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“Come in, sit down, pull up a chair. Speak the truth when you tell me you care,” replied Sally Summerby, rather sullenly. “It was my mother’s favourite song in the seventies. Sister Jane by New World.”
Gardener said nothing. She wasn’t here to talk about pop music, and neither were they. Nor would he let her control the conversation, unlike the last time they met. Reilly took a seat.
“Anyway, why the hell am I here? You still don’t seem to have found my daughter, but I notice you’re moving heaven and earth to find everyone else around here.”
She’s started, thought Gardener. It was only eight o’clock in the morning.
Gardener and his partner had started earlier than that, arriving in Esholt at six-thirty. Gareth Summerby had been picked up shortly after setting off for work. He’d been brought to the station and put in another interview room. Gardener and Reilly then went back and picked up Sally Summerby, so that neither of them knew the other one was here.
“It’s my job.”
“So whose job is it to return my daughter safely to me?”
“DI Goodman’s. But we’re not here to talk about that. As you said, we’re trying to find killers.”
“Which has nothing to do with me.”
“Nicola Stapleton,” said Gardener, glancing at the file in front of him.
“What about her?”
“You said you’d never heard of her.”
“I hadn’t,” said Sally Summerby with a sigh.
Gardener could tell she was gearing up to have a go, so he let her.
“Let me tell you what I now know. She was killed in Batley on Friday night. You found a picture of a blonde-haired girl who looked like my daughter underneath her. Oh, yes, she was a prostitute. Of course, that’s something you forgot to tell me.”
“You’re on dodgy ground there, young lady,” said Reilly.
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“So, you do not know Nicola Stapleton,” persisted Gardener. “You’ve never met her in the course of your life.”
She leaned forward. “I’ve told you enough times. Don’t you people ever listen? I am not in the habit of mixing with loose women. I do not know Nicola Stapleton, but I seem to remember asking you lot a question about her and my daughter. Like, did she have her?”
Gardener removed a clean sheet of paper from the file and made a note.
“Does the name Frank Fisher mean anything?”
“What is this? Have you seriously dragged me all the way over here – which, by the way, I think is a breach of my human rights, seeing as I’ve done nothing wrong – just to ask me about people I’ve never even heard of?”
“Answer the questions,” said Reilly. “Otherwise we’ll be here all day. I’m sure you’d rather be somewhere else.”
“You lot should be. There’s a missing five-year-old girl out there, which you seem to be doing nothing about–”
Gardener cut her off. “Frank Fisher? Do you know a man called Frank Fisher?”
Sally Summerby shook her head and ran her fingers through her hair. “No, I do not know anyone called Frank Fisher.”
Gardener made another note.
“Alan Sargent?” said Reilly.
“Who?”
“Alan Sargent. Do you know a man called Alan Sargent?”
