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“One of my officers will escort you home. You can go through the list with him. Once you know what’s missing, come back here and let’s have it on file.”
“I don’t need anyone to run me home. I’ve got the van outside.”
“You can collect your van when the officer brings you back to the station.”
“Why can’t I have my van?”
“We’ve just told you,” replied Reilly.
“This is all bullshit. Persecution is what this is. I’ll be speaking to my lawyer and your superior about this.” Robbie Carter turned as if to leave but then faced both detectives. “I want that guitar found. Maybe now you’ll both believe me.”
Once Gardener had seen Robbie Carter and PC Benson off the premises he returned to the lobby.
“Why are we keeping his van?” asked Maurice Cragg.
“So we can put a tracking device on it, Maurice. I genuinely want to keep an eye on him.”
Chapter Sixteen
Gardener and Reilly parked outside a barn at Matthew Atkinson’s stables, and both jumped out. The air wasn’t quite as fresh as Gardener had anticipated, though he suspected the smell would be much worse in the middle of summer. It was overcast with a fierce, biting wind cutting into everything it touched.
Glancing around, Gardener figured business must be good. There were four large stables. Staring into the nearest he saw three horses tied to a round pole supporting the roof, eating hay from baskets.
Outside, a young blonde-haired woman was giving a lesson in a paddock. Agricultural vehicles littered the yard – everything from combines to quad bikes. In the distance, Gardener admired the large three-storey farmhouse. A plume of smoke from the chimney created an inviting scene.
He stopped one of the riders and asked where he could find Matthew Atkinson.
The young lady pointed to another stable. “Just over there. He’ll be in the tack room.”
Gardener thanked her and both detectives set off.
The tack room felt homely and inviting. Along the back wall was a medium sized multi-fuel stove with a basket full of logs. The red glow from the glass said it all. As he studied the room, he noticed hooks on the wall with saddles hanging down; a range of boots lined up on the concrete floor along the perimeter. Hats, jackets and horseshoes shared space with saddles, whips and crops along the walls.
A small TV and tea-making facilities stood on an open wooden dresser off to one side. Tucked into each of the shelves were a number of wicker baskets. On the wall next to the dresser was a telephone. In the middle of the room stood a table and six chairs, where someone sat cleaning a saddle. Gardener saw a couple of dustbins containing what he imagined to be horse feed stationed near the far corner.
The odour was sweet, like candy floss, mixed with the smell of old leather and something else he couldn’t distinguish – possibly oil, used for cleaning or maintaining the leather. The most surprising aspect was the peace and tranquillity. Despite what was happening outside in the yard, you could barely hear anything in here. It was dead silent.
“Can I help you?” asked the man at the table.
“Matthew Atkinson?”
“Who wants to know?” Then, laughing, he added, “If it’s the police I left half an hour ago.”
Gardener appreciated the joke but flashed his warrant card anyway.
Atkinson straightened his face. “Sorry, I was only joking.”
“Not to worry.”
Gardener took a seat, as did Reilly.
Atkinson was middle-aged, wearing a Barbour jacket and a flat cap. What Gardener could see of his hair it was brown. His eyes and his ruddy complexion bore the wrinkles of years outside in the sun, though his teeth were white. He had a slim build and Gardener figured that he probably worked all day long with the horses, which had allowed him to keep it that way.
Atkinson stopped cleaning the saddle. “What can I do for you?”
“We’d like to talk to you about Jane Carter.”
“She’s okay, isn’t she? Only, I haven’t seen her today – since Friday for that matter. I was expecting to see her before now because she has a lesson at four o’clock.”
