Impression, p.3
IMPRESSION, page 3
“Oh no, didn’t touch anything. Couldn’t. I just wanted to leave the room.”
“And you phoned the police?”
“Yes, straight away. Came back here.”
“What did you do then?”
“I don’t remember too much after that. I think I went back round and waited outside the door. When your young men came, I was leaning against the wall… crying.” She stared at Gardener. “I don’t know why. I mean, I didn’t know the girl all that well. Why was I crying?”
“Shock,” repeated Gardener.
Beryl Potts didn’t answer.
“Can we come back to the scene inside the house? I know you didn’t perhaps know her that well, but did you know the house well enough to notice if there were any differences?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was there anything missing?”
“No. I don’t think so. Well, you’ve seen the place. Poor dear didn’t have anything, did she? Didn’t have anything worth pinching, anyway.”
“You didn’t see anything out of place? Or, in fact, anything there that shouldn’t have been?”
“No.”
“How long has she lived next door?”
“About five years. Just after my husband died, God rest his soul.”
A long time to have a neighbour and not know more about them, thought Gardener, but he understood enough about people to know that some were like that. They kept to themselves. Beryl Potts was apparently one of them. Her husband dying around the time the girl moved in would certainly make it even more uncomfortable for her to want to learn more.
“Where was she before that? Did you ever find out?”
“No, but she wasn’t local. Her accent was southern. London maybe.”
Gardener nodded to Edwards; that was a comment he definitely wanted investigating. “Any regular visitors that you know about?”
“Only in the business sense.”
“Any family?”
“None that I ever saw.”
“Did she have a car?”
“No, but there was someone who came to the house almost on a weekly basis. He had a car.”
“Someone you recognize?”
She nodded, before adding. “Only because I saw him every week. Couldn’t tell you his name.”
“Can you give me a description?”
“I’m not very good at things like that. He was overweight, very heavy: short hair, going grey. Double chin, and not always that well-dressed. Looked a bit scruffy.”
For someone who wasn’t very good at descriptions, she hadn’t made a bad job. He’d had a lot less to go on in the past.
“What about the car?”
“Not really. I’ve never had a car, never learned to drive. My late husband had one, but I sold it when he passed away.”
“Would you know the make, or how old it was?”
“I know it was black, maybe four years old. And I think it was a Ford, but don’t ask me what model.”
“Registration?”
Beryl Potts shook her head. “No, sorry. Like I said, not very good with that sort of stuff.”
Gardener nodded. “Is this your own house, Mrs Potts?”
“Yes. Bought it from the council about thirty-five years ago.”
In the boom period, thought Gardener, when the Conservatives had made it possible for council tenants to own their own house at a knock down price.
“I can’t imagine Nicola Stapleton owned hers. Any idea who did, or was it council property, too?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think it belonged to the council anymore. None of them do. Nearly everyone round here bought their house. There are plenty of flats that are council-owned, or private landlord.”
Gardener wondered if Nicola Stapleton’s pimp owned her house. He could do to find out who did.
“Did she live alone?”
“As far as I know.”
Gardener paused slightly, before delivering the all-important question. “Did she have any children?”
“Oh no. I think she was a bit too careful for that. Well, I mean, what kind of a person in her line of business would have children? Put a bit of a dampener on things, wouldn’t it?”
Gardener pulled out the photograph of the girl he’d found underneath Nicola Stapleton, carefully wrapped in an evidence bag, and passed it over.
“Do you recognize the girl in this photograph?”
Beryl Potts squinted at it before speaking. “Just a second.” She reached into the sideboard, pulled out a pair of glasses, drawing the picture in close as she put them on to study it again. “I think I do.”
“Who is it?” asked Gardener.
“Do you mean to tell me you don’t?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Gardener, wondering why she would think he might.
“It’s the little girl that went missing from Esholt about two weeks ago.”
Chapter Six
Saturday 20th August
It was a little after five in the morning when John Wrigglesworth pulled up to the rear of the shops, switching off the lights and the engine. He was late; not that it mattered, he owned the shop.
He ran his hands through his hair and down his face. He was tired. He had taken over his father’s business twenty years ago. Little had changed, including the staff. He was sixty-three years old and despite loving what he did, there were times when he considered selling up and retiring.
