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Gardener suddenly wondered at the size of the Russian community in Leeds, especially at the mention of a nerve agent. The situation was growing worse.
Fitz had produced a scalpel and a magnifying glass from his case. He was peering very closely at the victim’s neck.
“What have you seen, Herr Doktor?” asked Reilly.
“Too much of you two, for one day,” replied Fitz. “Look closely here.” He pointed to the victim’s neck.
Gardener noticed a small red mark that had also swollen and blistered like the rest of the skin.
“I suspect he’s been injected with something and left to suffer the consequences. The question – and biggest problem for you two – is where and when was it done?”
“And is whatever he has, contagious?”
“Well I won’t know that until I investigate. But you know as well as I do, if you don’t call it in and something happens to the population of Leeds there’s bound to be hell to pay, and your badge will be on the line.”
“Gut feeling, Fitz?” asked Reilly.
Fitz studied the body once more and finally sighed. He glanced at both detectives. “Off the record?”
“What else?”
“I don’t think so.”
Gardener stood and breathed a sigh of relief, glancing at Reilly.
“Treat it as normal?” asked the Irishman.
“I’m going to be in so much shit if this goes wrong.”
“We both are.”
Gardener finally turned his attention to the two driving licences. Both were a UK issue, both had the same photograph – the dead man on the ground. One had the name Conrad Morse. The other was Michael Foreman.
Gardener immediately recognised both names. He passed them over to Reilly, who read them and sighed.
“I wondered when this case would surface again.”
“Question is,” said Gardener, “who knows more than we do?”
Chapter Twenty-four
Anthony stared at the floor and saw a mountain of post and a stack of newspapers behind the front door – which was the reason he couldn’t open it fully.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
He pushed harder, forcing the mound of paperwork to flatten out. The door opened wider. Anthony stepped in, dragging his suitcase behind him. Kicking the rest of the heap with his right foot he managed to spread it around enough so he could close the front door.
He hadn’t been away that long, so why all the post? And what were the newspapers all about? Anthony had not read one for years – at least not in printed form. Most everything he read was digital.
He shivered as he realised the building was cold. Anthony couldn’t understand that one. Despite not being home he’d left the heating on pilot. He felt the radiator – stone cold. He glanced up at the thermostat. It wasn’t even on. Being digital, it required a current, so in orde
r to confirm he had power he reached out for the light switch, flicked it down.
No light. No heat. He glanced to his right, down the hall to the kitchen, wondering what was going on. The contents of his freezer must be a mess. He ran over, pushed the door open. The kitchen was empty – totally empty: no fridge freezer, no microwave, and no furniture.
He glanced into the living room, staring into another empty space – aside from a table and four chairs – as if somehow, it had been left on purpose. The trouble he’d had at the airport was bad enough, but a totally empty house with no heating and no electricity was totally unacceptable.
Home was a three-bedroom detached bungalow in Manor Park, Burley in Wharfedale. Larger than average it had an extension for a swimming pool and a personal gymnasium, perched in its own grounds at the end of a private road, half a mile from his nearest neighbours.
