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Crisp gazed dolefully down at the body.
“‘We owe respect to the living. To the dead we owe nothing but truth.’ Though I have no wish to speak ill of the dead, Bernard Thornwell was a drunkard! Perhaps it eased his conscience, for I too would be a drunkard, should I have had his employer.”
Gardener was transfixed by the surreal situation he was caught up in. Who was Bob Crisp? How much did he really know? He dropped the marquee siding. “You know who he works for?”
“Indeed, I do.” Crisp pointed. “You have a wallet in your hands. Amongst the credit cards, is there a business card?”
Reilly held it up. Gardener glanced at it. “Derek Summers, Entertainment Agent.”
An entertainment agent would account for the Santa suit, thought Gardener.
“Seek out Derek Summers, but beware. He is not a man in which to place your trust.”
A thumping of feet grew closer. Gardener turned. A young constable had arrived at the scene, short on breath. “Sir, the press. They’re getting out of hand.”
“Why? What are they doing?”
“They say they have a right to know what’s going on.”
“Go back and tell them they have no rights until I say so.” Gardener paused, turning to Reilly. “On second thought, Sean, perhaps you’ll be more persuasive. Can you have a word?”
“Leave them to me.”
As Reilly left, Gardener noticed Bob Crisp was on the move. “No. Wait, I haven’t finished with you, yet. What do you know about Derek Summers?”
The vagrant hesitated before speaking. “Knowledge is power, if it’s connected to the right person. I fear I have said enough. You are the detective.”
Bob Crisp tipped his hat. Before leaving, he pointed to the members of the press. “You must talk to them, sir, despite your obvious dislike.”
Gardener was confused, but he knew he could not keep the media waiting much longer.
He glanced around, checking out high vantage points. Flats, offices, apartments. It wouldn’t take two minutes for some smart journalist and photographer to reach the high ground, giving themselves a bird’s-eye view. If some clown hadn’t done it already.
Gardener checked the crime scene. He breathed a sigh of relief. The canvas covering the area of the corpse also concealed the Santa coat from prying eyes and state-of-the-art telescopic lenses. He started walking towards the media. A couple of flashguns sliced through the grey morning.
As he reached the gate, he composed himself before talking. “Ladies and gentlemen, good morning. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” He spoke quietly, calmly, his demeanour clearly indicating if there were any interruptions, he would turn tail and leave them.
“At this moment, we have an unidentifiable male corpse. Cause of death has yet to be determined. We are awaiting the Home Office pathologist’s report. Therefore, the death is being treated as suspicious. We are appealing for anyone in this area between 3:00pm yesterday afternoon and 8:00am this morning to come forward.”
Cameras flashed. Chilled hands made notes.
“Male corpse, Mr Gardener?” asked one of the pack. “Any connection with the missing children?”
Gardener noticed heads rising from notebooks. TV cameras slid into close-up.
“No, the deceased is a male adult.”
“Cause of death? How long?” shouted another.
“Too early to say,” replied Gardener. “The police press office will issue any updates, or cover any further developments.”
Another flurry of press activity followed. Gardener suspected the television news teams wanted one-to-one interviews. But he wasn’t keen. Gardener shuddered as he turned away, ignoring further shouted questions. Reilly ambled up to him.
“Sean, get the uniforms to walk around the block a couple of times. I don’t want the cameras here too long. The press will want some local colour, and before we know it, the place will be swarming with vagrants. It wouldn’t take much for one of them to talk. The promise of a bottle of cider.”
Reilly nodded and turned to the reporters. “Okay, gentlemen, that’s all for now.”