He sighed heavily as he jumped out of the car, leaving the decision for another day. He was sure his wife and family would be happy to help him with that one.
With the car locked, he walked around to the front of the block. Glancing up at the sky, he saw that dawn had broken. The rest of the shops were in darkness. He doubted their owners had even woken up yet, let alone thought about opening.
A butcher, however, needed to do a lot more than sell his product before his doors were unlocked.
John heard male voices as he approached the main road. Despite the hour they were laughing and joking, obviously on an early shift like him. Turning the corner, he noticed little traffic other than public transport.
Of the two men he’d heard, both were late fifties, one smoking and coughing. Why people lit those things he would never know. Both men were dressed in flat caps and dark blue overalls, with heavy footwear, suggesting the engineering trade. One carried a hold-all, the other had his slung over a shoulder.
“Aye, aye, here he is,” shouted one, sniggering.
“Sweeney Todd’s got nowt on you, lad.”
John had no idea what they were talking about.
“Aye. I often wondered why your pies were so good.”
“Looks like your secret’s out this morning, John.”
“What the hell are you on about?” asked Wrigglesworth. “Have you been drinking? Just coming home instead of going?”
“They’ve not even bothered to bag it up.”
“As fresh as it gets, I’d say.” The pair of them continued jibing as they crossed the road.
John removed his cap, shook his head, and scratched it. He strolled past the other shops to his own. He searched his pockets for his keys, mumbling to himself, wondering what the two clowns were talking about.
As he found his keys, he also found his answer.
Chapter Seven
“Can you remember her name?”
“I think she’s called Chloe. I remember she’s five years old.”
“And you’ve never seen her at the house next door?”
“No. Never.”
“Have you ever seen her in the neighbourhood?”
“No. Only on the television and in the newspapers.”
“Was there an appeal on the TV with the parents?”
“Yes.”
“Did you recognize either of those? Ever seen either of them around here?”
“No,” replied Beryl Potts.
That was the last thing Gardener wanted to hear. He’d hoped for something more enlightening, that the girl had been Nicola Stapleton’s next of kin, her daughter living with an estranged ex-husband. Instead, all he had was an ever-growing can of worms. But that was his life.
He needed to call the station. Running a check on Nicola Stapleton was important enough, but now he had a Missing From Home connected to his investigation, which would be a separate case for another major incident unit with its own DI. He needed to know who was leading the inquiry, and where. Things could become complicated.
He reached into his pocket for his mobile when he heard a knock at the front door. Colin Sharp walked in. Gardener hadn’t realized the front door was still open.
“Think we might have a result, sir.”
“Go on.”
“Lady across the road, number 51. The house at the end of the block.”
“Oh, I know her,” said Beryl Potts. “Mrs Comings-and-Goings I call her.”
“Andrea Jennings, she’s called,” continued Sharp. “Anyway, she saw a car parked outside the house next door sometime between ten and eleven. Her and her husband had been watching the news. She came outside for a cig.”
“She recognize it?” asked Gardener.
“Yes, it was here almost every week. A black Ford Focus.”
“That must be the one I was talking about,” said Beryl Potts.
“Registration?” Gardener inquired.
“She noticed it was still there about eleven, before her and her husband went to bed. Anyway, she knew the car well enough, seen it there a few times, so she wasn’t too bothered. Registration checks out. It belongs to one Barry Morrison. Apparently him and his brother run a car lot on Leeds Road in Birstall.”
“Good work, Colin.” Gardener glanced at his watch: five o’clock. “So, if we have a registration, we must have an address. Take one of the lads with you and let’s see what Mr Morrison has to say for himself.”
“That could be a problem,” said Sharp.
“Why?”
“The records indicate he lives next door.”
Gardener moved onto the front porch, grabbed his phone, and called the station. He wanted a check running on Nicola Stapleton. What did they know about her? Did she have a record? He also asked for a check on Barry Morrison. Finally, he asked for everything they could raise on the missing girl Chloe from Esholt. He apologized for not having a surname, but he doubted she’d be hard to find, as it had happened in the last two weeks.
When he returned, Beryl Potts was still sitting in her chair.
“Did you know this Barry Morrison?”
