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Her stern expression said it all. There was no arguing with her, so he stormed out of the room. She followed him to the foot of the stairs.
“Don’t spend too much money, and don’t get legless. If you do, I’d think twice about coming home tonight.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Reilly brought the car to a halt, next to another pool car on Cemetery Road.
Gardener jumped out. He glanced around. The view was mostly green fields, with fresh clean air where mills and factories would once have stood. Inside the grounds to his left stood the church, surrounded by headstones and well-kept lawns. In front of him was a large house made from Yorkshire stone with a grey slate roof and old-fashioned, wooden framed windows. Gothic turrets stood either side.
Bob Anderson came out to meet him. His partner Frank Thornton was probably still inside.
“What have you got for us, Bob?”
Reilly came around to join them.
“Evidence that Nicola Stapleton existed outside that hovel called a home. This is a homeless shelter. Run by Brenda Killen.”
Gardener remembered Colin Sharp mentioning the name in the incident room the day before.
Anderson pointed to the building. “It’s the vicarage, really, but it’s big enough to use the rooms to other things. Anyway, the vicar started a homeless shelter a while back, mainly providing food for people less fortunate. Apparently, once they’d finished breakfast this morning and had a tidy round, Brenda Killen was about to make a coffee for herself when one of the volunteers found a box with her name on it.”
“Whose?” Reilly asked. “Brenda Killen’s?”
Bob Anderson glanced at Reilly as if he’d lost his mind.
“Why don’t I like the sound of this?” said Gardener.
“It’s nothing bad. You’d better come inside and have a look.”
The two men followed Bob Anderson. Through the entrance, they walked past a staircase on the left into a room on the right, which resembled an old schoolroom. The plaster walls were painted magnolia, with the deepest skirting he had ever seen. The windows were all very high up. Posters advertised a variety of ways to obtain help if you needed it.
At the back he saw a counter: behind that was the kitchen, with ovens and pots and pans and cutlery. The shutters were up. Food odours hung in the air, but they were not unpleasant. The radio was tuned to BBC Radio 2. Sitting at a table, both nursing coffees, were Frank Thornton and very obviously Brenda Killen.
Gardener walked over and took a seat. Brenda was late forties to early fifties, with chestnut-coloured hair shaped in a bob. She had brown eyes, and little make up. She was plump and pleasant, wearing a blue and white overall. On the table next to her was a box with her name on it.
She immediately rose. “Thank you for coming. Who’s for a coffee?”
“Now that’s what I call a grand start,” said Reilly. “You wouldn’t have a few biscuits to go with that, would you? Or maybe the odd homemade scone?”
Gardener glanced at his partner. “Where the hell do you put it all?”
“A man needs fuel.”
“You eat enough to fill a 747,” said Thornton.
Gardener asked if he could have water. When they were all seated again, he asked, “Who found the box, Mrs Killen?”
“Jenny Proctor. She only lives round the corner on North Bank Road. Comes in every day to help, bless her.”
“Where?”
“In the cupboard under the stairs. She said she
was sorting through the cleaning materials when she came across it.”
“Was there anything else apart from the box?”
“No. I went to have a look myself.”
