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I’m on my way.
The Man in Black
Vincent had been expecting another message, but not one so direct. He had not spent the afternoon idly, and now felt it was time to tell the world what was going on. He was not convinced of Allen’s innocence of the double murders, either.
He posted his latest blog, with two photographs to help with identification – though he doubted they would be up to date.
Chapter Fifty
Gardener was still sitting in the incident room at ten o’clock waiting for the locksmith when Sean Reilly opened the door, carrying a bag of sausage rolls. At that point, he realized that he couldn’t remember having eaten anything since breakfast. The Irishman also came with tea because he knew Gardener would not entertain coffee from the machine. They both sat and ate.
“Cheers, Sean, you’re a lifesaver.”
“I’m starving, I know that.”
“Where the hell is this locksmith?”
“Maybe you should have put a warrant out for his arrest. I’m sure we’d have found him before now.”
Gardener laughed. He was seriously flagging now. The investigation was seventy hours old, and they had slogged their guts out for most of them.
“What do you think about Sally Summerby?” he asked Reilly.
“I’m not sure what to think, boss. She’s obviously been up to something, decided to play her cards close to her chest. But why?”
“Maybe now that she knows Morrison is dead, she feels it’s not worth talking about, whatever it was.”
“The secret dies with him, you mean?”
“It hasn’t, though, has it? She must have known we’d find a connection eventually.”
“So, what is it? Drugs? Money? An affair?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. I’m not a fan of the woman, but she is attractive. Very slim, blonde hair, dresses well. What the hell would she see in Barry Morrison?”
“I doubt the attraction was physical. From what we know of Morrison, he’d give any of the famous despots a run for their money. No, he had something on her, as well as everyone else we’ve come across.”
“And his brother still knows nothing about it.”
“So he claims. But he must know something about this collision. It was a company vehicle in company time, and it went to court. He has to know something.”
“Which brings us back to the question, is Billy Morrison involved somehow? Or better still, is he our killer?”
“My gut instinct still tells me he’s innocent of the actual murders.”
“I think so as well. But could anyone be that naive?”
“You probably could be if you had a brother like Barry. From everything we’ve heard, he has to be the most devious person I’ve ever come across.”
“No wonder he’s dead, then.”
The desk sergeant opened the incident room door. “The locksmith’s here.”
“Show him in,” said Gardener, moving his food and drink to one side.
The man was dressed in stained grey overalls. He introduced himself as Patrick Lewis, and Gardener estimated his age to be late forties. What was left of his hair was ginger. He wore glasses and was pretty stocky, with a potbelly.
“What do you have for us?”
