year-old Chloe Summerby.
Epilogue
Friday 26th August
Three days later, Gardener and Reilly were in Holme Wood with a forensic team.
It had all started here eighteen years ago. Who would have believed so much carnage could have been caused by a simple act of stupidity? That simply stealing a car could have caused so much anguish?
Nicola Stapleton, Barry Morrison, Alan Sargent, and Frank Fisher had all died, but were not directly connected to the missing girl. Vincent Baines and John Oldham had died from secobarbital poisoning, but they weren’t directly connected either. Gareth Summerby had been blown away; he’d started it, deserved to be punished, but the end was too soon.