On New Briggate, he sang to himself as he lurched across Mark Lane.
A vagrant observed him trip through an archway which led onto the grounds of St John’s Church.
No one saw him leave.
Chapter Twenty-six
Gardener opened the kitchen door and shouted down the garden path to his father. A persistent chill hung in the air, but the early morning mist was beginning to clear. Although it was only eight o’clock, the old man had been in his greenhouse since seven. Gardener was not surprised. His father was, by habit, an early riser. He heard the faint reply and shivered before closing the door.
Walking back through the kitchen, the mouth-watering aroma of grilled bacon set his taste buds on edge. Although Gardener preferred a healthier diet, he felt he needed to indulge every now and again. He walked through the living room into the hallway. At the foot of the stairs, he bellowed for Chris to hurry up.
Malcolm was standing by the sink as Gardener returned to serve. “You can’t beat a bacon sandwich.” The old man was drying his hands. “What a life. An hour in the greenhouse, and then back in for breakfast!”
“Rather you than me,” said Gardener. It wasn’t that he had a dislike of plants. It was more the overpowering odour he couldn’t stand. Quite apart from the fact that he saw the greenhouse as his father’s domain, his own private sanctuary.
He placed sandwiches and ketchup on the table as Chris entered the room, casually dressed in a Reebok tracksuit with trainers. Chris switched on the radio. Gardener cringed as the brash trap music bounced around the kitchen. “Oh, come on, Chris, give us a break!”
“What’s up, Dad? Too old for this stuff?”
“No, I’m a music lover. So, come on, turn it down.”
“Okay,” sighed Chris.
“There’s a good lad. You know it makes sense,” mocked his dad, smiling.
“Oh, I get it. Use your authority to cover your age.”
Malcolm laughed. Gardener saw the funny side. He realized Chris was growing up fast. Another three years and he would be sitting his GCSEs and very probably making his own way in the world. But he was still his son, and as such, he regarded him as his little boy in a lot of ways. He understood, however, that his son’s maturity was fast creating a new level to their relationship. Something he had to accept as much as Chris.
“So, what do you fancy doing today, son?”
“You’re not working?” asked Chris, taking a huge bite of his sandwich and a slurp of coffee.
“There’s a few things I need to do, but Christmas is coming, so I’d like us to spend a bit of time together. And don’t fill your mouth so full!”
The phone ringing interrupted their conversation. Gardener wiped his lips with a napkin before answering.
“Stewart, it’s Alan.”
“Something wrong?” Gardener felt his stomach clench.
“We’ve had a call from the priest at St John’s Church in the centre of Leeds. Father O’Hanlon. He’s found a body on the grounds. Sounds like a carbon copy of Plum.”
Gardener sighed. “Same MO?”
“Exactly.”
Gardener glanced apologetically at Chris, realizing his son knew what was coming.
“I’ll be there as quick as I can. Will you call Sean for me, please?”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Gardener negotiated the early morning traffic with mixed feelings.
He was concerned for the victim’s identity and for the fact the death was so public. That meant he might have to deal with the press. Not a prospect he relished.
As he approached New Briggate by the side of the Primark store, he stopped at a roadblock that had been set up. He signed the log and was cleared. Driving through, he turned left into Mark Lane. The entrance to the church was blocked by a couple of PCs. A crowd of onlookers had gathered, a fair number of them the uncompromising face of journalism. Two junior officers kept them at bay. He drove past the loading bays on the left to a parking bay on the right.
He left the car and slipped into a scene suit at a station set up next to a shop near the church grounds. The nosy counter assistant almost broke her neck in an effort to catch him, but a young PC put paid to that. In the distance, at the entrance to the church, he heard questions being directed at the officers. Staring at the scene, Gardener noticed the mist had cleared. The winter sun was trying to penetrate his mood, but it did little to dispel his cold feeling of dread.
Behind the building, he could quite clearly see the corpse guarded by another PC.
He heard a car pull up behind his. A door slammed. Following the protective suit ritual, Reilly joined him. Together they entered the church grounds and made their way to the body.
Gardener knelt down. The deterioration of the corpse was more advanced than Plum’s had been, suggesting he’d been dead longer. The end result was still a bag of bones in a loose fitting skin-suit. Reilly knelt alongside him.
“Sean, go over to the main gate, oversee security of the site. Make sure anyone who has a camera is forbidden to use it. If they give you any grief, throw the book at them.”
Reilly nodded and left without saying anything.
Gardener flipped open his mobile and called the station. He requested his team, along with the biggest tent they had. Apart from Fitz, he wanted a scientist from the Forensic Science Service. He also wanted CSIs, photographers, and a PolSA – police search advisor – team for a fingertip search.
Before closing the call, a quick glance upwards revealed a clear sky. There had been no rain overnight. He asked the desk sergeant
