“Bob Crisp, sir.”
Reilly turned to Gardener, smiling. “Is he serious?”
“I assure you, sir, the name is genuine.” The vagrant smiled.
“Why would I want to speak to you?” asked Gardener.
“You’d like answers.”
The SIO sighed, placing his hands in his pockets. He scrutinized the area again. He wasn’t particularly happy that the TV cameras were there. Satisfied that no one had broken the barrier, he returned his attention to Bob Crisp, unable to decide if he was genuine. Either way, he did not want to waste any time with him. The man could be a potential witness, though, which was something he could not ignore.
“Look.” Gardener glanced at his watch. “I don’t have time for riddles and puzzles, or to play games. If you know anything that you think will help, tell me.”
A pair of anxious undertakers came to within a few feet of the marquee. Gardener turned, raising a hand. “Give us a couple of minutes.” They backed off, but Gardener could see they were unhappy.
“You should make time, sir,” said Crisp. “‘Half of our life is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through life trying to save.’”
“I’ve heard enough!”
Reilly placed his arm on Gardener’s. “Give him a chance, boss. He reminds me of old Seamus back in Ireland. It sounded like rubbish at the time, but there was a lot of wisdom in his words.”
“Your colleague is very perceptive. I have but three things to say, as you are so short of time,” Crisp said.
A fracas at the gate diverted Gardener’s attention. TV reporters and journalists were growing agitated. He noticed Father O’Hanlon talking to them, and wondered if that was a wise move. Bob Crisp’s voice broke his thoughts.
“You, sir, are troubled. You have the look of a man who has lived through tragedy, although you display a very different facade. If you are not careful, tragedy will seek you again. I sense you are about to embark upon a new lease of life. Think very carefully.”
Gardener’s skin prickled.
Crisp pointed to the canvas covering. “Please, lift the flap.”
Against his better judgment, Gardener did as he was asked.
Crisp gazed dolefully down at the body.
“‘We owe respect to the living. To the dead we owe nothing but truth.’ Though I have no wish to speak ill of the dead, Bernard Thornwell was a drunkard! Perhaps it eased his conscience, for I too would be a drunkard, should I have had his employer.”
Gardener was transfixed by the surreal situation he was caught up in. Who was Bob Crisp? How much did he really know? He dropped the marquee siding. “You know who he works for?”
“Indeed, I do.” Crisp pointed. “You have a wallet in your hands. Amongst the credit cards, is there a business card?”
Reilly held it up. Gardener glanced at it. “Derek Summers, Entertainment Agent.”
An entertainment agent would account for the Santa suit, thought Gardener.
“Seek out Derek Summers, but beware. He is not a man in which to place your trust.”
A thumping of feet grew closer. Gardener turned. A young constable had arrived at the scene, short on breath. “Sir, the press. They’re getting out of hand.”
“Why? What are they doing?”
“They say they have a right to know what’s going on.”
“Go back and tell them they have no rights until I say so.” Gardener paused, turning to Reilly. “On second thought, Sean, perhaps you’ll be more persuasive. Can you have a word?”
“Leave them to me.”
As Reilly left, Gardener noticed Bob Crisp was on the move. “No. Wait, I haven’t finished with you, yet. What do you know about Derek Summers?”
The vagrant hesitated before speaking. “Knowledge is power, if it’s connected to the right person. I fear I have said enough. You are the detective.”
Bob Crisp tipped his hat. Before leaving, he pointed to the members of the press. “You must talk to them, sir, despite your obvious dislike.”
Gardener was confused, but he knew he could not keep the media waiting much longer.
He glanced around, checking out high vantage points. Flats, offices, apartments. It wouldn’t take two minutes for some smart journalist and photographer to reach the high ground, giving themselves a bird’s-eye view. If some clown hadn’t done it already.
Gardener checked the crime scene. He breathed a sigh of relief. The canvas covering the area of the corpse also concealed the Santa coat from prying eyes and state-of-the-art telescopic lenses. He started walking towards the media. A couple of flashguns sliced through the grey morning.
As he reached the gate, he composed himself before talking. “Ladies and gentlemen, good morning. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” He spoke quietly, calmly, his demeanour clearly indicating if there were any interruptions, he would turn tail and leave them.
“At this moment, we have an unidentifiable male corpse. Cause of death has yet to be determined. We are awaiting the Home Office pathologist’s report. Therefore, the death is being treated as suspicious. We are appealing for anyone in this area between 3:00pm yesterday afternoon and 8:00am this morning to come forward.”
Cameras flashed. Chilled hands made notes.
“Male corpse, Mr Gardener?” asked one of the pack. “Any connection with the missing children?”
Gardener noticed heads rising from notebooks. TV cameras slid into close-up.
“No, the deceased is a male adult.”
“Cause of death? How long?” shouted another.
“Too early to say,” replied Gardener. “The police press office will issue any updates, or cover any further developments.”
Another flurry of press activity followed. Gardener suspected the television news teams wanted one-to-one interviews. But he wasn’t keen. Gardener shuddered as he turned away, ignoring further shouted questions. Reilly ambled up to him.
“Sean, get the uniforms to walk around the block a couple of times. I don’t want the cameras
