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“How do you know all this stuff was his, and not just planted on him?”
“Evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“Maybe we should mention the other flats he owned,” said Gardener. “They would obviously generate an income. And if, of course, you were right about him not liking banks, all of this money would be tax free, no doubt.”
“Other flats? What the hell are you talking about now?”
“Seems your Barry has been a very busy little bee. We have records indicating that not only did he own the house in Hume Crescent,
but he had one or two flats in the area as well, which he rented out to undesirables. Wouldn’t surprise me if they were all part of his little empire. Maybe he had Alan Sargent roped in on it all.”
“Maybe he was blackmailing Sargent,” said Reilly.
“Well, why don’t you go and ask him, instead of hauling me in here?”
“We can’t,” said Gardener.
“Why? Somebody killed him as well, have they?”
Gardener and Reilly remained silent.
Morrison stood up sharp. “What? Are you two winding me up?”
The two detectives remained tight-lipped. Gardener wanted Billy Morrison to commit himself.
“Are you serious? Alan Sargent is dead? When?”
“We were called out at five o’clock this morning.”
“Where?”
“We found him in Kirkstall Abbey, sitting between two trees, opposite the ruin.”
Morrison shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. “Oh, Jesus. I can’t get me head round all this. How many more?”
Gardener and his partner let the news filter in. Finally, Billy asked, “How did it happen?”
“Someone had stoved his head in with a fence post,” said Reilly. “Poor man took a right pasting. He was black and blue.”
Morrison leaned back in his chair. Gardener noticed he was trembling.
“Someone must have it in for me.”
“We thought that,” said Gardener. “But you said you didn’t know anything. I do find myself coming back to the comments you made yesterday. For example, we never mentioned drugs, but you brought it up. When you called Barry’s phone, Alan Sargent answered. Makes me wonder how innocent you really are.”
“Look,” shouted Morrison. “I told you yesterday I knew nothing about our Barry and his drugs scam. You lot loaded ten layers of shit on to me, about him having a house and loads of money and a prostitute in tow. There was a lot going on in my head. It was just a wild guess about the drugs, that’s all it was. Nothing else. I swear to you I don’t know anything about drugs, money, prostitutes, or murders, and I certainly didn’t know Alan Sargent was dead.”
“Are you seriously expecting us to believe all this was going on behind your back? That your brother was leading a double life, and you knew nothing about it?”
“I don’t care what you believe,” shouted Morrison. “The one thing I do know is I haven’t killed anybody. I didn’t kill the prostitute, I didn’t kill my brother, and I didn’t kill Alan Sargent.”
“Or Frank Fisher?”
“No! No! No! I didn’t kill…” Morrison stopped mid-sentence. “What did you say?”
“Frank Fisher,” repeated Reilly. “You see, when we found Alan Sargent in the grounds of Kirkstall Abbey this morning at five o’clock, you might not have heard us when we said he was sitting between two trees.”
