Imperfection (DI Gardener 2)

angular shaped, about twelve inches by eight. There were no stamps, no UPS logos, and no writing other than his name. He ripped the package open and quickly scanned the contents: a photo and a newspaper clipping.

Dropping them on the floor, he ran outside, where he found the driver in the process of starting the van. The fact that it was a pleasant day meant he hadn’t shut the door, which gave Gardener the opportunity he needed to pull the driver from the seat, drag him out of the cab, and throw him heavily against the side of the vehicle, so much so that he dented one of the panels.

“What the fuck–”

He gave the driver no chance to say anything else. Instead, he banged the man’s head against the panel in an effort to subdue him. Only now did the driver’s features register in his mind: he was a similar height to Gardener but much thinner, his complexion was tanned and he had a beard and moustache, which Gardener was trying to pry from his face in an effort to see whether or not it was real.

“What the fuck are you doing, man? You’re ripping my face apart!”

“Who are you?” Gardener shouted, breathless, grabbing the driver’s shirt and shoving him back towards the van again. The driver hit the ground in a sitting position with his legs underneath him. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’m a UPS driver, for God’s sake.” He tried to push Gardener out of the way. “This is assault, I can have you arrested for this.”

“We both know you won’t. What’s your name?” asked Gardener, his heart pounding.

“You tell me who you are first.”

Gardener used one hand to release and flip open his badge without bothering to explain further.

“Oh, shit.”

“Let’s try again, shall we? Name?”

“Gary Barlow... and don’t bother, I’ve heard all the jokes.”

Gardener had no idea what he was talking about. “Show me some identification. Now!”

“It’s in the cab, any chance you can let go?”

Gardener did so. The driver wasn’t a threat, and he’d established that it wasn’t Corndell. He handed over his ID for inspection.

“Tell me about the parcel.”

“Nothing to tell,” said the driver.

“Don’t mess me about, otherwise I’ll arrest you for conspiracy to murder and have you inside so fast you’ll break the four-minute-mile by at least half. Now start talking.”

“Look. I haven’t killed anyone, and I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anyone in my position on my shitty salary would have done exactly the same.” Barlow pulled his shirt back into place – as if it suddenly mattered – and sat on the step of his van.

“Done what?”

“I just did what he told me to. A couple of hours ago, a bloke asked me if I wanted to earn a few quid. I asked how much, he said five hundred pounds, in cash, and he had it in his hand. I asked him who he wanted me to kill, and all he said was he wanted a parcel delivering to this address, and asked if it was on my rounds. I said, for five hundred quid I didn’t care if it was on the moon. For five hundred quid I’d take it.”

“Where were you when he asked?”

“Horsforth.”

Chapter Fifty-three

Briggs had called Gardener five times while Reilly drove through the centre of Leeds and finally out on to the road that led them to Churchaven. The phone remained unanswered.

Reilly eventually brought the car to a halt on Gardener’s drive, noticing there were no other vehicles. Reilly knocked on the front door and walked in. Briggs followed Reilly into the kitchen, where they found a puzzled Malcolm staring at two teacups and a pot of cold tea.

Startled, Malcolm nodded and greeted both men.

“Have you seen, Stewart?” Reilly asked.

“No, but he must have been here at some point. Look at this lot.”