“No, not to talk to. Like I said, I’ve seen him a few times, and we may have nodded or said hello, but that’s about it.”
“Have you seen him here tonight?”
“No. I would have told you.”
“Did it look to you like he lived here?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Beryl Potts scratched her head. “I’m not sure. I think he was here last Sunday. Sometime in the afternoon, maybe three o’clock.”
“I would have thought car sales had a better chance of business on a Sunday. More people to look round,” said Gardener, more to himself.
“Well, I’m not sure, but I think they had a taxi business from there as well. I’ve sometimes seen him turn up in a taxi.”
“Have you ever used his taxi firm?”
“No. Don’t go far enough to need one.”
“Had you ever seen him and Nicola together? Could they have been an item?”
“Maybe, but whenever I saw them, they didn’t look like a couple. Looked more like business to me. I just took him as one of her regulars.”
“What about Barry’s brother? Ever seen him, or know him?”
“No. Sorry.”
Gardener figured he probably had as much information as he was going to receive for now, so he decided to wrap things up. Still, it was plenty to go on.
“Is there anything else you can add to what you’ve told me, Mrs Potts?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, if you do remember anything, anything at all, give me a call at the station.” He passed his card over. “Once the dust settles, all sorts of things come back to people. Doesn’t matter how small or insignificant you think it is, it could be very important to me.”
She simply nodded.
“I’m going to leave PC Edwards with you for a few more minutes. I’d like the names and addresses of all the local people you know that Nicola Stapleton entertained.”
“Some of them are married. That’s not going to look so good, is it?”
“They should have thought of that when they were playing away from home. And you’ve no need to worry, Mrs Potts, it’s confidential.”
Gardener’s mobile chimed. When he answered, he found it was his DCI, Alan Briggs, on the line.
“Stewart, we’ve got a major problem. I need you over on Cross Bank Road in Batley. The local butcher’s discovered a body on the doorstep of his premises.”
“But I’m already on a case at the moment, sir.”
“I know you are, but the corpse outside the butcher’s is directly connected to your case.”
“Why? Who is it?”
“Barry Morrison.”
Chapter Eight
They found the block of shops within minutes of leaving Hume Crescent. Traffic had been kind to them. Reilly parked the pool car on a side road between the shops and a set of garages. Both officers jumped out.
Colin Sharp pulled up behind. Gardener barked orders to him and the SOCOs to start cordoning off the area.
“I’m going for a walk around the garages,” said Reilly.
“Okay.”
They both knew from past experience that murderers often returned to the scene of the crime, or, in some cases, never left. If anyone should be hanging around, the Irishman would find him. Or her.
Gardener sighed. He had no spare scene suit, so he had no choice but to risk contaminating the scene. He approached the shop. The corpse was, as described, propped up in the doorway. Standing to the left of the door was the man Gardener took to be the butcher. He clearly wanted to be anywhere but there. He was rail thin and extremely pale. Gardener doubted seeing the corpse would have done that to him. Being a butcher, he had to be used to seeing and handling death every day.
As a matter of procedure, the SIO felt for a pulse. There was none. He glanced around. Four businesses shared the block with the butcher’s: a takeaway, a sports shop, a hairdresser, and a newsagent. Each shop had accommodations above; it was more than likely some of the shopkeepers lived in them. He spotted a CCTV camera on a wall at the end. Surrounding the block in every direction was row upon row of council flats, which would hopefully mean witnesses. It wouldn’t be an easy task hunting them down, however.
Reilly arrived on the scene. “All clear.”
Gardener turned to the butcher. “Is this how you found him?”
“I’m not sure I actually found him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I were late for work this morning, first time in years.”
“What time do you normally start?”
“Four-thirty.”
“And this morning?” Gardener asked.
“It were after five. I parked up round the back, came round the corner, and these two blokes were laughing and joking. Reckoned I had a delivery on my doorstep and made some remark about my pies.”
“Did you know them?”
“No. But if they’re here at this time every morning, I wouldn’t see ’em. I open up at four-thirty, go straight into the back and start cooking, so I’ve no chance of seeing ’em pass at five.”
“Did they wear a uniform you might recognize? Bus driver, British Rail?”
