Imperfection (DI Gardener 2)

“He started work here two years ago.” She took another sip of tea, and Gardener suspected he was going to glean little more information from her than standard replies to his questions. But he’d settle for that. For now.

“Did he live here?”

“Yes, his room was up the stairs, and he pretty much had the run of the house in return for all he did for us.”

“Which was what?”

“He ran the place, Mr Gardener. He was up early in the mornings, cooking all the breakfasts. Once that was over, we’d all have a cup of tea and then we’d straighten the place round. He used to see to all the deliveries.”

“Did he have any family that you know of?”

“No.”

“Any idea how he spent his spare time?”

It was a while before she answered, and Gardener wondered whether or not she’d actually heard him, or had simply forgotten the question.

“Come to think of it, no.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Yesterday teatime, about five o’clock. We’d set out the room for the council meeting.”

“Do you know what that was about?” asked Gardener.

“Henry wanted to try to raise extra funding to keep the place open. We rely on charity, you see. He thought if he could get the council involved we might be able to keep going indefinitely. Anyway, they came for an inspection.”

“They? Do you know how many?”

“Afraid not.”

Gardener stood and left the room. When he found Bob Anderson, he asked him to contact the council for a list of all the names of the people who had attended the previous night’s meeting. When he returned, he continued to question Mary Phillips. “You don’t happen to know where he worked before here?”

“I’ve no idea, but I did hear him mention America once or twice. But he was a very private man, never said much about his personal life.”

Gardener’s heart was beginning to sink slowly towards his shoes. “Did he say where in America?”

“If he did, I never caught it.”

“What’s America got to do with anything, Stewart?” asked Briggs.

“Something Thornton and Anderson had found out. A number of years ago, Harry Fletcher left Leeds to go and work on Broadway. He came back a couple of years ago, but no one’s seen him since.”

“Who’s Harry Fletcher?” asked Mary Phillips.

“That’s what we’d like to know. Tell me, Mary, do you happen to know if Henry was his real name? I don’t suppose he was ever called by any other name, was he?”

Mary’s expression darkened. “Now you mention it, yes. Only yesterday.”

“Go on,” said Gardener, growing concerned when she had stopped.

“Well, I found it a bit strange. We had a bloke come into the shelter a few weeks back. Started talking to Henry, and they were getting on right well. Anyway, yesterday Stan, that was his name, Stan. Anyway, he was in yesterday and he was in a right state with himself, and Henry asked me to make a bed up for him. He wanted Stan to stay the night.”

“And did he?” asked Gardener.

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know?” asked Reilly.