Impression, p.24
IMPRESSION, page 24
“Cheers, Sean, you’re a lifesaver.”
“I’m starving, I know that.”
“Where the hell is this locksmith?”
“Maybe you should have put a warrant out for his arrest. I’m sure we’d have found him before now.”
Gardener laughed. He was seriously flagging now. The investigation was seventy hours old, and they had slogged their guts out for most of them.
“What do you think about Sally Summerby?” he asked Reilly.
“I’m not sure what to think, boss. She’s obviously been up to something, decided to play her cards close to her chest. But why?”
“Maybe now that she knows Morrison is dead, she feels it’s not worth talking about, whatever it was.”
“The secret dies with him, you mean?”
“It hasn’t, though, has it? She must have known we’d find a connection eventually.”
“So, what is it? Drugs? Money? An affair?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. I’m not a fan of the woman, but she is attractive. Very slim, blonde hair, dresses well. What the hell would she see in Barry Morrison?”
“I doubt the attraction was physical. From what we know of Morrison, he’d give any of the famous despots a run for their money. No, he had something on her, as well as everyone else we’ve come across.”
“And his brother still knows nothing about it.”
“So he claims. But he must know something about this collision. It was a company vehicle in company time, and it went to court. He has to know something.”
“Which brings us back to the question, is Billy Morrison involved somehow? Or better still, is he our killer?”
“My gut instinct still tells me he’s innocent of the actual murders.”
“I think so as well. But could anyone be that naive?”
“You probably could be if you had a brother like Barry. From everything we’ve heard, he has to be the most devious person I’ve ever come across.”
“No wonder he’s dead, then.”
The desk sergeant opened the incident room door. “The locksmith’s here.”
“Show him in,” said Gardener, moving his food and drink to one side.
The man was dressed in stained grey overalls. He introduced himself as Patrick Lewis, and Gardener estimated his age to be late forties. What was left of his hair was ginger. He wore glasses and was pretty stocky, with a potbelly.
“What do you have for us?”
He extracted a copy of the key from his toolbag, along with notes he’d made.
“A tough one, this. I’d have been here earlier, but I had an emergency.”
Gardener wondered if he was going to launch into what had kept him. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve been here since around six this morning. All I need to know now is where I have to go to get the answer to my questions.”
“Sorry,” said Lewis. “There’s a little town over near Harrogate called Bursley Bridge.”
Gardener knew it well.
“Place reeks of money,” said Lewis. “There’s a private bank in the market square called Roland’s, next to one of the up-market hotels. Only very wealthy people go to Roland’s bank. They like to attract a particular kind of clientele.”
“All well and good if you can pick and choose these days,” said Reilly.
“That’s banks for you,” said Gardener.
“Believe me,” said Lewis, “the taxpayer does not own this bank. There was never a need to bail these people out.”
“So this key fits one of the safe deposit boxes inside that bank, does it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the manager’s name?”
“Giles Middleton.”
“Contact number?” said Reilly.
“They won’t be open now.”
“He means a mobile,” said Gardener.
Lewis was reluctant, but Gardener knew he would certainly have the number. The man was obviously a reliable locksmith and had probably dealt with the bank on a regular basis – almost certainly out of hours.
Gardener passed the number to the desk sergeant. “Tell Giles Middleton to meet us there in half an hour. If he doesn’t, I will issue a warrant for his arrest, and he won’t see daylight for the next ten years.”
Gardener thanked the locksmith for his time, and he and Reilly left the building.
True to their word, they were outside the bank thirty minutes later. Middleton wasn’t.
Gardener called the station on his mobile. The desk sergeant said that Middleton was on holiday, but his deputy, David Challenger, should be with them by now because he lived in Bursley Bridge.
As Gardener disconnected, a man around thirty years of age came into view. He was dressed in a tee shirt and jeans. The night was warm enough not to wear a jacket. One of the pubs advertised a live band; a number of couples outside were drinking and smoking, listening to the band and singing along; a number of others milled around the square.
As Challenger approached, Gardener and Reilly showed their warrant cards.
“How can I help you?” he asked.
Gardener briefly explained. The doors were unlocked, and they all went inside. The assistant disabled the alarm and walked them through to the vault. Gardener felt that the bank was probably no quieter at night than it was during the day, the only difference being that no phones were ringing. The hum of electrical apparatus was more prominent.
The vault was clinically clean, and Gardener could see a steel door in front of him like he’d never seen before. It if it wasn’t bomb proof, he’d be surprised. On a shelf built into a recess was a computer monitor and keyboard with a CCTV camera above it. The monitor screen flickered into life when Challenger moved the mouse.
“Don’t think I’ve ever been in a bank this late,” said Reilly.
“You wouldn’t be now if Mr Middleton was here.”
“Trust me,” replied Gardener, “we would.”
“Have you any idea what you’re looking for?” asked Challenger.
“Other than a safe deposit box, no.”
“Do you know whose?”
“I think you need to start with the name Barry Morrison.”
