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Those emotions confused him. He and Sarah had enjoyed an excellent rapport. They shared a fun-filled life together. Their combined tastes blended so well the relationship felt like it didn’t need to be worked at. It simply fell into place. They had frequently disagreed. What married couple hadn’t? Sarah’s impulsiveness often amused him. She often came around to his way of thinking, however. He was the level-headed one, after all. Above that, though, he felt the closeness of their relationship came down to the mutual trust and respect they had for each other.
Their bond had been so close that the two were almost one. Then the two had become three.
He took a sip of his tea, the memory replaying in his mind as clearly as if it were yesterday.
He’d planned to meet Sarah for lunch in the local park. He’d arrived later than anticipated. He caught her watching longingly as the young mothers entertained their children on the swings. She’d cried as she’d told him.
He remembered the world seemed to stand still while he considered what she’d said.
Excitement took over, and he picked her up and swung her around. The two of them giggled and whooped.
As he turned, an old couple halted in their walk to observe the young couple’s celebration. He told them his news. They congratulated each other and then swapped childhood stories. The old couple departed without him ever finding out who they were.
As he continued to reminisce, he fondly recalled how strong and independent Sarah had been. All she ever wanted out of life was to please her family. She centred her existence around their happiness. She would not want him to be unhappy or guilty or confused. Sarah had been a great believer in ‘life goes on.’ If he wanted to risk building another life for himself and their son Chris, she would have encouraged him.
It occurred to him that he could be overreacting to simple, friendly gestures. As a minister, Jacqueline’s job meant she had to be pleasant to everybody she met. He thought her eyes, her smile, her body language all said differently. He admitted he could be wrong. It could simply be that he’d reached a period of desperation after a year of self-isolation, and mistaken her attitude toward him for something else.
He rubbed his face, tried to clear his mind of those thoughts. He turned his attention to the multiple child disappearances on his patch.
He wondered about the two girls. Had they, too, been murdered like David Vickers? If they had, where were their bodies?
The fact David’s body held traces of a powerful sedative brought a different perspective to the case. The drug, coupled with the abuse he’d suffered, pointed to the probability he had been abducted by a paedophile. Perhaps even a ring.
Did they have the girls? He’d heard about girls being shipped out to the Middle East and forced into prostitution. Perhaps that’s why no bodies had ever been found.
His feelings went out to their parents. He remembered the comment Lesley Vickers had made.
What would he be doing if it had been Chris, and not her son? He grew cold at the thought, realizing it could so easily have been. The boys attended the same school. Chris knew David well. When it had all come to light, Gardener questioned Chris. Chris didn’t remember seeing anyone suspicious hanging around the school. No one saw the boy leaving with an adult, or talking to a stranger. No one had come forward with any information at all.
He thought about the Rawston incident and, in particular, the public. They expected the police to find criminals, to come up with all the answers. All while they preferred anonymity. They went around with blinkers on, blocking out the world around them. Until, of course, it happened to them. Then they accused everyone else of doing what they’d been guilty of in the first place.
Gardener heard the same statement from everyone he’d ever interviewed in that situation.
“Somebody must have seen something.”
He agreed. Somebody must surely-to-God have seen or heard something the night Herbert Plum died. Killing a person in such a manner without attracting attention stood next to impossible.
Gardener sighed and drifted into the kitchen. He left his empty cup in the bowl, before turning out the lights and heading for bed.
Chapter Seventeen
Gardener lost his footing and stumbled. He stood alone in the centre of Leeds, enshrouded by a thin, spectral mist. Flustered, he peered through the fog in a desperate attempt to figure out where he was, and where Sarah had gone. They had been together in a restaurant not a moment ago.
His surroundings seemed unfamiliar. A group of crumbling warehouses on the verge of collapse stretched out in front of him. Their grime-encrusted facades presented a stark image of impending doom. Office blocks stood adjacent to the warehouses, in the same state of deterioration. Turning his head, he stared down Bridge End, over the River Aire. He ran to the bridge, peeking through the railings. The water ran unseen through the impenetrable shroud.
As he retreated, the scenery changed. He found himself at the corner of Duncan Street, facing Briggate. His parents strode toward him. His father checked the time on his pocket watch while his mother chattered incessantly next to him. His spirits lifted. It felt good to see his mum again. They walked right by him, oblivious to his presence. A car passed dangerously close to his mother. For all the world, it seemed like it would hit her. But it didn’t.
He then clearly heard his mother lecturing his father about an unpaid TV license bill. Mum should let that drop. Dad had only done it once, a long time ago. Surely she was over it now?
He called out to her. She ignored him. Panic overcame him as he suddenly spotted blood on her, a red trail running from a wound below her ribcage. He put his hands to his face to block out the vision. He had been here before and had no wish to return. He knew where it would end.
In the hope of a different outcome, he lowered his hands to find his parents had vanished. The clock above the jeweller’s on the opposite side of the road struck midnight. Gardener stood confused. He shouldn’t be here. He should be at home in bed with Sarah. As the clock chimed, a gunshot rang out. His world came to a sudden, terrifying halt. He ran toward the source of the shot, afraid of what he would find.
Sarah emerged from the mist, clutching her abdomen, blood coursing through her fingers. “Help me, Stewart,” she pleaded, both the sound of her voice and her expression pitiful.
“Oh, God. Sarah!”
His wife started to fade, signalling the end, as it always did.
