Where had Warthead been? Why the cockney accent, if he really was from Yorkshire? How had he managed to evade Gardener all along?
He tried to clear his mind, to think rationally. He would have to delve into the police records. As far as he could remember, they didn’t even have a name for Warthead. Unless of course, Craig Sutton had been right, and he was called Felix. Gardener stood up, put his cup in the sink. He would have to find out the name of the man who had been killed. If he’d been married, then maybe Gardener could go and see his widow. See if she knew anything of any value. It’s possible that it was not an isolated incident, but a deliberate one.
There had to be a connection with his current case. He could leave no stone unturned. It needed resolving. And although it was personal, it was possible that he could avenge Sarah’s death in the bargain. Only then did he feel he could have the hat repaired.
Gardener crossed the kitchen, slipping into the garage. He removed the cover from the bike, popped in his favourite CD, and listened to Cher’s Love And Understanding while he started work.
There wasn’t too much left to do before the machine was completely stripped down. He would then have to examine everything carefully. Some parts would need replacing, while others could be repaired. He would need an estimate of how much it would cost. He also needed to set a timescale for completing the restoration. The biggest decision would be the frame. It would need taking back to bare metal and being treated before priming and painting it. He wondered whether or not he should do it, or farm it out.
The question of what to do with the bike when he’d finished was a major one. Would he sell it?
Or would he keep it and ride it?
Chapter Fifty-four
Gardener checked the clock on the wall. It read 2:30. He’d been in the police station for three hours, chasing down all the archive material he could find relating to the death of the man involved in the fracas with Warthead. It was warm, and he was tired because he’d had little or no sleep in the last thirty hours. He picked up the bottle of water in front of him, unscrewed the cap, draining half the contents in one go.
He reflected on the meal last night with his family and the minister’s. His father had cooked perhaps one of the best traditional roasts he had ever tasted. Maybe he thought that because he had had little chance to grab any decent food in quite some time. Police diets left a lot to be desired. Most of the lads survived on McDonald’s because that was usually the only thing open at four o’clock in the morning. He’d always remained adamant that he would not eat junk food, preferring to go without rather than subject his system to that rubbish.
Although the conversation was pleasant, it felt stilted at first. He couldn’t help but shake the feeling that Malcolm and Anei were hoping something would develop further between him and Jacqueline. They knew it wouldn’t.
He returned to the task at hand. In total, there had been forty-eight witness statements on the night Sarah died. No one knew Warthead by name, though some had seen him in and around the city before. Reports confirm he made his escape that night by running down Bond Street, disappearing through the dark arches.
The name of the man Warthead killed was Tony Parsons. He’d owned his own IT business in Skipton, close to where he lived. He’d been married with a daughter. Tony had been on a night out with some of his employees, a mild stag night of sorts. He’d left them to catch the last bus home. One witness statement, however, stood out above all the others. One of Tony’s colleagues, a man called Glen Cooper, said that Tony had suffered the year from hell because his son had died of a drug overdose back in January. Gardener wrote down the address in Skipton.
The weather was pleasant but cold – blue skies, plenty of sunshine, no heat – as he headed out to investigate. He arrived in the market town forty minutes later. It took him another ten minutes to find the house he wanted. It was a detached mock-Tudor with a double garage and well-kept lawns. There were gas mantles on either side of the front door set back in an alcove. He knocked loudly and rang the bell.
The door opened. The girl who answered was no more than sixteen. She had short dark hair and was neatly groomed. Clear skin and white teeth. She wore the tightest blue jeans he had ever seen, with a cream-coloured sweater hanging off one shoulder so you could see the black bra strap. “Where’s the fire?”
Gardener smiled, flashed his warrant card. “DI Gardener, Major Incident Team. I’m sorry, it was a bit loud.”
The girl glanced at his hat. She blinked several times, staring more intensely, lifting herself up a little. “You the sheriff, then?”
“You could say that.”
“God, that was quick. I didn’t mean to jump that red light. It can’t have been more than half an hour back.”
Gardener held up his hand, shocked that she was actually old enough to drive. “Stop right there. I’m not bothered about the red light. I’m here to speak to a Mrs Stella Parsons.”
“How did you get that hole in your hat?”
“It wasn’t easy.” He thought the girl was lovely, probably meant no harm to anyone, but she was a typical airhead. He suspected it would be hard work to glean the information he wanted.
“Who did you say you wanted to talk to?”
