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He read and reread the information and found it fascinating. A series of numbers adding to a year that would then tell Baines, or whoever else was reading, what had happened previously. If of course you were clever enough to come up with the answer in the first place.
He was hooked. So, what were they? And who had put them together? Furthermore, why had he sent them to the detective-cum-blogger?
Rydell stood up and faced his bookcase, removing at least four titles that had been written about true crime in the area of Leeds.
About to turn round, he felt a spasm in his stomach like nothing he’d ever experienced before. As if someone had pierced his intestines with a white-hot knife, then started twisting the blade around to create maximum p
ain.
He dropped the books as his knees buckled. He hit the floor with a loud thud. Two of the four books hit the wall and slid down. The other two landed outside the study.
He writhed in agony as the pain continued, reaching from front to back. What had started in his stomach quickly moved to his lungs, and then upwards into his shoulder blades, making it difficult for him to breathe.
He brought his knees up to his chin, wrapping his arms as tightly around his body as he could. His breathing grew more erratic. He was sweating, he felt nauseous, and if it carried on much longer, he figured he might lose control of his bowels.
The pain didn’t last, however. As quickly as it came, it subsided, allowing him to relax a little. Eventually he was able to stretch out and lie flat on his back. His breathing returned to normal.
He was still on his back on the floor when his houseguest came into view.
“Are you okay, Uncle Chris?”
Rydell glanced up. Not wishing to cause undue concern, he smiled. “Yes, I’m fine. I just tripped and dropped all my books.”
His houseguest laughed. “You silly billy.”
Chapter Thirty-two
“Do you recognize this?”
“What is it?”
“A key.”
“I can see that. What type of a key?”
“A safe deposit box key,” said Gardener, moving the exhibits bag closer to Billy Morrison.
“No, never seen it before in my life. Never had a safe deposit box in this family. In fact, this family has never had anything worth putting in one. Where did you find it?”
Gardener and Reilly were sitting in the kitchen of Billy Morrison’s detached cottage on Gomersall Road, approximately three miles from the business. Neither detective had been surprised to find that Billy was not at work.
“Was it our Barry’s?”
“We’re not sure,” said Gardener. “It was certainly in his possession when it was found.”
“Are you serious? Our Barry couldn’t stand banks. He always said they were willing enough to take what you had, but give nothing back.”
No need to tell Gardener that.
The kitchen was large and spacious, the walls and floor tiled. The room led into a conservatory. They were all sitting at the table. Gardener figured Billy’s wife was a baker, because an electric mixer stood on one of the worktops, along with a plateful of scones on a wire rack next to it.
Billy had made both men a drink. He was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, and wore carpet slippers. He hadn’t shaved since yesterday, but that was no crime. His complexion was pale, his expression gaunt. Gardener wondered if he’d slept at all last night.
“Anyway, where did you find it? His flat?”
“No.”
“So how do you know it’s Barry’s?”
