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Gardener sighed. “That’s a frightening thought.”
“Even so, we might have to consider it. He might have all of them. Maybe something in the past connects them all and now it’s payback time.”
Before the conversation went any further the door opened and Cragg walked in with a sheet of paper in his hand. “Have you been sitting there all night?”
“Most of it,” replied Gardener.
“You shouldn’t have done that, sir, there’s plenty of room upstairs and a couple of cells with beds in, we could have accommodated you.”
“Cells with beds?” said Reilly. “You’re all heart, Maurice. To be sure we’d have loved that.”
“Have you been here as well, Mr Reilly?”
“Somebody has to look after him.”
Cragg chuckled. “Well I’ve got some news for you.”
“Go on,” said Gardener.
“ANPR cameras have pinged Carrie Fletcher’s car three times in the last hour. Seven o’clock in Skipton. Half an hour ago in Harrogate. And Ripon in the last few minutes.”
Gardener jumped out of his seat and headed to the map of the area on the left-hand wall. He followed the route with his finger.
He turned to Reilly. “She must be alive and kicking and on her way home.” Gardener grabbed his hat and jacket from a chair. “Come on, Sean, no time to waste.”
“Do you want something to take to eat on the way?” Cragg asked. “You must be starving.”
“No thanks, Maurice, there’s no time.”
Chapter Thirty
It took them thirty minutes to reach Carrie Fletcher’s house in Sowerby. As they pulled onto the path, they saw the Land Rover parked in front of the garage. Gardener noticed the curtains twitch in neighbouring houses.
As he walked around the front of the car, he felt the bonnet. It was hot; the engine was still ticking as it cooled.
“Can I help you?” said a voice from the gate.
She was late forties, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Her slim figure filled out a pair of tight blue jeans rather nicely, and she was wearing a Barbour jacket.
Gardener held out his warrant card. “DI Gardener and DS Reilly, West Yorkshire Major Incident Team. Are you Carrie Fletcher?”
“Finally locked him up, have you?”
“Who?” Reilly asked.
“I think we both know the answer to that question. Yes, I am Carrie Fletcher, and you’d better come in. I’m not sure I want to talk on the doorstep with my neighbours listening.”
Gardener followed her advice. The heat inside the kitchen was welcoming. Carrie Fletcher had an old-fashioned range, the type that had hot water running through it all the time. The walls and floor were tiled; the ceiling had dark oak beams. The appliances were silver and modern. Decorating the worktops were the usual kitchen crockery, with foodstuffs in canisters. Hanging from the beams were a number of pans and utensils. A radio on a windowsill provided background music.
Carrie Fletcher held a coffee pot aloft. “Drink?”
“I won’t say no,” said Reilly.
“I bet you never do.”
Both officers took a seat at the table, and Gardener asked if he could have tea. She set place mats and joined them. In the middle of the table was a fruit bowl with apples, bananas, pears, and kiwi fruit.
Carrie Fletcher pointed. “Help yourselves, or if you’d like, I have biscuits.”
