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Gardener bagged it for evidence, and the body was lifted.
Reilly pointed to an object that had been underneath the body the whole time.
A syringe.
Chapter Five
Gardener shivered, thrust back in time to another case involving a syringe, christened ‘The Christmas Murders’.
He retrieved the object, studied it. Although empty, he noticed the inside was coated in a creamy beige compound. It was nothing he recognized, so he passed it to Fitz. The pathologist couldn’t help, so he bagged it, and Gardener asked for it to be tested immediately. Fitz nodded, said he could do no more, and instructed the undertaker to claim the corpse.
Gardener asked Reilly if he would oversee that whilst he went next door to interview the neighbour. He stepped outside and removed the scene suit; people were gathering at the playground to speculate, more than there were before. The single mother had remained, still smoking, still on the phone. Gardener glanced upwards. The sky was clear, the night warm, despite the early hour of the morning. On the path, the dining chair had been moved, and the woman who had happened upon the scene was gone. He nodded to the attending officer as he left.
The interior of the neighbour’s house was a complete contrast to the one where the murder had taken place. The grey-haired woman was sitting in an armchair near the fireside in the living room. Patrick Edwards was on the settee: both had a cup of tea. The woman glanced at Gardener and smiled.
The room was clean, and smelled of beeswax and other pleasant scents. The curtains were drawn. The carpet had no flaws that he could see. She had a leather three-piece suite. All her decorative ornaments were polished, as were the mirrors that hung about the room. A large display of photographs showed the woman with a man, which he took to be her husband. She was obviously very house-proud, enough not to have smoked inside.
The TV was switched on with the volume turned low. He didn’t recognize the programme.
He took a seat opposite the woman, nodding to Patrick Edwards. “Can you take notes?”
“Would you like a cup of tea, officer?” she asked.
“No, I’m fine, thank you. Nasty business, Mrs…”
“Potts. Beryl Potts. You can say that again. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. Only on them TV programmes, you know, Vera and Midsomer Murders.”
Gardener smiled. The less said about those, the better. “How old are you, Mrs Potts?”
“Sixty-eight.”
He thought she was doing well for that age. She was smartly dressed in a two-piece olive-green trouser suit, and although she had one or two extra pounds around her midriff, she carried it well.
“Are you married?” he asked, glancing at the photos.
“Widow. Five year now. And I still miss him.”
Gardener knew that feeling. It was less than two years since he had lost Sarah. Not a day dawned when he didn’t think about her.
“How long have you lived here?”
“About forty years.” She finished her tea and placed the cup on a sideboard to the right of her chair.
“So you pretty much know everyone in the neighbourhood?”
“I’ll say. Know ’em all. Seen a few come and go.”
“And the girl next door?”
“Not as well as I know some of them. She kept to herself mainly, didn’t really go in for socializing. Well… depends on what you call ‘socializing’.”
Gardener made a note to come back to that. “What was her name?”
“Stapleton, Nicola Stapleton.”
“Do you know how old she was?”
“No. Late twenties, maybe.”
