“If at all,” added Reilly.
“They’ll have to come back to us,” said Gardener, “even if they don’t care to admit anything. A place like that could say everything tallies up even if it doesn’t, and then they’ll start their own investigation and we’ll probably never know.”
Gardener ran his hands through his hair and down his face. “I want to thank you all for what you’ve done here, you’ve pulled a double shift and filled in lots of blanks. For that you can be pleased with yourselves. But we still have one big question remaining, that we have yet to answer. Who is killing people?”
Chapter Forty-seven
Gardener was sitting in a car. It was late, dark, cold and desolate, and he had no idea where he was.
The engine wasn’t running; the lights and the radio were on, but there was no sound emanating from the latter. As he glanced through the windscreen he figured he was in a large car park, or on a piece of wasteland, but there were no buildings nearby. He couldn’t see any trees, or any lights, yet he could still see quite clearly.
Glancing at the passenger seat, he noticed he was alone. He wondered where Reilly was. If they were investigating a case, he should be close by.
Within the blink of an eye Gardener was outside of the car. To his left he saw a stretch of river with a narrowboat running along it. The man at the back, steering it, gave him a wave.
Nothing made sense. Since when did you have a river running through a car park?
Gardener’s phone rang. He reached into his pocket. Staring at the display he didn’t recognise the number but he answered anyway.
“Stewart, it’s your mother. What time will you be home?”
Gardener didn’t answer.
“Don’t be late, I don’t want you out on your own when it’s dark, there’s a lot of strange people around.”
“How old do you think I am, Mum?”
The line disconnected, leaving Gardener staring at the device.
When he’d replaced the phone in his pocket the landscape had changed completely. He was now in the middle of an industrial estate, with buildings all around, a chain-link fence, and good lighting. A number of cars drove by on the road on the outside of the fence.
The building he was standing against had an aluminium exterior with a number of windows on the upper level for the offices. In the distance on his right he saw a roller shutter door, and next to that a smaller metal door that was open.
Standing in front of it was Sarah. He’d recognise the shoulder-length blonde hair anywhere. Not to mention the white leather jacket he had bought her for her birthday. She was also wearing jeans.
“Come on, we don’t want to be late.” She beckoned him over.
“On my way,” he shouted. For what, he had no idea.
Sarah disappeared through the door and he followed her. The inside of the building was huge but not well lit. There were so many corridors he thought he was in a maze. He could hear music playing from speakers he couldn’t locate. He had no idea what it was. All he knew was how strange it sounded; some lunatic was singing about somewhere in the night, and turning to the right, when something clicks inside of your head. Then there would be trouble ahead.
“Chris?” shouted Sarah. It was distant, so she must be.
Gardener took off down one of the corridors, not knowing where he was going or why.
“Chris?” Sarah shouted again. “Where are you? It’s getting late and we’re supposed to be meeting your father.”
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