“Boiler suits, boots, and flat caps. I reckon they’re in engineering, and there’s plenty of firms around here.”
Gardener thought he might strike lucky with a press appeal for witnesses. Another option would be to post a wooden top outside the shop every morning for a week at the same time, see if it proved lucrative. Other than that, it was going to be bloody hard legwork covering everywhere within a two-mile radius, which would be about as wide as it needed to be if they were walking to work.
“So, what happened next?” asked Reilly.
“Well, I hadn’t a clue what they were talking about, so I marched straight over to the shop. I were hoping the place were still in one piece and hadn’t been attacked by vandals.”
“You get much of that?” Reilly asked.
“Not really. Couple of times over the last thirty years. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“So that’s when you found this fella?”
“Aye.”
“And you recognize him as Barry Morrison?” Gardener asked.
“Aye.”
“How do you know him?”
“Lives in the flat above the shop,” replied Wrigglesworth.
“Pardon?”
“I said he lives in the flat above the shop.”
Gardener glanced at his partner. Reilly’s expression said he was equally as confused. On the drive over, he’d explained everything Beryl Potts had told him.
So, thought Gardener, the house in Hume Crescent had Barry Morrison as the registered owner, yet here they had a butcher with a flat above his shop that Morrison was supposedly renting and living in. How did that work? What was going on?
“How long has he lived in the flat?”
“At least five years.”
Gardener turned his attention to Morrison’s corpse. The body was half reclining on the door, half lying on the doorstep. He was naked apart from a pair of trousers and a hat. A jacket and a vest were lying beside him.
Gardener glanced at Wrigglesworth. “This is exactly how you found him? You haven’t touched anything?”
“No. I haven’t touched him or anything else, not even the bloody door. Had my key in my hand but never managed to get it in the lock.”
“John!”
The butcher turned around and Gardener followed his line of vision. Colin Sharp was remonstrating with a woman at the end of the block.
“It’s my wife,” said Wrigglesworth. “Can I go and see her?”
“Not at the moment, I’m afraid.”
A number of squad cars pulled up, and Gardener saw more members of his team jump out, including DCs Paul Benson and Dave Rawson. They had with them a number of operational support officers. Each man stopped and waited on the path for further instructions.
“And you phoned the police?”
“Yes, straight away. Came back here.”
“What did you do then?”
“I don’t remember too much after that. I think I went back round and waited outside the door. When your young men came, I was leaning against the wall… crying.” She stared at Gardener. “I don’t know why. I mean, I didn’t know the girl all that well. Why was I crying?”
“Shock,” repeated Gardener.
Beryl Potts didn’t answer.
“Can we come back to the scene inside the house? I know you didn’t perhaps know her that well, but did you know the house well enough to notice if there were any differences?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was there anything missing?”
“No. I don’t think so. Well, you’ve seen the place. Poor dear didn’t have anything, did she? Didn’t have anything worth pinching, anyway.”
“You didn’t see anything out of place? Or, in fact, anything there that shouldn’t have been?”
“No.”
“How long has she lived next door?”
“About five years. Just after my husband died, God rest his soul.”
A long time to have a neighbour and not know more about them, thought Gardener, but he understood enough about people to know that some were like that. They kept to themselves. Beryl Potts was apparently one of them. Her husband dying around the time the girl moved in would certainly make it even more uncomfortable for her to want to learn more.
“Where was she before that? Did you ever find out?”
“No, but she wasn’t local. Her accent was southern. London maybe.”
Gardener nodded to Edwards; that was a comment he definitely wanted investigating. “Any regular visitors that you know about?”
“Only in the business sense.”
“Any family?”
“None that I ever saw.”
“Did she have a car?”
“No, but there was someone who came to the house almost on a weekly basis. He had a car.”
“Someone you recognize?”
She nodded, before adding. “Only because I saw him every week. Couldn’t tell you his name.”
“Can you give me a description?”
“I’m not very good at things like that. He was overweight, very heavy: short hair, going grey. Double chin, and not always that well-dressed. Looked a bit scruffy.”
For someone who wasn’t very good at descriptions, she hadn’t made a bad job. He’d had a lot less to go on in the past.
“What about the car?”
“Not really. I’ve never had a car, never learned to drive. My late husband had one, but I sold it when he passed away.”
