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Gardener glanced at Singh. The senior officer estimated he was around fifty, balding, with a face full of grey curls like a ball of wire wool cascading down over his bloating belly. He was dressed in a variety of ill-fitting grey robes, which were overdue for a wash. Or perhaps they weren’t dirty. Maybe it was only their colour. His shifty eyes focused on Gardener as he started to rant and gesticulate.
“Myers, not a very nice man, oh no. He owed me money. This man did not pay rent for one month. And look at the place. How am I to rent it again?”
Gardener couldn’t figure how he’d been able to rent it at all. “How long has he been your tenant, Mr Singh? Any problems?”
“Two years. Plenty. Mostly rent. Always late.”
Gardener noticed Reilly had joined the CSM. Briggs appeared stunned. It was the first time Gardener could recall seeing him speechless. Gardener continued with a series of questions, all of which led him to the conclusion that Myers was no different than Plum. He was a loner, no friends, behind with his rent, always paid cash. It was a carbon copy. With one exception. Where there had been a difference of opinion on Plum’s popularity, there didn’t seem to be for Myers.
Gardener glanced around, thinking. Was it a business deal that had gone wrong? It seemed unlikely. None of the dead men appeared to have had a brass farthing. He was convinced they were linked by an isolated incident – but what? And were there any more involved? Would it all come back to the smarmy entertainment agent?
Gardener turned to Singh. “Any idea what he did for a living, how he earned his money?”
Singh shook his head, indicating he didn’t.
“Sir?” Fenton interrupted his train of thought. “You might like this.” Fenton held a syringe. He’d been searching through the remnants of the Chinese takeaway.
“Found it down there.” Fenton pointed to a dark corner.
Gardener observed the dilapidated structural condition of the building. A damp stain shaped like Ireland ascended the wall. Cobwebs hung in all corners. Grimy, once-white paint blistered on the skirting boards and doorjambs. He studied the banister rail. Surprisingly, it remained solid, with no signs of impact damage. The spindles were coated with Chinese gravy. He glanced over, noting the position of the body two floors below.
“What do you think, Sean?” His sergeant was standing behind him.
Reilly peeked over, thoughtfully, his arms folded across his chest. “He obviously disturbed the killer. And paid the price.”
“I wonder if he saw who it was. He was delivering the Chinese, walked in on them. Had to be disposed of. What do you reckon?”
“He definitely interrupted whatever was happening. From the position of the body, I’d say he fell all the way down. Over the edge, not down the stairs. Whoever the killer is, I think they shot straight out of here, barged into him. The rest is history.”
Gardener heard Fitz’s arrival two floors below. He used the stepping plates to stride back into the room. The locations and the conditions in which the victims lived were beginning to piss him off. Dirty people in dirty surroundings. How anyone could live in such squalor was beyond him. Pete Nash, however, was not part of the equation. He had been an accident. Singh suddenly reared up at Briggs. “The man was a liar, a thief, and a cheat.” He then turned to Gardener. “You go look in the bathroom. Two suitcases.”
“Sean, take a look, please. What are you suggesting, Mr Singh?”
“He was leaving. Look at the apartment, it’s bare!”
Gardener couldn’t tell. He’d naturally assumed that Singh was one of those landlords who charged the Earth for their accommodation, showed up once a week for the rent, and then conveniently disappeared when faced with complaints or repairs. “What’s missing?”
“Everything!” said Singh, waving his hands around once more. “Bathroom empty of towels, toilet rolls, shaving equipment. His clothes are in suitcases. Everything! People always take advantage of me.”
Gardener wondered why Myers had planned to leave. He stood with his hands in his pockets, scrutinizing every inch of the room. Myers was not taking a holiday. His living arrangement was his choice. There were no personal ornaments, no paintings, no magazines, no newspapers, no photo-frames containing pictures of immediate family. On the walls, lighter patches indicated there had been paintings. There was nothing at all to tell them about the man who’d been killed.
Was Myers an associate of Plum and Thornwell? Perhaps he was. Maybe he’d found out who was responsible for their deaths. Maybe it was Summers. Had Myers also worked for Summers? If he had, why hadn’t Summers told them? He must have known it would trace back to him. With Myers dead, would they find Summers had vanished?
Reilly appeared at the door. “I’ve found something you might want to see, amongst his personal documents.” Reilly handed Gardener an old invoice, a bill for commission, from Derek Summers. From behind his back, he produced a Santa hat. At least one of his questions had been answered.
Gardener passed the invoice to Briggs.
He scanned it, glancing at the senior officer. “Summers didn’t tell you about Myers, did he?”
Gardener shook his head as he stepped over to the window and opened it. He needed fresh air. Outside, amidst the desolation, still no one had gathered to see what was going down.
He turned back to Briggs, his finger pointing accusingly, his anger evident in his voice.
“Summers knows about all of these deaths, and I’ll lay odds he knows why.”
“Maybe he does. Bring me hard evidence.”
“Haven’t we got enough evidence here? Why is he withholding information? What is he hiding?”
