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Gardener kept the clothing separated. Reilly extracted the sodden wallet, which squelched as he opened it. Amongst the contents were money, possibly a business card – illegible – and a couple of credit cards. Reilly held up a Visa card and sighed.
Gardener’s heart sank as he read the name. “B Thornwell.”
The Irishman kept the wallet and the cards. Gardener let the clothing fall. The watch around the skeletal wrist was engraved with Thornwell’s name. Gardener stood up.
“Like I said, Sean, control. Someone has a lot to lose, for one reason or another.”
Reilly turned to his superior officer. “Craig Sutton?”
“It’s possible,” replied Gardener. “But it’s all circumstantial.”
“We have enough to talk to him. He has a motive. We have reasonable suspicion.”
“Oh, God.” Gardener held his nose. They stepped outside.
“Looks like our man has something to say,” Reilly smiled.
Gardener spotted an old vagrant standing by the smokers’ kiosk. He had his hands inside the pockets of his aged, tattered duffel coat. He wore jeans, trainers, and a Panama hat. He watched the two detectives curiously.
Although he didn’t want to, Gardener couldn’t help but stare at the man. He noticed the vagrant’s skin was dark and wrinkled, and difficult to put an age to.
The vagrant coughed before speaking. “I assume you’ll want to speak to me now, sir?”
Gardener was astonished. The vagrant’s voice was velvet smooth, the accent BBC English. His manner suggested a well-educated person. “Who are you?”
“Bob Crisp, sir.”
Reilly turned to Gardener, smiling. “Is he serious?”
“I assure you, sir, the name is genuine.” The vagrant smiled.
“Why would I want to speak to you?” asked Gardener.
“You’d like answers.”
The SIO sighed, placing his hands in his pockets. He scrutinized the area again. He wasn’t particularly happy that the TV cameras were there. Satisfied that no one had broken the barrier, he returned his attention to Bob Crisp, unable to decide if he was genuine. Either way, he did not want to waste any time with him. The man could be a potential witness, though, which was something he could not ignore.
“Look.” Gardener glanced at his watch. “I don’t have time for riddles and puzzles, or to play games. If you know anything that you think will help, tell me.”
A pair of anxious undertakers came to within a few feet of the marquee. Gardener turned, raising a hand. “Give us a couple of minutes.” They backed off, but Gardener could see they were unhappy.
“You should make time, sir,” said Crisp. “‘Half of our life is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through life trying to save.’”
“I’ve heard enough!”
Reilly placed his arm on Gardener’s. “Give him a chance, boss. He reminds me of old Seamus back in Ireland. It sounded like rubbish at the time, but there was a lot of wisdom in his words.”
“Your colleague is very perceptive. I have but three things to say, as you are so short of time,” Crisp said.
A fracas at the gate diverted Gardener’s attention. TV reporters and journalists were growing agitated. He noticed Father O’Hanlon talking to them, and wondered if that was a wise move. Bob Crisp’s voice broke his thoughts.
“You, sir, are troubled. You have the look of a man who has lived through tragedy, although you display a very different facade. If you are not careful, tragedy will seek you again. I sense you are about to embark upon a new lease of life. Think very carefully.”
Gardener’s skin prickled.
Crisp pointed to the canvas covering. “Please, lift the flap.”
Against his better judgment, Gardener did as he was asked.