Challenger nodded. “Can I have the key?”
Gardener passed it over, and Challenger consulted the computer files.
“Doesn’t make sense, does it?” Reilly asked. “Morrison didn’t like banks, so why this one?”
“I don’t think this is anything to do with Morrison,” said Gardener. “Whoever did this to him knew we’d eventually come here. He’s made it easier for us. He wants us to find out what’s inside the box because it’s bound to be something we don’t know.”
“And he’s obviously not bothered if we do.”
“In the typical arrangement,” said Challenger, “a renter will pay the bank a fee for the use of the box. It can only be opened with that key, the bank’s own guard key, and the proper signature. Sometimes also a code. Some banks additionally use biometric dual-control security to complement the conventional security procedures. We don’t, but I think we can dispense with all the familiarity here, Inspector.”
Gardener nodded.
“Here we are,” he said. “Barry Morrison. He only opened the account two weeks ago. He’s never been in or used it since. We do have some CCTV footage, would you like to see it?”
“Please.”
It only took moments to find. The picture was grainy, but not so bad that they couldn’t see clearly enough.
The figure that came into view kept his head down all the time, from the opening of the steel door, to the placing of what appeared to Gardener to be a document inside the safe deposit box.
“That’s not Barry Morrison,” said Reilly.
“No surprise there,” said Gardener.
Challenger was shocked. “Well, who is it? There are strict procedures with this sort of thing. Documents and proof of who you are and where you live are needed.”
“They can all be forged, son.”
Challenger was about to speak again.
“Can you please just open the door for us?” Gardener asked.
The assistant did as he was asked, and then took them through another two doors and into a room with hundreds of boxes. He found the box they needed, unlocked the outer lock and slid it out of the rack, placing it on the table and stepping back as if Gardener was the customer and was due his privacy.
Gardener opened the box, which contained one piece of paper, folded into quarters.
He pulled it out, unfolded it, and read it.
He passed it to his partner to read.
“How interesting,” said Reilly.
Chapter Fifty-one
Tuesday 23rd August
“Come in, sit down. Pull up a chair.”
“Pardon?” said Gardener.
“Come in, sit down, pull up a chair. Speak the truth when you tell me you care,” replied Sally Summerby, rather sullenly. “It was my mother’s favourite song in the seventies. Sister Jane by New World.”
Gardener said nothing. She wasn’t here to talk about pop music, and neither were they. Nor would he let her control the conversation, unlike the last time they met. Reilly took a seat.
“Anyway, why the hell am I here? You still don’t seem to have found my daughter, but I notice you’re moving heaven and earth to find everyone else around here.”
She’s started, thought Gardener. It was only eight o’clock in the morning.
Gardener and his partner had started earlier than that, arriving in Esholt at six-thirty. Gareth Summerby had been picked up shortly after setting off for work. He’d been brought to the station and put in another interview room. Gardener and Reilly then went back and picked up Sally Summerby, so that neither of them knew the other one was here.
“It’s my job.”
“So whose job is it to return my daughter safely to me?”
“DI Goodman’s. But we’re not here to talk about that. As you said, we’re trying to find killers.”
“Which has nothing to do with me.”
“Nicola Stapleton,” said Gardener, glancing at the file in front of him.
“What about her?”
“You said you’d never heard of her.”
“I hadn’t,” said Sally Summerby with a sigh.
Gardener could tell she was gearing up to have a go, so he let her.
“Let me tell you what I now know. She was killed in Batley on Friday night. You found a picture of a blonde-haired girl who looked like my daughter underneath her. Oh, yes, she was a prostitute. Of course, that’s something you forgot to tell me.”
“You’re on dodgy ground there, young lady,” said Reilly.
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“So, you do not know Nicola Stapleton,” persisted Gardener. “You’ve never met her in the course of your life.”
She leaned forward. “I’ve told you enough times. Don’t you people ever listen? I am not in the habit of mixing with loose women. I do not know Nicola Stapleton, but I seem to remember asking you lot a question about her and my daughter. Like, did she have her?”
Gardener removed a clean sheet of paper from the file and made a note.
“Does the name Frank Fisher mean anything?”
“What is this? Have you seriously dragged me all the way over here – which, by the way, I think is a breach of my human rights, seeing as I’ve done nothing wrong – just to ask me about people I’ve never even heard of?”
“Answer the questions,” said Reilly. “Otherwise we’ll be here all day. I’m sure you’d rather be somewhere else.”
“You lot should be. There’s a missing five-year-old girl out there, which you seem to be doing nothing about–”
Gardener cut her off. “Frank Fisher? Do you know a man called Frank Fisher?”
Sally Summerby shook her head and ran her fingers through her hair. “No, I do not know anyone called Frank Fisher.”
Gardener made another note.
“Alan Sargent?” said Reilly.
“Who?”
“Alan Sargent. Do you know a man called Alan Sargent?”
Sally Summerby clammed up, crossed her hands, and rested them on the table.
“We can do this another time, if you’d prefer.”
