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“The way I see it, Derek Summers is by far the most likely suspect. We have enough evidence against him for everything but the murders.”
“What about the plants?”
“We have to start with what we know. Who we know. That means Anei.”
Laura rose from the table. “I’ll make another pot of coffee. Chris, would you like to come and see the fish?”
“Okay.” He left the table with an understandable lack of enthusiasm.
Gardener realized his son had been through quite an ordeal. He knew it would take time to adjust. He was grateful to Laura for the diversion.
Reilly shook his head. “I’m struggling to see where Anei fits into it. I just don’t think she’s capable. I’m sure she’s over seventy. I know she has the means and the knowledge, but she isn’t strong enough.”
Gardener eased back in his chair. In the other room, he heard Laura talking and Chris laughing. It was a boost to him. “I think the best thing we can do is get back home and have a look at Colin Sharp’s portfolio. I’m still convinced it’s Summers, and the missing link we’re looking for will be in there – if Sharp has done as good a job as usual.”
Chapter Seventy-seven
Gardener observed the tearful reunion between Chris and his grandfather, appreciating how close the two of them had become. He could see how relieved Malcolm was to have them both back safe and sound.
They were sitting around the kitchen table. His father had made tea. He’d given Chris a milkshake and a couple of chocolate bars. Gardener was surprised when Chris said he was going to his room to watch TV. Spook had followed. Gardener thought it best to let his son adjust in his own way.
Colin Sharp’s portfolio was spread across the table before him. Gardener was impressed with Sharp’s work, as usual. His colleague’s dedication should be rewarded with a promotion of some description.
Gardener glanced up at his partner. “There’s no shortage of material. Our only problem is the time to go through it all.”
“Would you like me to help?” offered Malcolm.
“Thanks for the offer, Dad, but I wouldn’t know where to start you off.”
Malcolm stared at the mountain of paperwork, sifting through the small piles. As he came across a photograph, he picked it up and studied it. “I don’t like the look of him.”
Gardener stared at the picture in his hand. “Derek Summers. The photo doesn’t do him justice, believe me. He’s far worse than he looks.”
“Have you found anything that links him to the curare and the flytraps?” Reilly asked Gardener.
Gardener sighed. “No, not yet.”
“No, it can’t be.”
Gardener glanced at his father. The colour had drained from the old man’s face, leaving a pale, anaemic complexion. He noticed Malcolm’s shaking hand as he held the photograph.
“Dad? What’s wrong?”
Reilly stood up. “I’ll get him a glass of water.”
Gardener reached out to steady his father’s hand. “Dad, what is it? You don’t look well. Is something wrong?”
“I think I know who this man is,” said
Malcolm, at last.
Reilly sat down, placing a tumbler of water in front of Malcolm.
“How do you know him?” asked Gardener.
“Anei once showed me a photograph of her sister Irina’s husband. He was a footballer. In the photo, he was holding a trophy. There was a report underneath.” Malcolm took a sip of the water. “His name was Sid Summers.”
Gardener and Reilly stared at each other. Gardener’s head started to spin, his mind a jumble of thoughts. “You sure about that?”