“Would you know the make, or how old it was?”
“I know it was black, maybe four years old. And I think it was a Ford, but don’t ask me what model.”
“Registration?”
Beryl Potts shook her head. “No, sorry. Like I said, not very good with that sort of stuff.”
Gardener nodded. “Is this your own house, Mrs Potts?”
“Yes. Bought it from the council about thirty-five years ago.”
In the boom period, thought Gardener, when the Conservatives had made it possible for council tenants to own their own house at a knock down price.
“I can’t imagine Nicola Stapleton owned hers. Any idea who did, or was it council property, too?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think it belonged to the council anymore. None of them do. Nearly everyone round here bought their house. There are plenty of flats that are council-owned, or private landlord.”
Gardener wondered if Nicola Stapleton’s pimp owned her house. He could do to find out who did.
“Did she live alone?”
“As far as I know.”
Gardener paused slightly, before delivering the all-important question. “Did she have any children?”
“Oh no. I think she was a bit too careful for that. Well, I mean, what kind of a person in her line of business would have children? Put a bit of a dampener on things, wouldn’t it?”
Gardener pulled out the photograph of the girl he’d found underneath Nicola Stapleton, carefully wrapped in an evidence bag, and passed it over.
“Do you recognize the girl in this photograph?”
Beryl Potts squinted at it before speaking. “Just a second.” She reached into the sideboard, pulled out a pair of glasses, drawing the picture in close as she put them on to study it again. “I think I do.”
“Who is it?” asked Gardener.
“Do you mean to tell me you don’t?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Gardener, wondering why she would think he might.
“It’s the little girl that went missing from Esholt about two weeks ago.”
Chapter Six
Saturday 20th August
It was a little after five in the morning when John Wrigglesworth pulled up to the rear of the shops, switching off the lights and the engine. He was late; not that it mattered, he owned the shop.
He ran his hands through his hair and down his face. He was tired. He had taken over his father’s business twenty years ago. Little had changed, including the staff. He was sixty-three years old and despite loving what he did, there were times when he considered selling up and retiring.
He sighed heavily as he jumped out of the car, leaving the decision for another day. He was sure his wife and family would be happy to help him with that one.
With the car locked, he walked around to the front of the block. Glancing up at the sky, he saw that dawn had broken. The rest of the shops were in darkness. He doubted their owners had even woken up yet, let alone thought about opening.
A butcher, however, needed to do a lot more than sell his product before his doors were unlocked.
John heard male voices as he approached the main road. Despite the hour they were laughing and joking, obviously on an early shift like him. Turning the corner, he noticed little traffic other than public transport.
Of the two men he’d heard, both were late fifties, one smoking and coughing. Why people lit those things he would never know. Both men were dressed in flat caps and dark blue overalls, with heavy footwear, suggesting the engineering trade. One carried a hold-all, the other had his slung over a shoulder.
“Aye, aye, here he is,” shouted one, sniggering.
“Sweeney Todd’s got nowt on you, lad.”
John had no idea what they were talking about.
“Aye. I often wondered why your pies were so good.”
“Looks like your secret’s out this morning, John.”
“What the hell are you on about?” asked Wrigglesworth. “Have you been drinking? Just coming home instead of going?”
“They’ve not even bothered to bag it up.”
“As fresh as it gets, I’d say.” The pair of them continued jibing as they crossed the road.
John removed his cap, shook his head, and scratched it. He strolled past the other shops to his own. He searched his pockets for his keys, mumbling to himself, wondering what the two clowns were talking about.
As he found his keys, he also found his answer.
Chapter Seven
“Can you remember her name?”
“I think she’s called Chloe. I remember she’s five years old.”
“And you’ve never seen her at the house next door?”
“No. Never.”
“Have you ever seen her in the neighbourhood?”
“No. Only on the television and in the newspapers.”
“Was there an appeal on the TV with the parents?”
“Yes.”
“Did you recognize either of those? Ever seen either of them around here?”
“No,” replied Beryl Potts.
That was the last thing Gardener wanted to hear. He’d hoped for something more enlightening, that the girl had been Nicola Stapleton’s next of kin, her daughter living with an estranged ex-husband. Instead, all he had was an ever-growing can of worms. But that was his life.
