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Detective Constable Colin Sharp stood in front of him, a thirty-something dedicated professional with a dark complexion, a deep, resonant voice, and premature balding. Sharp had obviously said something funny because Reilly’s infectious cackle reverberated around the room.
“Here’s the boss now,” said Reilly, his feet still on his desk. “Would you care for a coffee?”
“From that machine? You must be joking.”
Gardener turned to DC Sharp. “Come with me, Colin.”
Sharp followed Gardener down a long corridor, acknowledging colleagues he passed along the way. Gardener couldn’t help but notice that although the decorations were sparse, they had a comedian on the force. A long balloon and two round ones had been arranged as a phallic symbol above one of the doors. At the end of the corridor they turned left, entering the first room on the right.
“We’ll run the investigation from here, which we’ll also use for briefing and debriefing. There’s sufficient trunking and enough power sockets for all the internal computers. I’ve also called in the HOLMES operators. We’ll put them next door.”
He faced Sharp. “Can you set up the white boards and start off the spider chart with the name Herbert Plum, which I believe is the name of the deceased tenant?”
Gardener left Sharp and returned to his office.
Reilly glanced up at him and nodded as he entered. “When you gonna fix that hat, boss?”
Gardener smiled. “When the time’s right.”
“It’s been nearly a year. You’ve not seen anything?”
Gardener grew cold inside. His stomach turned over. Not a day went by when he didn’t think about the bastard who had taken the life of his wife, Sarah.
“No. But I will.”
The rest of the team rolled in. Gardener instructed them to head over to the incident room, and told them that he would be along shortly. When he arrived, the group was sitting conferring with each other, waiting for him to start. He could hear the HOLMES team setting up their equipment next door as he addressed the team.
“I appreciate all your efforts. It’s been a long night. I’m not going to keep you up any longer than I have to. Judging by the early witness statements, no one’s seen anything, no one’s heard anything, but that’s nothing fresh. Most of the people you talked to will be lying. It’ll probably take us a lot of hard work to ferret out the truth.
“You lads could do with a break. Get yourselves a coffee and something to eat. While you have a break, Sean and I will stay here and organize the HOLMES team and the operational support officers to go through the rest of the witness statements. I’ll also update the spider chart.
“When you come back, we can make a start by trawling CCTV, if there is any around there. We’ll have to do another house-to-house. Sean and I will go back to the crime scene and grill the residents more thoroughly. Any questions?”
Gardener glanced around. There were none.
Chapter Ten
A small gathering huddled at the site of David Vickers’ grave on a cold December morning. His mother Lesley, dressed in black, held a white handkerchief up to her face. Her tears flowed freely, obscuring her view, the last she would ever have of her only son. Jim, her husband, held her close, as if afraid to let her go. His contorted expression reflected the pain that could only be associated with losing a child. His other arm was wrapped around his daughter, Susan. David’s grandparents stared vacantly at the coffin, trapped within their own torment, oblivious to everyone else.
Two police officers and a press photographer had also come to pay their respects.
Despite being mid-morning, the air blew crisp and fresh. A film of white frost covered the grass. Glistening brown leaves crunched underfoot. Exhaled breath hung around the mourners’ heads, reluctant to spread to the outside world, an unsafe place where perverts killed children.
As Jacqueline Bâlcescu finished the service, she stepped back from the open grave as a mark of consideration. Lesley fell to her knees and begged for her son’s return. She promised she would not let anything happen to him again. She would look after him properly, if only the Lord would grant her another opportunity.
Jim reached down to her, tears in his eyes. He wrapped both arms around his wife, pleading with her, offering reassurance. Through clenched teeth, he whispered to her no one could have given David a better home. Their son couldn’t have had a more considerate mother. She should not blame herself.
Jacqueline wanted to reach out and comfort Jim. His haunted expression was pitiful. His son’s death had torn his family apart, and the only thing he could do was watch. She noticed a number of other villagers hovering at the gate, unwilling to intrude upon the family’s suffering. At the other end of the cemetery, a couple walked their dogs, their heads turned in the direction of the funeral. Most of the villagers had sent wreaths and sympathy cards. Jacqueline had seen the cards, and though they meant well – as people always did – she perceived in the messages the unstated relief that it was not their child.
She heard a rustling sound behind her. Turning, Jacqueline saw Stewart Gardener kneeling over his wife’s grave. He’d cleaned up the area around the headstone, placing fresh flowers in the small urn, whispering as he did so.
Gardener glanced in the minister’s direction, nodding courteously, before returning his attention to Sarah’s resting place.
Jacqueline turned back to the grieving family. She felt it was time to make her departure.
She walked around the edge of the grave toward Lesley. She pressed her handkerchief tight to her mouth, her eyes shut and her voice a series of choking, broken sobs.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Lesley?”
