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Tuesday, eight in the evening, the village was quiet. A middle-aged couple outside the pub were too busy drinking and talking to notice the police car. A couple of the older residents were watering hanging baskets in their front gardens.
Reilly slowly cruised to the end of the lane, parked up, and switched off the engine. Gardener opened the door and stepped out.
Glancing to his left, Gardener saw Rydell’s motorbike and trailer contraption parked in front of the village hall. Peering at the Summerbys’ house, he saw little sign of life, but there had to be something going on.
“I’m not sure what’s happening in there, Sean, or even if anyone knows we’re here, but I don’t think we should announce our arrival by knocking on the front door.”
“So let’s walk round the back. Summer’s night like this, quiet village, a lot of people are probably sitting in the back garden enjoying the weather with a drink. Wish I was.”
“If it’s any consolation, I doubt the Summerbys will be either, but at the very least we may find an open door.”
Through the front gate the path took them past a well-maintained garden in full colour. Around the corner they saw that open back door they’d hoped for.
Gardener stopped, listened. He couldn’t hear anything: no TV, no music playing, nor any voices, which he found disconcerting. Something to give them a fighting chance would have been preferable.
“I don’t like it, Sean. It’s too quiet.”
“Doesn’t mean they’re not in there. Rydell might have them hostage upstairs.”
“Which means he will have had his eye on the window, so he already knows we’re here.”
“Now it’s a question of what he’s using to hold them hostage.”
“Not known for firearms, is he?”
“No,” replied Reilly. “But he’s nothing if not unpredictable.”
“I should have read that Foul Deeds book cover to cover. Might have helped us with this situation.”
“Standing around here talking won’t. Let’s go and see what’s happening.”
Gardener entered an old-fashioned style kitchen. Wooden shelves on each wall contained jars: tea, sugar, coffee, and flour, to name but a few. A small table and three chairs were positioned along one wall, and a full spice rack on another. A number of country kitchen prints hung around the room.
“You’ll have to speak at some point,” said the voice. Gardener recognized it as Gareth Summerby’s.
“For God’s sake, tell us why you’ve done this,” shouted Sally. “Why have you kidnapped my daughter?”
“He knows why I’ve kidnapped your daughter.” The last one was a voice they didn’t recognize, so it could only be Rydell.
“Why would I know?” asked Summerby.
Gardener decided there were only three people in the room, and no one had pressed the panic button yet. He nodded to Reilly, and the pair edged forward toward the living room.
Gareth Summerby came into view, and the last thing either detective expected to see was a double barrel shotgun, pointing straight at them.
“Come in,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for you. Or should I say, he has.”
They had no choice. Though Summerby should have been controlling the show, Gardener didn’t think he was.
“Take your phones out of your pockets and throw them in the middle of the room.”
Summerby was tucked into the corner of the room, which gave him a bird’s-eye view of everything. His wife was standing against the wall, next to the door through which they had entered.
“What the hell are you doing, Gareth? The police are here. They’ve come to help, and you’re holding them at gunpoint?”
“Fat lot of use they’ve been so far. They’ve blamed both of us for the killing spree. Treat us like criminals, and it’s our daughter that’s missing.”
Interesting, thought Gardener. He’s using the term ‘our’ daughter.
