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“They’ve not even bothered to bag it up.”
“As fresh as it gets, I’d say.” The pair of them continued jibing as they crossed the road.
John removed his cap, shook his head, and scratched it. He strolled past the other shops to his own. He searched his pockets for his keys, mumbling to himself, wondering what the two clowns were talking about.
As he found his keys, he also found his answer.
Chapter Seven
“Can you remember her name?”
“I think she’s called Chloe. I remember she’s five years old.”
“And you’ve never seen her at the house next door?”
“No. Never.”
“Have you ever seen her in the neighbourhood?”
“No. Only on the television and in the newspapers.”
“Was there an appeal on the TV with the parents?”
“Yes.”
“Did you recognize either of those? Ever seen either of them around here?”
“No,” replied Beryl Potts.
That was the last thing Gardener wanted to hear. He’d hoped for something more enlightening, that the girl had been Nicola S
tapleton’s next of kin, her daughter living with an estranged ex-husband. Instead, all he had was an ever-growing can of worms. But that was his life.
He needed to call the station. Running a check on Nicola Stapleton was important enough, but now he had a Missing From Home connected to his investigation, which would be a separate case for another major incident unit with its own DI. He needed to know who was leading the inquiry, and where. Things could become complicated.
He reached into his pocket for his mobile when he heard a knock at the front door. Colin Sharp walked in. Gardener hadn’t realized the front door was still open.
“Think we might have a result, sir.”
“Go on.”
“Lady across the road, number 51. The house at the end of the block.”
“Oh, I know her,” said Beryl Potts. “Mrs Comings-and-Goings I call her.”
“Andrea Jennings, she’s called,” continued Sharp. “Anyway, she saw a car parked outside the house next door sometime between ten and eleven. Her and her husband had been watching the news. She came outside for a cig.”
“She recognize it?” asked Gardener.
“Yes, it was here almost every week. A black Ford Focus.”
“That must be the one I was talking about,” said Beryl Potts.
“Registration?” Gardener inquired.
“She noticed it was still there about eleven, before her and her husband went to bed. Anyway, she knew the car well enough, seen it there a few times, so she wasn’t too bothered. Registration checks out. It belongs to one Barry Morrison. Apparently him and his brother run a car lot on Leeds Road in Birstall.”
“Good work, Colin.” Gardener glanced at his watch: five o’clock. “So, if we have a registration, we must have an address. Take one of the lads with you and let’s see what Mr Morrison has to say for himself.”
