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He smiled as the scene was illuminated.
His grin soon disappeared as a voice on the landing boomed out.
Chapter Two
“Who’s there?” demanded the hard-faced woman charging down the stairs. Her attire was a yellow cotton dress with a floral print that had probably been the height of fashion when the house was built. “You can’t come in here, it’s a crime scene.”
Gardener picked up his hat. “You don’t say.” Slipping it back on, he said, “I know it’s a crime scene.”
“Then you’ll know you can’t come in here. We’re waiting for someone.”
Gardener pulled his warrant card from his pocket and held it up to her.
“That’s me.”
He didn’t think he’d ever met anyone quite as offensive as the squat little woman. He could easily imagine her as the sentinel to the abode of the damned. Her dyed hair was black and wiry. She reminded him of an alligator he’d once seen in the Florida Everglades – its face and body fat, and squat. Beady brown eyes peered down at him above a snub nose and a wide mouth filled with sharp, pointed teeth.
She folded her arms. “You took your time, didn’t you? Have you seen the mess up there?”
“No.” Gardener made as if to search his pockets. “And it looks like I’m all out of crystal balls, so I’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.”
“I don’t like your tone.”
“The feeling’s mutual. And you are?”
“Olive Bradshaw. The landlady.”
Gardener glanced around, now that he could actually see. The peeling paper exposed walls covered in green mould, streaked with black lines. An offensive smell of mildew permeated the passage.
Horrified at the degradation, he asked, “You actually charge people money to live like this?”
She was about to speak when she saw the young constable wandering back in from the yard.
The PC’s complexion was pale, his expression grave. His uniform bore an orange stain across the front from the brick wall Gardener had bent him over.
“I suppose he’s just vomited all over my steps.”
“No,” said Gardener. “I managed to save you from that. Though I shouldn’t think it would make much difference.” Before giving her the chance to reply, he faced the constable. “Have you finished?”
“I think so.”
Gardener turned to the landlady. “Where do you live?”
She pointed to the room in the corner of the ground floor.
“Well, get yourself back in there and stop walking all over our crime scene.”
He addressed the constable. “Go with her and take a statement. When you’ve finished, stand by the front door and see that she doesn’t leave.”
“I knew something like this was bound to happen,” continued Olive Bradshaw. “I only went to bingo. I had heard the commotion before I went out, never thought I’d come back to this. Who’s going to pay for it to be cleaned? That’s what I want to know.”
Gardener ignored her and continued up the stairs.
Chapter Three
On the way up, Gardener passed a girl cradling a crying child. She threw out a venomous jibe, which he ignored.
The top landing was about eight feet square. The threadbare carpet must have been original, as its colour was hard to distinguish. He noticed a cupboard door in the wall to his right.
