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Observing the yard, he was unhappy about the situation. The shop at the front was locked, but the rear entrance was open, as was the door to the flat above. Something was wrong. People were not known for leaving their doors open around there.
When Reilly was on the ground, Gardener quietly crept to the open door, listening intently. He couldn’t hear anything.
“What do you think?” Gardener asked Reilly.
“Should we call for back up?”
“And say what?” responded Gardener. “We might save lives if we act in time.”
“Or end our own.”
Reilly smiled and said, “Fuck it! Let’s go in.”
Gardener nodded. He entered first. A clinical smell hung in the air. He saw a passage to his left, with a number of boxes stacked up. He passed a cupboard door on his right, ajar.
Gardener eased it open. It was full of stock – no people.
He moved further in, toward the front of the shop, aware that on his left he saw an opening leading to an upper level, where they made up prescriptions.
He glanced at Reilly, pointing upwards.
Gardener slipped quickly past the opening. Reilly immediately turned left and up the two small steps.
The Irishman shook his head.
Gardener continued into the shop.
The only two people in the place were tied to chairs. One was Vincent; he suspected the other to be the chemist himself, John Oldham. Vincent, for some reason, was still wearing a dressing gown. Oldham had a white smock on. Both appeared to be asleep.
Gardener ran forward, stared at both men. There was no movement.
Reilly checked the remainder of the shop, but it was obvious there was no one else home. He opened the front door and let Colin Sharp in.
Gardener felt both men for a pulse. It was weak, and their breathing was very shallow, but both were still alive. For how much longer, he wouldn’t like to say.
“Sean, phone for an ambulance. Colin, can you call the station and request some additional support officers?”
To his right he noticed a countertop, which contained an empty brown bottle. He read the label: secobarbital. The name Samuel Birchall came to mind. The bottle stood on top of a copy of the book Foul Deeds and Suspicious Deaths in Leeds. Behind was a pair of disposable gloves.
Had Chris Rydell been here? Had they missed an obvious link?
Raymond Allen? That meant that Vincent had been on to something, and they had taken him for an idiot.
Gardener remembered one of the last things he’d said to Vincent: if anything happens to you, that’s when we’ll be called.
“On their way,” said Sharp.
In the open doorway, an old couple had dropped by.
“Are we open, mate?”
“No, sorry, we have an emergency,” said Gardener, closing the door.
He heard them grumble from the other side, but he had no idea what they’d said.
“Has Rydell been here, Sean?”
“Judging by the stuff on the counter, you’d say yes.”