He needed to call the station. Running a check on Nicola Stapleton was important enough, but now he had a Missing From Home connected to his investigation, which would be a separate case for another major incident unit with its own DI. He needed to know who was leading the inquiry, and where. Things could become complicated.
He reached into his pocket for his mobile when he heard a knock at the front door. Colin Sharp walked in. Gardener hadn’t realized the front door was still open.
“Think we might have a result, sir.”
“Go on.”
“Lady across the road, number 51. The house at the end of the block.”
“Oh, I know her,” said Beryl Potts. “Mrs Comings-and-Goings I call her.”
“Andrea Jennings, she’s called,” continued Sharp. “Anyway, she saw a car parked outside the house next door sometime between ten and eleven. Her and her husband had been watching the news. She came outside for a cig.”
“She recognize it?” asked Gardener.
“Yes, it was here almost every week. A black Ford Focus.”
“That must be the one I was talking about,” said Beryl Potts.
“Registration?” Gardener inquired.
“She noticed it was still there about eleven, before her and her husband went to bed. Anyway, she knew the car well enough, seen it there a few times, so she wasn’t too bothered. Registration checks out. It belongs to one Barry Morrison. Apparently him and his brother run a car lot on Leeds Road in Birstall.”
“Good work, Colin.” Gardener glanced at his watch: five o’clock. “So, if we have a registration, we must have an address. Take one of the lads with you and let’s see what Mr Morrison has to say for himself.”
“That could be a problem,” said Sharp.
“Why?”
“The records indicate he lives next door.”
Gardener moved onto the front porch, grabbed his phone, and called the station. He wanted a check running on Nicola Stapleton. What did they know about her? Did she have a record? He also asked for a check on Barry Morrison. Finally, he asked for everything they could raise on the missing girl Chloe from Esholt. He apologized for not having a surname, but he doubted she’d be hard to find, as it had happened in the last two weeks.
When he returned, Beryl Potts was still sitting in her chair.
“Did you know this Barry Morrison?”
“No, not to talk to. Like I said, I’ve seen him a few times, and we may have nodded or said hello, but that’s about it.”
“Have you seen him here tonight?”
“No. I would have told you.”
“Did it look to you like he lived here?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Beryl Potts scratched her head. “I’m not sure. I think he was here last Sunday. Sometime in the afternoon, maybe three o’clock.”
“I would have thought car sales had a better chance of business on a Sunday. More people to look round,” said Gardener, more to himself.
“Well, I’m not sure, but I think they had a taxi business from there as well. I’ve sometimes seen him turn up in a taxi.”
“Have you ever used his taxi firm?”
“No. Don’t go far enough to need one.”
“Had you ever seen him and Nicola together? Could they have been an item?”
“Maybe, but whenever I saw them, they didn’t look like a couple. Looked more like business to me. I just took him as one of her regulars.”
“What about Barry’s brother? Ever seen him, or know him?”
“No. Sorry.”
Gardener figured he probably had as much information as he was going to receive for now, so he decided to wrap things up. Still, it was plenty to go on.
“Is there anything else you can add to what you’ve told me, Mrs Potts?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, if you do remember anything, anything at all, give me a call at the station.” He passed his card over. “Once the dust settles, all sorts of things come back to people. Doesn’t matter how small or insignificant you think it is, it could be very important to me.”
She simply nodded.
“I’m going to leave PC Edwards with you for a few more minutes. I’d like the names and addresses of all the local people you know that Nicola Stapleton entertained.”
“Some of them are married. That’s not going to look so good, is it?”
“They should have thought of that when they were playing away from home. And you’ve no need to worry, Mrs Potts, it’s confidential.”
Gardener’s mobile chimed. When he answered, he found it was his DCI, Alan Briggs, on the line.
“Stewart, we’ve got a major problem. I need you over on Cross Bank Road in Batley. The local butcher’s discovered a body on the doorstep of his premises.”
“But I’m already on a case at the moment, sir.”
“I know you are, but the corpse outside the butcher’s is directly connected to your case.”
“Why? Who is it?”
“Barry Morrison.”
