Impurity (DI Gardener 1)

“More or less.”

“Are you telling me everything?” Gardener pushed.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because I have a witness who said you threatened to kill them both.”

Sutton laughed. “I didn’t mean it. I were just talking, trying to frighten ’em.”

“You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean. After an argument, you threatened to kill them both if you saw them again. Both men are now dead. Try looking at it from my point of view.”

Sutton pointed a finger. “Now look here, I never killed ’em. I might have said it. I were annoyed, I’d had a drink, but I didn’t kill ’em!”

“Where were you on the night of Friday, 4th of December between 6:30 and 11:00pm?”

Sutton exhaled a long breath, glancing upwards. “I’d rather not say.”

“Why not?” Gardener knew Sutton’s alibi could land him in trouble that he’d be reluctant to admit to. Gardener didn’t care. He had an investigation to run.

“Look, I can’t tell you.”

“That’s a pity. You see, in order to eliminate you as a suspect, we need to be able to verify your whereabouts.”

“I didn’t do it!” shouted Sutton, gripping the edge of the table.

Gardener increased the pressure. “Then, tell me where you were.”

Sutton glanced around the room. His breathing became heavier. “On a job,” he muttered, quietly.

“Pardon?”

Sutton spoke through clenched teeth. “On a job. Are you satisfied now?”

“What sort of a job?”

“You know I can’t tell you.”

“You know you have to.”

Sutton’s hands were clasped together on the table, his fingers locking together and releasing in quick, spasmic movements. “I think I need to talk to my brief.”

“Are you sure you want to do that, Mr Sutton?” replied Gardener, a little annoyed. His intention had not been to question Sutton about stolen paint. More to use it as a lever if needed.

“If you bring your brief in, I’ll think you’re hiding something. It might slip out that you were doing a job for Brian Thatchett, otherwise known as ‘Thatchett The Hatchet’. You know as well as I do where he got that nickname from.”

“Are you threatening me?” asked Sutton.

Gardener laughed. “Not at all. I’m simply saying that even with the best will in the world, it’s impossible to keep everything from men like The Hatchet. Word eventually gets round that you spilled your guts to save yourself. Next thing you know, The Hatchet and his sharp little friend come looking for you, and you’re history.” Gardener paused and stood up, pushing his chair back. “Still…”

“Okay,” said Sutton. “You win. You obviously know all about the paint job.”

“Of course, I do,” said Gardener, sitting back down. “But I haven’t dragged you in to talk about paint. Did you ever notice Plum with anyone else other than Thornwell?”

“In the pub, you mean?”

“Anywhere.”

“I never saw him outside the pub. He were often in the pub with a woman, one as runs the boarding house.”