IMPURITY by Ray Clark (which ebook reader txt) 📕

“If you’d been listening, I told you I needed a pair of new trainers for the five-a-side trials. I haven’t got them, so I probably won’t get picked.” Chris edged past him and headed for the stairs. “It’s always the same. You’re never here. When you are, you never listen! It could have been me instead of David Vickers, but I doubt you’d have noticed.”

“Don’t you dare say that! You come back here now and apologize, you little…” Gardener chased after him but wasn’t quick enough. Chris was out the back door, and riding his bike down the path.

“Chris? If you don’t come back, you’re gonna be in serious trouble, young man.” Gardener was furious, running after his son, determined not to let him put too much distance between them.

Chris glanced back. Judging by the alarmed expression on his face, he wasn’t staying around if he could help it. Malcolm emerged from the potting shed.

Gardener raised his hands in the air as Chris turned the corner and shot down the main street. Gardener turned to face his father, infuriated. It was more than the episode with Chris that had caused his mood. He felt he was beginning to lose control of everything.

Malcolm put a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, son.”

“You should have heard the way he spoke to me.”

“Give it a rest. He’ll come back when he’s calmed down.”

Gardener turned without saying anything. Back in the kitchen, the telephone was ringing.

He couldn’t work out what was going wrong between him and Chris. Maybe it had something to do with the anniversary of Sarah’s death preying on his mind. The phone continued to ring. Gardener couldn’t for the life of him remember Chris saying anything about trainers. Did a memory loss constitute being a bad father?

Still the phone rang. He went back inside and lifted the receiver. “Stewart Gardener.”

“Sir, it’s Frank Thornton. Is your mobile switched off?”

Gardener checked and found it was. Couldn’t remember when he’d done that.

“What can I do for you, Frank?”

“I have a couple of messages. They sound important. Derek Summers has made contact. He’s free this afternoon if you want to see him.”

“Good. Ring Sean and have him pick me up. What’s the second?”

“Janet Soames, she has important information for you. Very urgent, so she says.”

“Did she leave a number?”

Gardener wrote down the details, then dialled her after hanging up on Frank. “Mrs Soames? Detective Inspector Gardener here.”

“Oh, Mr Gardener. I’ve been trying to contact you. It’s about David Vickers. I spoke to one of my friends yesterday. She saw the boy who took David from school. Apparently, they were in the post office on the day in question. He had quite a bit of money. Bought David some computer games.”

“Can you give me your friend’s details? Would she recognize him again?”

“Oh, yes. It was his face, you see. She said she’d never forget the face. It was strange, misshapen. Covered in warts.”

Gardener felt nauseous, allowing the phone to drop.

“Mr Gardener... are you still there?”

Chapter Thirty-seven

The car journey was spent in near silence. It was only after Reilly parked the car and killed the engine that he turned to face Gardener.

“Is something bothering you, boss?”

Gardener paused before he spoke. “You remember the night Sarah died? I had a run-in with a youth I nicknamed ‘Warthead’.” Gardener rubbed his forehead. “We may have found a witness who saw Warthead with David Vickers on the day he was abducted. Buying him presents.”

The call to Mrs Soames had left Gardener enraged. During the year following Sarah’s death, he had constantly been on his guard where Warthead was concerned. He’d watched every street corner, scanned faces in crowds. For a short period immediately after the incident, he’d questioned known thugs. No one claimed to have known the youth. As time had passed, he’d been convinced their paths would probably never cross again, particularly as the youth had a cockney accent. The chances were he’d disappeared back down south.

“Have you spoken to this witness yet?”

“Not yet. Janet Soames called to tell me.”

“Okay,” said Reilly. He pulled his mobile out. “I’ll get Colin Sharp onto it. He can update the whiteboard.”

Mushrooming grey clouds hovered menacingly overhead, typical of a December afternoon, as Gardener stepped out of the car and studied his surroundings. Derek Summers’ huge house was Tudor, set in an enchanting forest with ornamental carvings and shaped bushes. A circular fountain stood proudly as the magnificent centrepiece on the gravel drive. The lawn was neatly trimmed. The building was well kept, with clean windows and freshly painted walls. The grounds, as far as Gardener could see, were litter free. There was obviously money to be made in the entertainment industry.

“I wouldn’t mind a slice of this!” said Reilly.

“We are in the wrong business, Sean.”

As they approached the steps leading to the house, the front door opened. An elderly butler emerged to greet them. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Can I help you?”

Both detectives flashed their warrant cards before introducing themselves.

“Mr Summers will see you shortly. If you would like to follow me.”

Gardener and Reilly exchanged glances but followed as requested. They were shown to a study, where they politely declined an offer of refreshments. The butler closed the door behind him as he left.

Gardener paced the parquet floor. The panelled walls were decorated with a variety of old-time music hall and film posters. Aside from the oversized writing desk and matching chairs, the only other decoration was a Persian rug.

Gardener turned to his partner. “Do you hear that?”

“What?”

“Exactly. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. When have you ever been in a house and felt so isolated, so cut off? You’d expect to hear something.”

The study door opened. The host entered.

“Gentlemen.”

Gardener’s dislike of Summers was instant. He was small and balding except