Chapter Eight
They found the block of shops within minutes of leaving Hume Crescent. Traffic had been kind to them. Reilly parked the pool car on a side road between the shops and a set of garages. Both officers jumped out.
Colin Sharp pulled up behind. Gardener barked orders to him and the SOCOs to start cordoning off the area.
“I’m going for a walk around the garages,” said Reilly.
“Okay.”
They both knew from past experience that murderers often returned to the scene of the crime, or, in some cases, never left. If anyone should be hanging around, the Irishman would find him. Or her.
Gardener sighed. He had no spare scene suit, so he had no choice but to risk contaminating the scene. He approached the shop. The corpse was, as described, propped up in the doorway. Standing to the left of the door was the man Gardener took to be the butcher. He clearly wanted to be anywhere but there. He was rail thin and extremely pale. Gardener doubted seeing the corpse would have done that to him. Being a butcher, he had to be used to seeing and handling death every day.
As a matter of procedure, the SIO felt for a pulse. There was none. He glanced around. Four businesses shared the block with the butcher’s: a takeaway, a sports shop, a hairdresser, and a newsagent. Each shop had accommodations above; it was more than likely some of the shopkeepers lived in them. He spotted a CCTV camera on a wall at the end. Surrounding the block in every direction was row upon row of council flats, which would hopefully mean witnesses. It wouldn’t be an easy task hunting them down, however.
Reilly arrived on the scene. “All clear.”
Gardener turned to the butcher. “Is this how you found him?”
“I’m not sure I actually found him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I were late for work this morning, first time in years.”
“What time do you normally start?”
“Four-thirty.”
“And this morning?” Gardener asked.
“It were after five. I parked up round the back, came round the corner, and these two blokes were laughing and joking. Reckoned I had a delivery on my doorstep and made some remark about my pies.”
“Did you know them?”
“No. But if they’re here at this time every morning, I wouldn’t see ’em. I open up at four-thirty, go straight into the back and start cooking, so I’ve no chance of seeing ’em pass at five.”
“Did they wear a uniform you might recognize? Bus driver, British Rail?”
“Boiler suits, boots, and flat caps. I reckon they’re in engineering, and there’s plenty of firms around here.”
Gardener thought he might strike lucky with a press appeal for witnesses. Another option would be to post a wooden top outside the shop every morning for a week at the same time, see if it proved lucrative. Other than that, it was going to be bloody hard legwork covering everywhere within a two-mile radius, which would be about as wide as it needed to be if they were walking to work.
“So, what happened next?” asked Reilly.
“Well, I hadn’t a clue what they were talking about, so I marched straight over to the shop. I were hoping the place were still in one piece and hadn’t been attacked by vandals.”
“You get much of that?” Reilly asked.
“Not really. Couple of times over the last thirty years. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“So that’s when you found this fella?”
“Aye.”
“And you recognize him as Barry Morrison?” Gardener asked.
“Aye.”
“How do you know him?”
“Lives in the flat above the shop,” replied Wrigglesworth.
“Pardon?”
“I said he lives in the flat above the shop.”
Gardener glanced at his partner. Reilly’s expression said he was equally as confused. On the drive over, he’d explained everything Beryl Potts had told him.
So, thought Gardener, the house in Hume Crescent had Barry Morrison as the registered owner, yet here they had a butcher with a flat above his shop that Morrison was supposedly renting and living in. How did that work? What was going on?
“How long has he lived in the flat?”
“At least five years.”
Gardener turned his attention to Morrison’s corpse. The body was half reclining on the door, half lying on the doorstep. He was naked apart from a pair of trousers and a hat. A jacket and a vest were lying beside him.
Gardener glanced at Wrigglesworth. “This is exactly how you found him? You haven’t touched anything?”
“No. I haven’t touched him or anything else, not even the bloody door. Had my key in my hand but never managed to get it in the lock.”
“John!”
The butcher turned around and Gardener followed his line of vision. Colin Sharp was remonstrating with a woman at the end of the block.
“It’s my wife,” said Wrigglesworth. “Can I go and see her?”
“Not at the moment, I’m afraid.”
A number of squad cars pulled up, and Gardener saw more members of his team jump out, including DCs Paul Benson and Dave Rawson. They had with them a number of operational support officers. Each man stopped and waited on the path for further instructions.
