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He heard a siren in the distance, the answer to his prayers. A flickering flame of hope burned in his heart, in anticipation that she might yet be saved.
“Ambulance is coming, mate,” said a youth, tapping him on the shoulder.
Sarah reached up to him again, crying out in pain before she managed to speak. “Stewart, promise me something.”
Gardener felt as if his own life were extinguishing. He searched her face for a sign she would be able to hold on, gently caressing it with his bloody hand.
“Anything. I’ll do anything.”
“Look after Chris. Please look after our son, my darling. He needs you.”
“Oh, Jesus. Sarah, don’t talk like that.”
She winced, her breathing shallow. “Stewart...”
She gripped him tighter than he thought possible, staring at him intently.
“Stewart, please help me... Stewart?”
Sarah died in his arms as the ambulance arrived: her dying breath spent saying his name.
The crew had to physically restrain Gardener in order to take over. He stood, raising his hands to his head.
“No. Please, God, say it’s not true.”
Gardener fell to his knees, screaming.
Chapter One
Leeds. Present day.
A wintry breeze brushed across Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener’s face as he studied the building. Three storeys tall, Victorian and imposing, it had been converted from a house to a group of small flats leased out by an unscrupulous landlord charging extortionate rent while maintaining a low profile.
The street lighting revealed rotting window frames, cracks in the outside walls, and brickwork in need of re-pointing. Fallen roof slates lay scattered amongst the debris in the front yard. A girl passed by one of the front windows, gently rocking her baby.
Gardener pushed open the paint-blistered front door, only to be shouldered backward by an ashen-faced young constable as he tripped and fell forward out of the door.
The PC landed on his hands and knees, and started to retch.
“Why me?” muttered Gardener to the night sky. Three concrete steps led to the door. He jumped down and hauled the constable up by his collar.
“Stop contaminating my crime scene.”
He dragged the young PC over to a small brick wall separating the crime scene property from the one next door and leaned him over it. “Stay there until you’ve finished.”
Gardener turned back to the house and entered. There were no lights on. Peering up the staircase to the second floor, he heard a mixtu
re of voices filtering down from the other landings. A child cried. Someone complained loudly about the mess.
He grabbed the handrail, took a single step, and crashed straight through as the timber crumbled.
“Jesus!”
He reached his arms out for protection as he fell forward. His right hand punched through the broken staircase, ending up next to his foot. His hat fell off as he struggled to pull free. Bracing himself, he dragged his hand out. The wood came away in splinters, scratching his skin.
His mood approached nuclear. He’d been called out to a crime scene on his first night off in two weeks, pulling at least a fourteen-hour shift every single day. He prodded the wall, hoping to find a light switch. His patience diminished rapidly when he couldn’t.
“Is it too much to ask to have some light around here?”
