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“Excuse me but I do have customers.” Despite the protest she handed the shop phone over.
Gardener leaned forward. “Excuse me, but do you have a problem?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get served.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She put the phone to her ear. “I don’t, but someone out there does. Who are you anyway?”
Gardener flashed his warrant card.
The woman dropped the phone back on the counter, grabbing Gardener’s elbow. “Come with me. There’s a man out here and I think he’s been attacked. He’s staggering all over the place.”
“What makes you think he’s been attacked?” Gardener asked, dropping the boots on the counter, allowing himself to be led outside.
“Wait till you see him.”
Out in the open air a sharp wind whistled around his ears and crept down his neck. Gardener adjusted his hat slightly.
The redhead pointed to the area where Bond Street met Albion Street, a distance of about thirty yards. Gardener peered at the staggering man. He was stocky, balding, badly dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans – neither of which appeared to be clean. He had his hands to his face but judging by the amount of gesticulating he was in some pain.
“What’s your name?” he asked the redhead, reaching for his mobile.
“Millie,” she replied.
“Millie what?”
“Johnson, Millie Johnson.”
“When did you first become aware of him?” Gardener noticed that most of the people milling around that section of shops were giving the man a wide berth. Mothers pulled children closer, before shooting off in a completely different direction. A number of gawking teenagers remained, all with phones in hand.
“A couple of minutes ago.”
“Was he acting like this?”
“Yes,” she replied, glancing around – though he couldn’t figure out why.
“Where did he come from?”
“No idea.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“No. You don’t think I was going to hang around, do you? You never know what’s wrong with him – could be anything.”
The man suddenly dropped to his knees and let out an ear-piercing scream, one that even Gardener heard.
“Mrs Johnson, you need to wait here. Please do not leave the shop. I’m going to see what I can do for him and then I’ll come back and we’ll resume this conversation.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t know nothing.”
He ducked back into the shop and ran to the counter, displaying his warrant card.
“I need a whistle.”
“Not you as well. There are people in front of you, you know.”
“A whistle, now,” he demanded. “It’s an emergency, don’t make me ask again.”
