Gardener wasn’t sure how to read his mood. In the short time he’d been there, he’d seen so many changes. Self-confidence, surprise, fear. “Why didn’t you tell me before? It would have made my job easier. It may have led us to the killer. We may have prevented Myers being killed, which could have led to information about what’s going on. Have you any idea why someone would want to kill these men?”
“No, Mr Gardener, I haven’t.” Summers sipped his whiskey. “I should have thought the fact that they were child molesters and killers would be reason enough.”
A knock on the door disturbed them. It was Steve Fenton. “Sir, have you got a minute?”
Gardener glanced at Summers. “Stay there. I’ll be back.”
Outside the study, the rest of the squad assembled with Fenton and Reilly. Fenton held out a pack of syringes.
Gardener’s stomach turned. “Where did you find them?”
“Bathroom, in the en-suite bedroom.”
Gardener took them from Fenton.
The butler broke the suffocating silence, as though he’d read Gardener’s mind.
“They’re for Mr Summers, sir. His condition, you know.”
“What condition?” Reilly asked.
“He’s a diabetic, sir. I sometimes have to help him.”
Reilly shook his head, raised his arms in the air. “He has an answer for everything.”
Gardener grew irritated by the fact everyone had an alibi. “In that case, I want you to get a sample of the insulin, and give it to one of my officers for testing.”
The butler turned, but Gardener stopped him. “The room in the corner of the study. Where does it lead to?”
“It’s the library, sir.”
He turned to Fenton. “Well done, Steve. Have you found anything else?”
“No. Clean as a whistle.”
“In that case, follow him and get the insulin sample.” Gardener was disappointed he hadn’t found more, but the syringe was a start. He and Reilly returned to the study. Reilly strode past Summers and into the library. Gardener watched Summers, wishing he had the ability to read minds. Reilly came back out of the library, nodding. “It’s clean.”
Gardener gazed at Summers. “Write down the name and address of your doctor.”
“Pardon?” asked Summers.
“Just do it,” said Gardener.
The agent did so, passing over the paper.
Gardener took his hat from the desk and placed it on his head. Both policemen headed for the door, but Gardener turned back. “There is one more thing, Mr Summers.”
The agent glanced up. “Yes?”
Gardener hesitated. “No, maybe it doesn’t matter.” He turned to leave.
Summers stopped him. “What is it?”
“It’s a long shot. I really don’t think you can help me.”
“Try me.”
Gardener pulled the photo-fit of Warthead from his inside pocket, unfolded it, and held it aloft for Summers to examine. “You wouldn’t happen to know him, would you?”
The hesitation was so minimal, that unless you had an obsession with catching the person who had killed your wife, you would never have noticed it.
“No, I’m sorry, Mr Gardener, I don’t.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
Gardener and Reilly left the mansion and headed out to the car. “Did you find anything, Sean, anything at all?”
“No. The butler was like a shadow.” Reilly sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, boss. I want to wrap this case up as much as you do, but I couldn’t find anything to tie Summers in. I feel the same as you. He’s a creepy little bastard. He has an answer for everything, but there’s no evidence to suggest he’s your man. You know, as much as I hate him, if he has killed three paedophiles, who cares?”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought of that already. But at the end of the day, we have a job to do, whatever we think.”
“More’s the pity.” Reilly started the car and drove off. “More’s the fucking pity.”
Chapter Fifty-one
It was a little after six-thirty when Gardener arrived home. Back at the station, he’d had another run in with Briggs about the lack of evidence to support his theories. More annoyingly, the incident in Beechtown with the press had reached his ears. All he really wanted was to take a shower, go to bed, pull the covers over his head, and stay there forever.
As he entered the kitchen, the various aromas of a full Christmas dinner made his mouth water. Malcolm was by the cooker, wearing an apron and oven gloves. Chris was next to him, also wearing an apron, and a chef hat. The heat was welcoming.
“Come on, Dad.” Chris offered his father a glass of wine, taking him by the hand.
In the living room, the table had been set for five. The place had been transformed with decorations, balloons, spray snow, and a huge tree with dangly toys and presents in one corner. A log fire roared heartily. Spook jumped down from Gardener’s armchair, curling around his legs, meowing.
A lump formed in his throat. It was exactly the same sort of greeting Sarah would have given him. She’d always believed Christmas should be special, no matter what was happening in their lives. Particularly with his job. He could see her clearly in his mind. The pitch of her voice rising the more excited she became. How her eyes glistened with emotion, especially on Christmas morning when they were all unwrapping presents.
Gardener hadn’t realized, but his father was standing behind him. He glanced at Chris.
The pair of them must have worked so hard. In the time it had taken to walk from the kitchen to the living room, he had all but forgotten about serial killers, paedophiles, drug dealers, and smarmy entertainment agents. It was nearly Christmas. Tonight was about his family.
“Don’t you like it, Dad?”
Gardener placed his arm
