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“Come off it. We only spoke to you on Sunday about him, and you told us you didn’t know him.”
“Oh, him, that taxi driver.”
“We never said he was a taxi driver.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“I’m sure we didn’t,” said Gardener. “We simply asked if you knew him, and you said you didn’t. Now you claim he’s a taxi driver.”
“Well, I must have read it in the paper.”
“So you’re still claiming you didn’t know Barry Morrison?” asked Gardener.
“We’re just going round
in circles here. You two are desperate. Four people have been killed, you have no idea who’s done it, and you’re clutching at straws trying to pin the blame on anyone. Is this what we pay our taxes for?”
“No,” said Gardener. “You pay them so that we can look after you. We can investigate and lock up murderers and keep the streets safe from the likes of you.”
“The likes of me? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“People who waste our time and don’t tell us the truth. People who hinder the investigation, which then takes longer, and possibly gets more people killed.”
Sally Summerby leaned forward again, obviously offended by Gardener’s tone. “I don’t like your attitude. And if you continue to try and bully me, I’ll have a solicitor down here so fast you won’t know what’s hit you.”
“I’ll give you one more chance to come clean.”
Sally Summerby sat back and folded her arms in defence. “Come clean? I think you’ve lost the plot. You are in so much trouble, Detective Inspector.”
“One of us is,” said Gardener, removing the square of folded paper he’d taken from the safe deposit box the previous evening. He unfolded it and slid it toward Sally Summerby. She read the page. Her face drained of colour.
“Where did you get this?”
“You recognize it, then?”
“I asked you where you got it?”
“Barry Morrison was killed in Batley on Saturday morning. We found a safe deposit key inside his stomach. Last night we found the bank that held the key, and we had the assistant manager out after ten o’clock, because you pay your taxes, you see, which pays our wages. Anyway, you know the rest. We found that birth certificate in the box, which states that Barry Morrison is the father of your daughter. Would you care to expand on the theory, or are you still claiming you don’t know him?”
Sally Summerby broke down, and Gardener figured she would need more than one tissue. He left the room and returned a few minutes later with a box of tissues and three teas.
“Thank you,” she said, as he passed them over.
“Are you ready to tell us now?”
“Oh Christ, this is such a mess.” She took a sip of tea. “Gareth knows nothing about this. You have to promise me he never will.”
“I can’t promise any such thing, Mrs Summerby. I’m investigating a murder here, and to be able to do my job, I need the truth.” He allowed her a minute to calm down and take more sips of tea.
“Chloe is the result of a taxi fare I couldn’t pay.”
“Excuse me?” asked Reilly.
“I was out in Leeds one night. It was a hen party for a friend of mine. There were ten of us altogether. We were all over Leeds like a rash. Got completely plastered, like you do. We all decided to go home about three o’clock in the morning. Three of us took a taxi – Barry Morrison’s. He dropped my friends off first. They got out without paying. I was so drunk I hadn’t realized. When he dropped me in Esholt, the bill was over eighty pounds. I didn’t have the money in my purse. Do I need to spell the rest out for you?”
“You didn’t have the money on you. Did you not have any money in the house?”
“No. It was nearly Christmas. Gareth only works on the farm, he doesn’t own it. Money wasn’t brilliant. We’d spent most of it on presents for relatives, and food for ourselves.”
