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“I’m sure, son.” He dropped the photo. “I’m sure.”
Gardener riffled through the files. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Paper flew everywhere. “It’s here.” Gardener held up a sheet for Reilly to see. “The names of Derek’s parents. Sid Summers and Irina Bâlcescu.” He let the paper fall. “Is this the link, Sean?”
“I’m not convinced. What about the plants?”
Gardener thought about it. “If they all grew up on a farm, had a farm shop, maybe he picked up that knowledge from his mother or his aunt.”
“I’m not buying that either, son,” said Malcolm. “From what I’ve heard, they haven’t seen each other for years.”
Gardener felt he was clutching at straws. His explanation was desperate, full of holes. His frustration threatened to overtake him.
Reilly’s phone rang. He answered but remained in the room. “You’re joking! Tell me you’re not serious.”
Gardener rose from the table, staring at his partner. Reilly ended the short call, an expression of defeat on his face.
“What’s wrong?” asked Gardener.
“You’re not going to like this.”
“There’s not much I do like about this case so maybe you’d better tell me.”
“Summers just got police bail, with conditions.”
“What? How?”
“Not enough evidence to hold him on a murder charge. Smarmy lawyer. Contacts in high places, you name it. But it was the butler who nailed it for him.”
“What did he do?”
“Took the rap,” replied Reilly, disappointed. “He’s claiming it was all down to him.”
“He’s claiming he killed them all?”
Reilly nodded.
“He’s lying, he’s not capable. He’s even older than Batman’s butler and that’s saying something,” said Gardener, even more frustrated.
“We know he’s lying, boss, but we’re still gonna have to investigate his claims. All he’s done is delay the inevitable and made our jobs a lot harder.”
Gardener went to the sink for a glass of water, when a wave of nausea overtook him. He stopped dead in his tracks as a new thought entered his mind.
He turned, picking up the photo of Summers from the table, studying the eyes closely.
He knew immediately that he had seen them before.
Chapter Seventy-eight
Summers closed the rear door of the taxi and paid the driver with cash through the front window. As the vehicle turned and meandered back down the drive, Summers peered into the darkness at the silhouette of the house, which was anything but inviting.
His mind was a mess, full of thoughts he couldn’t hold on to. Uppermost, however, was who had been responsible for killing his colleagues? He knew for a fact that Alfred wasn’t, despite claiming he was. The butler was too old, too fragile and did not really have the intelligence to carry out such a plan. Apart from that, he spent most of his days tending to Summers, and pampering to his every whim. Aside from the shopping he did once weekly, the man hardly ever left the house.
So why had he taken the blame?
Originally, he had suspected one of the four Santas, but now they were all dead. What he didn’t know was why. Was there any connection to him, or had they all been killed for some other reason: crossed some other person? It was possible. But he certainly didn’t think that hanging around was a good idea, in case he became the next victim. No, it was time he made himself scarce, until the heat died down. If it ever would. He didn’t think he was off the hook yet.
Question was, where to go: the police had his passport.
Summers climbed the steps to the front door, shocked to see one of the windows had been smashed; furthermore, whoever had done that had used one of his own planters, another possible reminder that he may be connected to the murders of his friends.
