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“Do you know… I’m sure I recognize you… from somewhere?”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Monday 22nd August, 5:30 a.m.
Gardener glanced around. The sun was shining, the sky blue with little or no cloud, and no breeze to diminish the warmth. The scene before him was peaceful: few cars were passing on the A65. It should have been a moment to treasure.
It wasn’t, otherwise he wouldn’t be there.
He was standing in the grounds of Kirkstall Abbey, a ruined Cistercian monastery, north-west of Leeds. The building was set in a public park on the north bank of the River Aire, founded circa 1152.
A uniformed constable guarded the entrance. Another was talking to a dog walker who had found something totally alien to the scene.
The dead man was sitting between two trees opposite the Grade I listed building. Behind him, a wall separated the grounds of the abbey from the A65, where a woman was waiting at a bus stop.
Gardener had finished his call to the station to request his team. Walking back to his partner, he stared down at the body. The most disturbing aspect was the fact that he was in a wheelchair.
He vaguely recognized the man as one of Barry Morrison’s driver’s, Alan Sargent. The dog walker, whose name was Trevor Bannister, was the landlord of a public house further down Abbey Road, called The Vesper Gate. As soon as Gardener had finished with the corpse and had addressed his team, he and Reilly would go and have a word.
Someone had done a real number on Sargent. He had very obviously been beaten to death with a hedge stake that was now lying on the grass behind the chair. He was dressed in a dark-coloured suit with a white shirt but no tie, and covered in blood. His eyes were black and his hands were covered in bruises, probably in an effort to defend himself against the attack.
Gardener suspected a fractured skull, not to mention a broken jaw. His mouth was open, as if protesting. The lower jaw was at an angle to the upper, and a number of teeth had been smashed. He was convinced the dead man hadn’t been robbed, because a gold watch was still on his left wrist.
Gardener could hear music, faint and muffled. It came from the inside of Sargent’s suit jacket. He didn’t know the song, but he knew who was singing. The same voice had been apparent at the two previous crime scenes. He needed Dave Rawson.
Reilly pulled the jacket back to reveal a mini CD player lodged between Sargent’s hip and the side of the wheelchair. The sound was a little clearer, but no better. The Irishman carefully extracted the dead man’s wallet. Inside were credit cards and money. He pulled back one of the zips, and found a white piece of paper, which he passed over to Gardener.
Unfolding it, the SIO noticed it was a prescription for anti-depressants, which had been prescribed by a Dr Robinson. Gardener wondered if he worked for the private clinic in Bond Street, the very same place they were at yesterday.
“Look at this,” said Gardener.
Reilly briefly read it. “No wonder he’s on anti-depressants if he’s listening to this shit. I’m not surprised he’s dead. It’s certainly fucking killing me.”
“So where does that leave us? Revenge against the car lot? Or is someone picking off clients who attend the Bond Street private clinic?”
“And who’s in the frame?” asked Reilly.
“We need to go through the client list and fast, see if we can find a connection there.”
“And if we don’t?”
“We’ll put Billy Morrison back in the firing line. And there’s always the Summerbys.”
“Somehow I don’t have them down as another Fred and Rosemary West.”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it, Sean? You never actually know who the hell you’re dealing with. Why has their daughter gone missing without a trace?”
“And who’s the girl in the photo underneath Nicola Stapleton? Does the killer have both girls? Is it two completely different cases, or is there a connection to our case?”
“Is the girl in the photo underneath Stapleton, Alan Sargent’s daughter? And whose wheelchair is it, for God’s sake? We saw him on Friday in the portacabin with Billy Morrison. He was walking then.”
So much had happened since then. Gardener glanced at the prescription again before calling the desk sergeant at the station. He needed someone to check on the names and addresses of the taxi drivers, in particular Alan Sargent.
He didn’t have to wait long for his answer. Gardener broke the connection, replacing his mobile in one of his jacket pockets.
“Morris Grove,” said Gardener.
“Where’s that?” asked Reilly.
