He rubbed his face, tried to clear his mind of those thoughts. He turned his attention to the multiple child disappearances on his patch.
He wondered about the two girls. Had they, too, been murdered like David Vickers? If they had, where were their bodies?
The fact David’s body held traces of a powerful sedative brought a different perspective to the case. The drug, coupled with the abuse he’d suffered, pointed to the probability he had been abducted by a paedophile. Perhaps even a ring.
Did they have the girls? He’d heard about girls being shipped out to the Middle East and forced into prostitution. Perhaps that’s why no bodies had ever been found.
His feelings went out to their parents. He remembered the comment Lesley Vickers had made.
What would he be doing if it had been Chris, and not her son? He grew cold at the thought, realizing it could so easily have been. The boys attended the same school. Chris knew David well. When it had all come to light, Gardener questioned Chris. Chris didn’t remember seeing anyone suspicious hanging around the school. No one saw the boy leaving with an adult, or talking to a stranger. No one had come forward with any information at all.
He thought about the Rawston incident and, in particular, the public. They expected the police to find criminals, to come up with all the answers. All while they preferred anonymity. They went around with blinkers on, blocking out the world around them. Until, of course, it happened to them. Then they accused everyone else of doing what they’d been guilty of in the first place.
Gardener heard the same statement from everyone he’d ever interviewed in that situation.
“Somebody must have seen something.”
He agreed. Somebody must surely-to-God have seen or heard something the night Herbert Plum died. Killing a person in such a manner without attracting attention stood next to impossible.
Gardener sighed and drifted into the kitchen. He left his empty cup in the bowl, before turning out the lights and heading for bed.
Chapter Seventeen
Gardener lost his footing and stumbled. He stood alone in the centre of Leeds, enshrouded by a thin, spectral mist. Flustered, he peered through the fog in a desperate attempt to figure out where he was, and where Sarah had gone. They had been together in a restaurant not a moment ago.
His surroundings seemed unfamiliar. A group of crumbling warehouses on the verge of collapse stretched out in front of him. Their grime-encrusted facades presented a stark image of impending doom. Office blocks stood adjacent to the warehouses, in the same state of deterioration. Turning his head, he stared down Bridge End, over the River Aire. He ran to the bridge, peeking through the railings. The water ran unseen through the impenetrable shroud.
As he retreated, the scenery changed. He found himself at the corner of Duncan Street, facing Briggate. His parents strode toward him. His father checked the time on his pocket watch while his mother chattered incessantly next to him. His spirits lifted. It felt good to see his mum again. They walked right by him, oblivious to his presence. A car passed dangerously close to his mother. For all the world, it seemed like it would hit her. But it didn’t.
He then clearly heard his mother lecturing his father about an unpaid TV license bill. Mum should let that drop. Dad had only done it once, a long time ago. Surely she was over it now?
He called out to her. She ignored him. Panic overcame him as he suddenly spotted blood on her, a red trail running from a wound below her ribcage. He put his hands to his face to block out the vision. He had been here before and had no wish to return. He knew where it would end.
In the hope of a different outcome, he lowered his hands to find his parents had vanished. The clock above the jeweller’s on the opposite side of the road struck midnight. Gardener stood confused. He shouldn’t be here. He should be at home in bed with Sarah. As the clock chimed, a gunshot rang out. His world came to a sudden, terrifying halt. He ran toward the source of the shot, afraid of what he would find.
Sarah emerged from the mist, clutching her abdomen, blood coursing through her fingers. “Help me, Stewart,” she pleaded, both the sound of her voice and her expression pitiful.
“Oh, God. Sarah!”
His wife started to fade, signalling the end, as it always did.
“No!” he screamed long and loud.
Still screaming, he fell out of bed, shouting. “No, please God! No! Don’t take her away from me. Not again...” His body shook from the sobbing. “Please, not again.”
He reached out for the lamp on the bedside cabinet, switching it on. Lifting the frame that contained Sarah’s photo next to it, he placed the picture next to his heart. Wrapping both arms around his body, he slumped against his bed, drawing his knees up to his chest, hugging the photo, crying softly.
Even after a year, her loss was still painful. He had the nightmare on a regular basis.
Every morning, he’d reach out for her, hoping she’d be there. She never was. He never thought it possible to miss someone so much.
“Sarah,” he whispered, “I never meant it to happen.” He lifted the photo to gaze at her. “I know you didn’t want to go. I’m so sorry.” More tears followed as he held the photo tight. “I should never have made you. You died because me of me, Sarah. How will you ever forgive me? How can I ever forgive myself?”
