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Reilly’s eyes met Gardener’s. “I’ve a feeling that before this is over, it’s going to get very nasty. We’ve opened up a big can of worms. What worries me is who we’re going to find wriggling in it before we’ve finished.”
A knock at the car window on Reilly’s side startled him. The Irishman pushed a button.
The window descended.
“Excuse me, gentleman, but aren’t you the two detectives who were caught up in the churchyard murder?”
“Who the hell are you?” asked Reilly.
“Dave Bennett. I’m with The Yorkshire Press.”
Gardener studied the man. He was in his late forties with salt-and-pepper-coloured hair, a tanned but wrinkled face, dark brown eyes, and a false smile. He was tall and gangly, and wore a suit from the 1960s which had not stood the test of time. He had to stoop to peer into the car. Even from where he was sitting, Gardener could smell his bad breath. “I’m sorry, Mr Bennett, but we have no comment to make.”
“Mr Gardener, isn’t it?”
“Go away,” said Reilly.
“The public has a right to know what’s going on. Are you visiting these premises in connection with the church murder? I know a body was found here last week.”
“We are here on police business, but I’m not prepared to comment any further.”
“Well, can you tell me, is there a connection between the missing schoolchildren and the murders?”
“I’m not in a position to comment at the moment.”
Dave Bennett put his head completely inside the car, forcing Reilly to hold his breath. “A colleague of mine informs me you arrested a local drug dealer only this week. Was it about the murders or the schoolchildren?”
“A local person did help us with our inquiries, but we didn’t arrest him,” replied Gardener. “Perhaps your colleague isn’t as good as he thinks he is. Now, if you don’t mind, we have other business to attend to.”
Bennett was persistent. “Is it true you’re pursuing your wife’s killer in connection with the case?”
Gardener’s temper hit boiling point. Fucking journalists. How the hell had Bennett come by that piece of information? How was it that the people he loathed most in the world seemed to have the habit of asking the most personal questions? Was he in the middle of some huge conspiracy? “Roll your window up, Sean.”
Reilly did, suddenly amused by the fact that Dave Bennett had been quick enough to remove his head, but not his tie.
“Well, look what we have here, boss.”
Bennett banged on the window, sudden apprehension carved into his features. “Mr Gardener, you’ll have to answer these questions eventually,” he shouted.
&nb
sp; Reilly started the car and waved, smiling as he did so.
“My tie. You’ve got my tie!” The expression on the reporter’s face was priceless as Reilly inched the car forward.
Chapter Forty-six
“Stewart?”
“Jacqueline?” He stepped backward, glancing at her uncomfortably. “What are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask you the same question. My aunt lives here.”
Jacqueline was the last person he’d expected to see. The situation was bizarre. “I’m here to collect my father.”
“You’d better come in.”
Gardener did as he was asked. Jacqueline closed the door. She was traditionally dressed for ministerial duties in a long black gown with a white scarf. She smelled fresh. White Linen, if he wasn’t mistaken. Sarah’s favourite. From the kitchen, he detected the unmistakable aroma of fresh bread.
