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What the hell was she on about, thought Gardener.
He took more corridors, which didn’t lead anywhere. Sarah shouted for Chris at least three more times and each one grew successively louder, and scarier. She sounded really worried.
Desperate, Gardener started to run, feeling unsettled. If he didn’t find her soon, something bad might happen.
A sudden gunshot and a scream stopped him in his tracks.
“Sarah,” he bellowed, moving as fast as he could.
First one corridor, then another. He could hear Sarah’s sobs. She sounded panicky. He really needed to find her, especially if a nutter with a gun was in here.
Gardener turned right and found himself in the car park again, but his car wasn’t there anymore. Sarah was laid on the ground, holding her stomach.
He ran over, dropped to his knees and cradled her head in his arms. Blood seeped through the gaps in her fingers.
Suddenly the fear in her eyes became all too evident.
Sarah wasn’t frightened for herself because she was staring ahead of him, over his shoulder.
Gardener turned and saw a man bearing down, his hand in the air. Something glinted as it came down. It could have been a screwdriver, or a knife, or anything. But he had no idea.
“Stewart, watch out.”
Too late. The blade buried itself between his shoulder blades.
Gardener shouted, clutching his shoulder. His elbow slammed into the headboard and he bounced out of bed and onto the floor, knocking over the lamp from the bedside cabinet in the process.
“Shit,” said Gardener.
He hadn’t had a nightmare for some time.
Chapter Forty-eight
As Wendy Higgins was walking back into the village with Pouch, Alan Braithwaite was heading out toward the main A65 with Spike.
“I was wondering if I’d see you,” said Wendy, “you’re a little later this morning.”
Braithwaite nodded. “Didn’t have the best of nights.” He glanced down at Spike, who was now sitting with Pouch.
“Oh dear, you’re not sickening for something, are you?”
“Might be coming down with something.”
“You do look a little tired,” replied Wendy. “You want to be careful. How’s the new car?” she asked, in an effort to change the subject. She knew how men didn’t like to admit a sign of weakness.
“Not driving much for pleasure at the moment,” replied Braithwaite.
“Oh dear, it’s not faulty, is it? I know what modern cars are like. You pay thousands for them and the garage have them more than you.”
“No, nothing like that. Just a bit busy at the moment.”
“I thought of you yesterday,” said Wendy, realising he didn’t want to elaborate. “That awful business with the Hunters and the hit and run. The police are appealing for witnesses. There was an awful incident in Leeds in which a man died. There were some photos, and they’re looking for a man who drives a car like yours.”
“Oh, really,” replied Braithwaite, as if he didn’t know what to say.
“Yes, it’s all over the newspapers and the TV, quite a nasty business.”
Pouch suddenly stood up and strolled into the garden of The Malt public house, sniffing around the benches. Spike joined him.
