“Can I ask your name?”
“Lyndsey Branningham.” Stella Parsons had obviously moved on. He couldn’t blame her.
“How long have you lived here, Lyndsey?”
“My parents bought the place about six months ago.”
“Are they in?”
“Do you think I’d be playing music this loud if they were?” She bellowed over her shoulder to someone to turn it down. Another teenager appeared from the room in question, dressed only in his boxer shorts.
“Oh, fuck,” he shouted, and flew back into the other room.
“He’s not with me,” she said.
Eager to move things along, Gardener continued with his questions. “Do you know the people who lived here before?”
“Not really,” replied Lyndsey. “But from what I’ve heard, they had an awful time. The husband was killed in Leeds about a year ago. I think he was shot. The year before that, they had lost their son to drugs, and the wife finished up in a psychiatric ward. I don’t know where, though.”
Gardener’s heart sank. Right place. Wrong time. That left no one to verify the story for him.
“It was a right night from what I’ve heard, a copper’s wife was…” Lyndsey Branningham stopped mid-sentence as if she’d worked out whose wife it had been and what the hole in the hat was all about.
He thanked the girl for her time, then went about trying another dozen houses down the same road. Most of them confirmed the story, adding little more. One neighbour, however, gave him gold when she recognized the profile of Warthead. She figured Warthead was the reason the son had died of a drug overdose, and that the father had made it his mission to seek out revenge because he figured the police had done nothing to help.
By the time Gardener headed for home, it was dark and he was really tired. He was bloody hungry, but his appetite was diminishing pretty quickly.
Chapter Fifty-five
“Where the hell have you been? I expected you at nine o’clock! I’ve got a store full of people out there! Most of them children expecting to see Father Christmas.”
Harry Clayton had finished changing into his suit. He was sitting down tying his bootlaces. “For God’s sake, give us a break. I’m only a few minutes late.”
Harry struggled with his laces as he tried to listen to his boss. Before leaving the Spanish mainland, he’d had an all-day bender with some of the locals. It had continued late into the night, almost until the departure of his early morning flight. The flight had been his only chance to sleep. If he were being honest with himself, he shouldn’t be here. Still, plenty of coffee should put him on the right track.
“You’re more than a few minutes late, Clayton. You’re an hour, to be precise, and I’m not happy about it. I’ve had mothers on my case since the store opened. No one’s given me a break. I’ve even had the kids nagging me as well. Sort yourself out.”
Harry Clayton studied the store manager. He was tall and gangly and bespectacled, with a complexion like a piece of ciabatta bread. His hair was lank and greasy. The texture of his voice was so rough, if you closed your eyes, you’d have thought you were having a conversation with Marge Simpson. He was permanently grumpy, something else Harry couldn’t stand.
The store manager gave a final warning as he headed out of the changing room. “I’ll be talking to Summers about you.”
“Fuck you!” said Harry, after the manager had left. Harry didn’t care. He only had till the end of the week before the Christmas holidays started. He could spend the break having another big drinking session with Myers, set up the next venture.
Harry’s business trip to Spain had been successful. The contacts had been impressed with the new pornographic material he’d supplied. Harry had returned with some good stuff as well.
He wasn’t sure about the new snuff-and-sex films. They were a little too gross for his tastes, but from what the Europeans had said, the market for it was increasing. It wasn’t his forte. He’d stick to teenagers.
Another sharp rap on the door distracted him. The manager was still on the warpath.
“Clayton, move yourself.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming!”
Harry shuffled out, finally dressed. Satisfied, the manager accompanied Harry to the grotto. The store was fit to bursting, full of Christmas cheer. Most of the staff wore Santa hats, although a few of them dressed in full costume. Bells were ringing, carols were playing, children were shouting and screaming, and the building was engulfed by a dazzling display of colours. The aromas of pine and fruit and brandy permeated Harry’s nostrils.
The approach to the grotto made Harry feel like a superstar taking the stage of a pop concert. It was set inside a huge, open front marquee. Harry climbed on his sleigh. Here Comes Santa Claus invigorated the crowd. Children cheered noisily. Harry waved constantly as the reindeer pulled him along his journey to the grotto.
His home for the day was another sleigh set amidst an array of snow-covered pines. Grey painted boulders were strategically placed around the grotto for his elves to sit on. Carefully concealed fog machines enhanced his arrival. A resplendent light show and a ringing of bells hidden inside the pines all added to the spectacle of his arrival.
Harry jumped off the moving sleigh and stepped into the grotto, still waving. He felt that his entrance was over the top, but he had a job to do and played along with it. He boarded the second sleigh, positioned a few inches in front of a curtain that backed onto a corridor with toilets.
Harry sighed as the music subsided. He was hot and tired and already had no desire to be there. He
