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He couldn’t quite determine whether her reply was an answer, a question, or confirmation that she’d accepted who he said they were. “You called the station this morning. You have some information about David Vickers?”
Behind him, Reilly rubbed his hands together and exhaled a long breath, mumbling to himself.
Gardener didn’t hear his partner’s comment, but he could guess what it was. Janet Soames closed her front door and slid back the chain. Gardener turned and surveyed the area. The Soames’ residence was a large, two-storey house with a white facade, leaded dark oak windows, and a front door to match. The grass was trimmed, with an assortment of colourful gnomes, a fishpond, and a bench. He imagined it was peaceful in summer, despite being opposite a school.
The door finally opened. “That’s better,” she said. “Could I trouble you for identification again, please?”
Both men held out their warrant cards.
“Please, come in,” she said, satisfied. She led them through a long hall into a highly polished, tiled kitchen, offering a seat at the small round table and chairs. Reilly sat down. He produced a notebook and pen.
“I’m sorry about keeping you at the door, but you can’t be too careful, can you?”
Janet Soames sat opposite Reilly.
Gardener smiled, removed his hat, placed it on the table. From his inside jacket pocket, he produced a photograph of David Vickers and passed it over. He’d obtained it from Lesley and Jim when he’d interviewed them.
“Can you confirm from the photo, Mrs Soames, that we’re talking about the same boy?”
She adjusted her glasses. “Yes, that’s the boy. I’m not sure what I can tell you, though.”
Janet Soames had a soft voice with a clipped accent. Gardener estimated her age around mid-fifties. She had bleached blonde hair, the roots of which were dark brown. Her face was long and drawn, and she wore too much makeup. She was dangerously thin.
“You’d be surprised,” replied Gardener, concerned by her constant fidgeting. She was clearly uncomfortable.
“I used to see him every day,” she continued. “Leaving school. He was a beautiful child. Blond hair, lovely complexion, well-mannered. He once asked my husband if he needed any help to carry his equipment from the car.” She paused.
Reilly took up the conversation. “What do you and your husband do for a living, Mrs Soames?”
“Photography. We take pictures of old castles and stately homes in England and Europe. Then we go across to America and sell them. In frames, of course.”
“Well now, that sounds a grand way to earn a living. I wouldn’t mind having a pop at that myself.” Reilly gave her a reassuring smile. Gardener recognized the tactic for what it was. A pleasant diversion, a clever way to encourage her to open up.
“Have you ever been to Ireland?” he asked her.
“My husband has. We’re both hoping to go next year.”
“Well, you be sure to give me a call. I’ll point you in the right direction for some lovely places. You’ll not go far wrong.”
Janet Soames smiled.
Gardener resumed. “You were saying, Mrs Soames. You saw David Vickers every day. What was unusual about the day he went missing?”
“He was with someone.”
“Adult?” inquired Gardener.
“More a youth. Nineteen, maybe. To be honest, I took him for his brother.”
“They looked alike?”
“I couldn’t say whether they looked alike. The youth wore a baseball cap. But they chatted away quite happily, which is why I thought they were related.”
“Can you remember anything else about him?” asked Reilly.
“Only what he was wearing. He had jeans and a pair of boots. What do they call them? Tan colour, builders wear them...”
“Rigger boots,” answered the Irishman.
