“Anything. I’ll do anything.”
“Look after Chris. Please look after our son, my darling. He needs you.”
“Oh, Jesus. Sarah, don’t talk like that.”
She winced, her breathing shallow. “Stewart...”
She gripped him tighter than he thought possible, staring at him intently.
“Stewart, please help me... Stewart?”
Sarah died in his arms as the ambulance arrived: her dying breath spent saying his name.
The crew had to physically restrain Gardener in order to take over. He stood, raising his hands to his head.
“No. Please, God, say it’s not true.”
Gardener fell to his knees, screaming.
Chapter One
Leeds. Present day.
A wintry breeze brushed across Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener’s face as he studied the building. Three storeys tall, Victorian and imposing, it had been converted from a house to a group of small flats leased out by an unscrupulous landlord charging extortionate rent while maintaining a low profile.
The street lighting revealed rotting window frames, cracks in the outside walls, and brickwork in need of re-pointing. Fallen roof slates lay scattered amongst the debris in the front yard. A girl passed by one of the front windows, gently rocking her baby.
Gardener pushed open the paint-blistered front door, only to be shouldered backward by an ashen-faced young constable as he tripped and fell forward out of the door.
The PC landed on his hands and knees, and started to retch.
“Why me?” muttered Gardener to the night sky. Three concrete steps led to the door. He jumped down and hauled the constable up by his collar.
“Stop contaminating my crime scene.”
He dragged the young PC over to a small brick wall separating the crime scene property from the one next door and leaned him over it. “Stay there until you’ve finished.”
Gardener turned back to the house and entered. There were no lights on. Peering up the staircase to the second floor, he heard a mixture of voices filtering down from the other landings. A child cried. Someone complained loudly about the mess.
He grabbed the handrail, took a single step, and crashed straight through as the timber crumbled.
“Jesus!”
He reached his arms out for protection as he fell forward. His right hand punched through the broken staircase, ending up next to his foot. His hat fell off as he struggled to pull free. Bracing himself, he dragged his hand out. The wood came away in splinters, scratching his skin.
His mood approached nuclear. He’d been called out to a crime scene on his first night off in two weeks, pulling at least a fourteen-hour shift every single day. He prodded the wall, hoping to find a light switch. His patience diminished rapidly when he couldn’t.
“Is it too much to ask to have some light around here?”
He smiled as the scene was illuminated.
His grin soon disappeared as a voice on the landing boomed out.
Chapter Two
“Who’s there?” demanded the hard-faced woman charging down the stairs. Her attire was a yellow cotton dress with a floral print that had probably been the height of fashion when the house was built. “You can’t come in here, it’s a crime scene.”
Gardener picked up his hat. “You don’t say.” Slipping it back on, he said, “I know it’s a crime scene.”
“Then you’ll know you can’t come in here. We’re waiting for someone.”
Gardener pulled his warrant card from his pocket and held it up to her.
“That’s me.”
He didn’t think he’d ever met anyone quite as offensive as the squat little woman. He could easily imagine her as the sentinel to the abode of the damned. Her dyed hair was black and wiry. She reminded him of an alligator he’d once seen in the Florida Everglades – its face and body fat, and squat. Beady brown eyes peered down at him above a snub nose and a wide mouth filled with sharp, pointed teeth.
She folded her arms. “You took your time, didn’t you? Have you seen the mess up there?”
“No.” Gardener made as if to search his pockets. “And it looks like I’m all out of crystal balls, so I’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.”
“I don’t like your tone.”
“The feeling’s mutual. And you are?”
“Olive Bradshaw. The landlady.”
Gardener glanced around, now that he could actually see. The peeling paper exposed walls covered in green mould, streaked with black lines. An offensive smell of mildew permeated the passage.
Horrified at the degradation, he asked, “You actually charge people money to live like this?”
She was about to speak when she saw the young constable wandering back in from the yard.
The PC’s complexion was pale, his expression grave. His uniform bore an orange stain across the front from the brick wall Gardener had bent him over.
“I suppose he’s just vomited all over my steps.”
“No,” said Gardener. “I managed to save you from that. Though I shouldn’t think it would make much difference.” Before giving her the chance to reply, he faced the constable. “Have you finished?”
“I think so.”
Gardener turned to the landlady. “Where do you live?”
She pointed to the room in the corner of the ground floor.
“Well, get yourself back in there and stop walking all over our crime scene.”
He addressed the constable. “Go with her and take a statement. When you’ve finished, stand by the front door and see that she doesn’t leave.”
“I knew something like this was bound to happen,” continued Olive Bradshaw. “I only went to bingo. I had heard the commotion before I went out, never thought I’d come back to this. Who’s going to pay for it to be cleaned? That’s what I want to know.”
Gardener ignored her and continued up the stairs.
Chapter Three
On the way up, Gardener passed a girl cradling a crying child. She threw out a venomous jibe, which he ignored.
The top landing was about eight feet square. The threadbare carpet must have been original, as its
