Gardener felt completely helpless. The whole process was now on a go-slow. He wouldn’t be allowed near the crime scene until it had been cleared. Lord only knew what time that would be.
Chapter Six
Outside, Gardener studied a group of people whispering to each other across the street.
He wondered if any of them had seen anything. He seriously doubted it. No one ever did.
He sighed and peered down the street. To an outsider, Rawston appeared as a reassuring scene of frost-covered, two-up-two-down, back-to-back terraced houses set against the background of a thriving textile industry. Reminiscent of an Ealing Studio’s B-movie, the close-knit community would spend the night indoors huddled around the fire, wrapping presents for their broods of children safely tucked up in bed, surrounded by the mouth-watering aroma of chestnuts roasting in the grate.
To him, the maze of buildings concealed a new breed, representing the filthiest scum the city offered. The enterprising drug pusher, attempting to build his empire by adding more clients to an ever-growing list of depraved addicts who’d stop at nothing for the next fix. Then came the perverts, the child molesters, and porn kings trading black market videos, magazines, and DVDs in an effort to satisfy an insatiable appetite.
Merry Christmas, Stewart, thought Gardener.
Chapter Seven
Staring at the rundown building, Gardener wondered what the hell was going on.
“Bout ya?” said Detective Sergeant Sean Reilly, poking his shoulder.
Startled, Gardener nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jesus, Sean.” He relaxed a little. “I’m sorry. I was miles away.”
“So I noticed.”
“How’s it going?” Gardener shook his partner’s hand.
Reilly couldn’t have timed things any better. Gardener needed to bounce ideas around.
He always found his partner’s solid frame a measure of his personality, someone he could rely on in a crisis. The Ulsterman stood six feet six, his mouse-coloured hair long overdue for a trim. His probing brown eyes told you he wouldn’t believe a word you said until you exhaustively convinced him you were telling the truth. They were a complement to his hard-and-fast interrogating techniques. He worked well with Gardener, allowing them to use the hard-man, soft-man approach to their advantage. He wore, as usual, a brown leather bomber jacket and jeans.
“Well enough,” said Reilly. “Not sure I can say the same about you.”
“Have Laura and Feargal come back with you?”
“They’re staying another week, what with it being nearly Christmas. I don’t blame them. I wish I could have stayed.”
Gardener respected Reilly for two things. A family man, Reilly enjoyed an excellent relationship with his wife and son. After Sarah’s death, it had been Sean Reilly who knocked him back into shape, forcing him to return to work. Gardener felt indebted to his colleague. That aside, he was also excellent at his job.
“I’m pleased you didn’t,” said Gardener.
“Why don’t I like the sound of this?” Reilly glanced around.
“It’s a major problem. We can’t go in.” Gardener pointed to the door behind him.
The rest of Gardener’s team had arrived. He gathered together Detective Constables Colin Sharp, Frank Thornton, and Bob Anderson. They were accompanied by a young woman Police Constable by the name of Robinson, and a number of operational support officers he’d never seen before.
“Thanks for coming out. I don’t intend to keep anyone longer than necessary. Briefly, a call came in around half past ten. The landlady found one of her tenants dead. Two PCs arrived before me to secure the scene. The deceased is male. He hasn’t been shot, stabbed, strangled, kicked to death or had his life taken by any other means known to man. What I found were decayed remains on the carpet. You wouldn’t think it was human from the condition. Somehow the body disintegrated inside the clothing.”
“When you say disintegrated…?” prompted Thornton.
“Just that, Frank. It’s a sack of skin holding the skeletal frame together. The brown gunge was still oozing its way through the clothing when I last saw it.”
“Any idea what caused it?” asked Reilly.
“No,” said Gardener. “Which is why I’ve had to call Silver and declare a Hazchem incident.”
“That’s all we need,” moaned Anderson. “Judging by the smell that’s wafting through that front door, I’d say he’s been there for days. Doesn’t look like that adds up, though, with the expression on your face.”
“The landlady went to bingo at half past six. Apparently, he was fine then. Four hours later, he was spread out all over the floor.”
“Christ,” said Reilly.
“You all know well enough that criminals have little consideration for anyone but themselves, least of all us,” Gardener said to the group. “It’s cold, it’s late, and the people I’ve spoken to have even less respect for us than for the victim. Let’s do what we have to, fast.”
Shivering a little, Gardener blew into his hands. “We’re in Rawston, so most of the community will still be awake. If there are no lights on, don’t knock people up. We can always call back in the morning. I want you to split up and do a house-to-house. You know the drill. You know what we’re looking for. Keep it brief. If you pick up on anything, make notes, and we’ll come back in daylight. The two PCs are in the house taking statements from the residents.”
Gardener turned to his sergeant. “Sean, you and I will search the deceased’s flat once Hazchem give us the all-clear.”
He turned to the group. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Eight
Gardener glanced at his watch as the Home Office pathologist, Doctor George Fitzgerald, came out the front door carrying his medical bag and still wearing a scene suit and mask. His watch read five o’clock.
Gardener approached him. “Can you tell us anything?”
Fitz removed his mask, drew
