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Whatever had happened in Batley had happened before, according to The Man in Black. But when? The sum of the years added up to 20, 18, and 21. How was he supposed to work that out? It could be any combination.
He threw some more beer down his neck, thinking about his own case in 1982. The numbers 1, 9, 8, and 2 added up to twenty, and although they involved three people, it was a different set of people with different ages.
The only clue that Vincent felt really affected him was the third, the one involving the engine driver for the Midland Railway Company. He suspected that was important, because as the email inferred, it was the key to his destiny… or his demise.
So he would concentrate on that one. Once he solved it, he would take the fight straight to the killer’s door. If the man wanted to play games, Vincent would take him on.
Then it hit Vincent like a brick in the face. It had to be the man who’d pled guilty to handling stolen goods at the Leeds Crown Court back in 1982.
Steven Cooper must have returned for revenge. But why wait till now?
It was a far cry from stealing to killing, but who knew what kind of a life of crime he’d been led into.
Vincent would have to tell the police.
He reached for his keyboard. Perhaps he should tell the world first.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Sunday 21st August
The clock chimed, and eight bells followed. Gardener glanced up. He’d been in the garage two hours, having risen at five. He stood up, wiped his hands on a rag, and finished off what was left of the bottled water, listening to Maria McKee singing Show Me Heaven.
He strolled back to the bike, a 1959 T120 Triumph Bonneville. When he’d started the project some time back, the bike was wrecked: bald tyres, rusty exhaust, a rat-chewed seat. Badges were missing, the fuel tank worn down to bare metal, no front number plate, and a dangling smashed headlamp. It was, however, the last thing Sarah had bought him before she died.
Despite being in bits and strewn all over the place, most of it had been lovingly restored and now eagerly awaited reconstruction. Gardener picked up the King and Queen seat his father had bought him recently, trying to imagine what kind of an experience the finished product would be to ride.
Until that time, he would do what he always came in the garage to do whilst working on the bike.
He would think: about the large can of worms that had been opened with the double murder and everyone who had a connection, however tenuous – Nicola Stapleton, Barry Morrison, Chloe Summerby, her parents, and Billy Morrison. Thinking clearly through that lot would be a real task.
The connecting door between the kitchen and the garage opened, and his father came in with a hot cup of tea. The smell of grilling bacon followed.
“How’s it going?” asked his father, glancing admiringly at the pieces of the bike.
“Getting there.”
Malcolm sipped his own tea. “What time was it last night?”
“Close to eleven o’clock. No one was up.”
“I was awake, but I figured after the hours you’d worked, you’d want a little time to yourself.”
“Thank you. I wasn’t really in any mood for conversation.”
“Did you have anything to eat?”
“No. Wasn’t in the mood for that, either. Had a shower and went straight to bed,” said Gardener.
“It’s not good for you.”
“Neither is eating at midnight and then going to bed.”
“Point taken. I worry about you, that’s all.”
The telephone in the kitchen rang. Gardener answered it.
The desk sergeant at the station bade him good morning, and then went on to deliver his message.
