“He runs the St John’s Hospice.”
“Where’s that?” asked Gardener.
“In the town, sir, a couple of streets from Mark Lane. You know, where St John’s Church is.”
“What did he want?” asked Gardener.
“He was a bit concerned about one of his... clients, is how he put it.”
Gardener wondered where the conversation was going. “Concerned, how?”
Reilly’s presence in the office lifted Gardener’s tension a little.
“He didn’t go into details, sir,” replied Roberts. “But a man he’s come to regard as a friend was acting very strangely yesterday, worried about the state of the city and the violence. He was particularly concerned about a killer whom we can’t catch. According to his friend, we had no idea who we’re looking for, and he feared for his own safety.”
“Did he give any names?”
“No, sir. I had the impression that Fowkes thought he was a doctor – patient confidentiality, and all that. Anyway, he left a contact number.”
Gardener glanced at his partner and then Roberts. “Did he say anything else?”
“No, but the way he was talking, I think he had a lot more on his mind. He wants to speak to you.”
Roberts placed the number on the desk and then left the office.
“Any chance we have a lead on Harry Fletcher there, boss?” asked Reilly.
“It’s possible. Shall we ring the number or drive straight over there?”
“We may as well drive–” Reilly’s answer was cut short as duty sergeant Roberts launched himself back into the room.
“Sir?”
“What is it?”
“We’ve just taken a call from St John’s Hospice, there’s another body. I think the killer may have struck again, only this time, it’s much worse.”
“Worse! What could be worse than last time?” asked Gardener, moving around the desk.
“The woman’s hysterical, but she did manage to blurt out the name Henry Fowkes. She kept saying ‘poor Henry’.”
“Let’s move,” Gardener said to Reilly.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Everyone arrived simultaneously: Gardener and Reilly, forensics, Fitz, and even Briggs. Gardener jumped out of the car and immediately started barking orders, which included sealing off the building with scene tape, constables to be placed front and rear, and no one allowed in or out until he said so.
He glanced around. It was surprisingly quiet. Considering it was a homeless shelter, he would have expected to see more people. The building was Victorian, three-storey, in a good state of repair with guttering, window frames and front door, all new.
Entering the building, Gardener heard hushed female voices in another room. To his left was a group of vagrants. He turned around. Glancing down the path, he shouted to one of the officers, “Come in here.” He faced the tramps. “I’m afraid you gentlemen will have to leave.”
“What about our breakfast?”
The two policemen entered the building. Gardener gave them their instruction before walking away. In the kitchen he found the three women, each in tears, comforting each other. A strawberry blonde was leaning over a draining board, repeating the phrase, “poor Henry”. A large pot stood on the cooker and, above that, the one thing he could have done without.
Scrawled on the wall, written in blood, was the new message.
Gardener’s whole world closed in around him. The kitchen was suddenly reduced to the size of a shoebox; sounds were blocked out, people disappeared, and he sensed a rush of adrenaline like he’d never experienced before. His whole body felt full of pins and needles. He was cold, but at the same time he was sweating.