IMPURITY by Ray Clark (which ebook reader txt) 📕

with new wheels and new tires. All the chrome was highly polished, and the paint job was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. “Nice machine. How long have you had it?”

The man smiled. He was in his mid-fifties with a small amount of grey hair at the sides of his head, a grey moustache and beard, and small lens spectacles. He was a little overweight, but he handled the bike well. “About seven years, now, mate. Mind you, spent the first three doing it up. Why? Are you interested?”

Gardener detected a Liverpool accent. “I’m restoring one at the moment.” He passed the man a business card. “Maybe you can let me know where to get the parts.”

The rider smiled, passing over his own business card bearing the name Jeff Harrison. “Do one better than that, mate. I own the business. Give us a ring when you’re ready, and I’ll sort you out a good deal.”

Gardener smiled. “Much appreciated.”

“No problem. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to dash.” He pointed to the house behind him. “Mother’s not too well. Hasn’t been right for a couple of weeks, not since that nasty business over the road. The one you’re probably investigating, given what your card says.”

“Sorry to hear it.” Gardener tipped his hat. “Hope she goes on okay. I’ll give you a ring.”

The man gave him a thumbs-up sign and walked down the path to his mother’s. Back in the car, Gardener glanced at Olive Bradshaw’s house before turning to Reilly. “I don’t know who to believe anymore. What to believe!”

“I don’t think you can put much store in what the Bradshaw woman says. She is a strange one.”

“Isn’t she just? When I met her on Friday night, she was going mental about the mess, complaining about the commotion. We interviewed her on Monday, and she was totally different. Today, she had us believe she had feelings for Herbert Plum, but she wasn’t prepared to investigate the disturbance because it would have made her late for bingo. I can’t understand the people around here. What the hell’s wrong with them, for God’s sake?”

“They’re either very stupid or very frightened. Could be that someone’s controlling it all very carefully,” offered Reilly.

“I can’t believe anyone would have that much power.”

Reilly’s eyes met Gardener’s. “I’ve a feeling that before this is over, it’s going to get very nasty. We’ve opened up a big can of worms. What worries me is who we’re going to find wriggling in it before we’ve finished.”

A knock at the car window on Reilly’s side startled him. The Irishman pushed a button.

The window descended.

“Excuse me, gentleman, but aren’t you the two detectives who were caught up in the churchyard murder?”

“Who the hell are you?” asked Reilly.

“Dave Bennett. I’m with The Yorkshire Press.”

Gardener studied the man. He was in his late forties with salt-and-pepper-coloured hair, a tanned but wrinkled face, dark brown eyes, and a false smile. He was tall and gangly, and wore a suit from the 1960s which had not stood the test of time. He had to stoop to peer into the car. Even from where he was sitting, Gardener could smell his bad breath. “I’m sorry, Mr Bennett, but we have no comment to make.”

“Mr Gardener, isn’t it?”

“Go away,” said Reilly.

“The public has a right to know what’s going on. Are you visiting these premises in connection with the church murder? I know a body was found here last week.”

“We are here on police business, but I’m not prepared to comment any further.”

“Well, can you tell me, is there a connection between the missing schoolchildren and the murders?”

“I’m not in a position to comment at the moment.”

Dave Bennett put his head completely inside the car, forcing Reilly to hold his breath. “A colleague of mine informs me you arrested a local drug dealer only this week. Was it about the murders or the schoolchildren?”

“A local person did help us with our inquiries, but we didn’t arrest him,” replied Gardener. “Perhaps your colleague isn’t as good as he thinks he is. Now, if you don’t mind, we have other business to attend to.”

Bennett was persistent. “Is it true you’re pursuing your wife’s killer in connection with the case?”

Gardener’s temper hit boiling point. Fucking journalists. How the hell had Bennett come by that piece of information? How was it that the people he loathed most in the world seemed to have the habit of asking the most personal questions? Was he in the middle of some huge conspiracy? “Roll your window up, Sean.”

Reilly did, suddenly amused by the fact that Dave Bennett had been quick enough to remove his head, but not his tie.

“Well, look what we have here, boss.”

Bennett banged on the window, sudden apprehension carved into his features. “Mr Gardener, you’ll have to answer these questions eventually,” he shouted.

Reilly started the car and waved, smiling as he did so.

“My tie. You’ve got my tie!” The expression on the reporter’s face was priceless as Reilly inched the car forward.

Chapter Forty-six

“Stewart?”

“Jacqueline?” He stepped backward, glancing at her uncomfortably. “What are you doing here?”

“I was about to ask you the same question. My aunt lives here.”

Jacqueline was the last person he’d expected to see. The situation was bizarre. “I’m here to collect my father.”

“You’d better come in.”

Gardener did as he was asked. Jacqueline closed the door. She was traditionally dressed for ministerial duties in a long black gown with a white scarf. She smelled fresh. White Linen, if he wasn’t mistaken. Sarah’s favourite. From the kitchen, he detected the unmistakable aroma of fresh bread.

“This is awkward,” she said.

He knew what she meant and felt it as much as she obviously did. “It doesn’t need to be. About the other night…”

“Please.” She held up a hand. “You don’t