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The question of what to do with the bike when he’d finished was a major one. Would he sell it?
Or would he keep it and ride it?
Chapter Fifty-four
Gardener checked the clock on the wall. It read 2:30. He’d been in the police station for three hours, chasing down all the archive material he could find relating to the death of the man involved in the fracas with Warthead. It was warm, and he was tired because he’d had little or no sleep in the last thirty hours. He picked up the bottle of water in front of him, unscrewed the cap, draining half the contents in one go.
He reflected on the meal last night with his family and the minister’s. His father had cooked perhaps one of the best traditional roasts he had ever tasted. Maybe he thought that because he had had little chance to grab any decent food in quite some time. Police diets left a lot to be desired. Most of the lads survived on McDonald’s because that was usually the only thing open at four o’clock in the morning. He’d always remained adamant that he would not eat junk food, preferring to go without rather than subject his system to that rubbish.
Although the conversation was pleasant, it felt stilted at first. He couldn’t help but shake the feeling that Malcolm and Anei were hoping something would develop further between him and Jacqueline. They knew it wouldn’t.
He returned to the task at hand. In total, there had been forty-eight witness statements on the night Sarah died. No one knew Warthead by name, though some had seen him in and around the city before. Reports confirm he made his escape that night by running down Bond Street, disappearing through the dark arches.
The name of the man Warthead killed was Tony Parsons. He’d owned his own IT business in Skipton, close to where he lived. He’d been married with a daughter. Tony had been on a night out with some of his employees, a mild stag night of sorts. He’d left them to catch the last bus home. One witness statement, however, stood out above all the others. One of Tony’s colleagues, a man called Glen Cooper, said that Tony had suffered the year from hell because his son had died of a drug overdose back in January. Gardener wrote down the address in Skipton.
The weather was pleasant but cold – blue skies, plenty of sunshine, no heat – as he headed out to investigate. He arrived in the market town forty minutes later. It took him another ten minutes to find the house he wanted. It was a detached mock-Tudor with a double garage and well-kept lawns. There were gas mantles on either side of the front door set back in an alcove. He knocked loudly and rang the bell.
The door opened. The girl who answered was no more than sixteen. She had short dark hair and was neatly groomed. Clear skin and white teeth. She wore the tightest blue jeans he had ever seen, with a cream-coloured sweater hanging off one shoulder so you could see the black bra strap. “Where’s the fire?”
Gardener smiled, flashed his warrant card. “DI Gardener, Major Incident Team. I’m sorry, it was a bit loud.”
The girl glanced at his hat. She blinked several times, staring more intensely, lifting herself up a little. “You the sheriff, then?”
“You could say that.”
“God, that was quick. I didn’t mean to jump that red light. It can’t have been more than half an hour back.”
Gardener held up his hand, shocked that she was actually old enough to drive. “Stop right there. I’m not bothered about the red light. I’m here to speak to a Mrs Stella Parsons.”
“How did you get that hole in your hat?”
“It wasn’t easy.” He thought the girl was lovely, probably meant no harm to anyone, but she was a typical airhead. He suspected it would be hard work to glean the information he wanted.
“Who did you say you wanted to talk to?” Behind her he could hear loud rock music coming from another room. He also noticed an iPod lead over her shoulder.
“Can I ask your name?”
“Lyndsey Branningham.” Stella Parsons had obviously moved on. He couldn’t blame her.
“How long have you lived here, Lyndsey?”
“My parents bought the place about six months ago.”
“Are they in?”
“Do you think I’d be playing music this loud if they were?” She bellowed over her shoulder to someone to turn it down. Another teenager appeared from the room in question, dressed only in his boxer shorts.
“Oh, fuck,” he shouted, and flew back into the other room.
“He’s not with me,” she said.
Eager to move things along, Gardener continued with his questions. “Do you know the people who lived here before?”
“Not really,” replied Lyndsey. “But from what I’ve heard, they had an awful time. The husband was killed in Leeds about a year ago. I think he was shot. The year before that, they had lost their son to drugs, and the wife finished up in a psychiatric ward. I don’t know where, though.”
Gardener’s heart sank. Right place. Wrong time. That left no one to verify the story for him.
“It was a right night from what I’ve heard, a copper’s wife was…” Lyndsey Branningham stopped mid-sentence as if she’d worked out whose wife it had been and what the hole in the hat was all about.