“There isn’t a time that would suit me,” she replied. “But if you’re offering, yes, I would prefer to do it another time.”
“Why?” Reilly asked. “Do you have somewhere else to go?”
“Anywhere but here would be better. At least I wouldn’t be wasting my time.”
“Or ours.” The two detectives rose from their seats.
“Am I free to go?”
“No,” said Gardener. “We’re just going to leave you here until you’re ready to answer our questions. Like you, we have better things to do.”
Sally Summerby stood up as well. “You can’t keep me here for no reason.”
“We’re not. You’re here for questioning, and for that we can hold you for a certain amount of time. If you choose not to answer the questions, then you can sit here in silence until such time is up.” Gardener and Reilly made for the door.
“Okay, okay, if it gets me out of here quicker, I’ll play your stupid games. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Gardener sat back in his chair. “It’s funny how many people have said that recently. But somebody has, and it’s our job to find out who. And what you should bear in mind is that the quicker we do, there’s every chance we can resolve your daughter’s abduction at the same time.”
“Are you saying whoever killed these people has my daughter?”
“Okay, let’s run through it again. You don’t know Nicola Stapleton, or Frank Fisher, or Alan Sargent. Where were you on Sunday night and Monday morning?”
“I was at home.”
“And your husband can verify this, can he?”
“Of course, depending on the times. Like I said, they’re harvesting, so it’s his busiest time of the year. He left for work on Sunday morning about eight, but he was back home at two. We spent the rest of the day together. He left for work on Monday morning at seven.”
“You didn’t go out on Sunday night?”
“No. I cooked a meal and we stayed in and watched some TV.”
“Do you use the pub in the village?”
“Sometimes. We might have a Sunday lunch with his workmates, but we haven’t this weekend. Why are you asking me about my movements?”
“We’re eliminating you.”
“From what?”
“What do you think?” Reilly asked.
Gardener could almost hear the cogs in Sally Summerby’s head turning. “Have those two people you’ve just mentioned been killed?”
“That’s what we do,” said Reilly. “We investigate people who have been killed and try and find out why, and who did it.”
“But I haven’t killed anybody. For God’s sake, my daughter is missing, and we’re beside ourselves most of the time working out where she could be. We spend most of our time at home thinking about her and the hole in our life she’s made, and pray for her safe return.”
Sally Summerby was close to tears. She removed a tissue from her sleeve, wiping her eyes and nose. “I have not killed any of those people, and I don’t know any of them.”
“You also claimed you didn’t know Barry Morrison,” said Reilly.
“Who?”
“Come off it. We only spoke to you on Sunday about him, and you told us you didn’t know him.”
“Oh, him, that taxi driver.”
“We never said he was a taxi driver.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“I’m sure we didn’t,” said Gardener. “We simply asked if you knew him, and you said you didn’t. Now you claim he’s a taxi driver.”
“Well, I must have read it in the paper.”
“So you’re still claiming you didn’t know Barry Morrison?” asked Gardener.
“We’re just going round in circles here. You two are desperate. Four people have been killed, you have no idea who’s done it, and you’re clutching at straws trying to pin the blame on anyone. Is this what we pay our taxes for?”
“No,” said Gardener. “You pay them so that we can look after you. We can investigate and lock up murderers and keep the streets safe from the likes of you.”
“The likes of me? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“People who waste our time and don’t tell us the truth. People who hinder the investigation, which then takes longer, and possibly gets more people killed.”
Sally Summerby leaned forward again, obviously offended by Gardener’s tone. “I don’t like your attitude. And if you continue to try and bully me, I’ll have a solicitor down here so fast you won’t know what’s hit you.”
“I’ll give you one more chance to come clean.”
Sally Summerby sat back and folded her arms in defence. “Come clean? I think you’ve lost the plot. You are in so much trouble, Detective Inspector.”
“One of us is,” said Gardener, removing the square of folded paper he’d taken from the safe deposit box the previous evening. He unfolded it and slid it toward Sally Summerby. She read the page. Her face drained of colour.
“Where did you get this?”
“You recognize it, then?”
“I asked you where you got it?”
“Barry Morrison was killed in Batley on Saturday morning. We found a safe deposit key inside his stomach. Last night we found the bank that held the key, and we had the assistant manager out after ten o’clock, because you pay your taxes, you see, which pays our wages. Anyway, you know the rest. We found that birth certificate in the box, which states that Barry Morrison is the father of your daughter. Would you care to expand on the theory, or are you still claiming you don’t know him?”
Sally Summerby broke down, and Gardener figured she would need more than one tissue. He left the room and returned a few minutes later with a box of tissues and three teas.
“Thank you,” she said, as he passed them over.
“Are you ready to tell us now?”
“Oh Christ, this is such a mess.” She took a sip of tea. “Gareth knows nothing about this. You have to promise me he never will.”
“I can’t promise any such thing, Mrs Summerby. I’m investigating a murder here, and to be able to do my job, I need the truth.” He allowed her a minute to calm down and take more sips of tea.
