Gardener leaned down to help the man. The Santa’s screaming reached a pitch of uncontrollable terror.
He gripped Clayton’s arms and tried to talk to him. His words were drowned out by Clayton’s hysterical shrieks.
Clayton’s hands flew outwards suddenly and seized Gardener’s jacket. As Clayton screamed, Gardener almost gagged. He’d smelled it before, but never in the early stages. He twisted his face away from Clayton, staring at Farlow, his expression complete bewilderment.
“How long has he been like this?” shouted Gardener. Farlow didn’t reply.
A sound emanated from Clayton’s throat, a cross between a burp and a gurgle. Unable to contain the mounting pressure, Clayton’s body started to disintegrate. His eyes went first, forced out of their sockets. A dirty brown liquid gushed outward, down Clayton’s face, into his mouth.
Horrified, Gardener let go, but he wasn’t quick enough. Clayton vomited, splashing Gardener’s jeans, and a little of his shirt. Gardener fell backward and scrambled to his feet, unable to do anything but watch helplessly as every orifice of Clayton’s body leaked the black and brown sludge. Clayton eventually fell to the floor of the grotto, twitching, screaming, gurgling – totally debilitated.
Gardener turned. Andy Farlow stood behind the nearest pine. Helpless, he examined the crowd, hoping to spot someone he recognized from their investigation, someone he suspected. He flipped open his mobile, called the station, requesting every available officer, SOCOs, the Home Office pathologist, and an ambulance.
When he was finished, Gardener dragged Andy Farlow from behind the pine. “I appreciate you’re not well, but this is a crime scene. I want every member of your staff to help maintain the crowd and keep them as far away from this grotto as possible. Lock all the doors and don’t let anyone leave, or let anyone in except my officers. Do you have a first aider on site?”
The manager nodded weakly. Gardener was about to ask whom when a man appeared. He was short, fat, and bald, and carried the first aid box with him. Gardener doubted that would help in the slightest. He pointed to Clayton, and the man immediately responded.
At the back of the grotto, Gardener noticed an opening in the curtain behind the sleigh. Beyond the curtain, a corridor led to the toilets. He found them empty. Other than a cleaning closet, there was nothing else. Despite the panic in the store, his footsteps echoed in the empty, silent passage. As he approached the rear of the grotto, a syringe dangling in the curtain caught his eye. A wave of cold fear passed through him. His throat dried almost instantly.
Gardener took a handkerchief out of his pocket, clasping the syringe with it before stepping back into the grotto.
Clayton lay motionless, slowly dissolving. Gardener heard popping and bubbling sounds as the compound within tore him apart. The first aid man had given up. His expression was a mixture of panic and sorrow. Andy Farlow stood by the entrance, talking to an assistant, who was trying his best not to stare.
“Stewart?”
He turned. “Jacqueline?” He guided her towards the middle of the store. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”
“Too late. I’ve already seen it. The poor man. What happened?” Jacqueline’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “What’s happened to you?”
“A long story, as always.” He showed her the syringe. “I was too late again. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve brought my aunt for a little shopping spree, but I seem to have lost her.” The minister stared wildly around the store. Gardener noticed the medical team running down the centre aisle, followed closely by Reilly and a couple of constables.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find her. I need you to go over to the front doors of the store. Eventually we’ll get round to taking a statement from you both.”
“Of course.” She touched his arm and smiled.
Chapter Fifty-eight
Gardener relived the horror of the episode as Reilly drove. They were on their way to Gardener’s home before going to see Fitz. He needed to change his clothes. “I’ve never seen anything like it, Sean.” He stared straight ahead, unable to focus on anything but the incident.
“He disintegrated in front of me.”
The vivid recreation of Clayton’s dissolving body refused to leave his memory. Gardener recalled his frozen expression, the terror in the man’s eyes moments before they left their sockets. As if he knew what was coming, yet still searched for a way to prevent it. His white-knuckle grip on Gardener’s jacket. The scream that had set Gardener’s nerves jangling. The smell.
“Any news on the syringe from Myers’ flat?” Reilly asked.
Gardener gazed at the syringe. In the car, the vile, cloying odour felt stronger. “Not yet. But that one may have been filled with curare. This one can’t be.”
“Why the change of method?” Reilly asked as he negotiated a busy city centre roundabout, choosing the exit that would eventually lead to Churchaven.
“Whoever’s responsible, they have some nerve. It’s one thing to kill a person in the comfort of his own home when you know you’re not going to be disturbed. Or on the grounds of a church late at night. But to do it in a store full of shoppers, mid-morning...”
“Seems obvious to me Summers is our man. He’s the only one we know connected to all four murders. He’s the only one who knew where Harry was going to be. He has an answer for everything we throw at him.”
“Apart from the porn.” Gardener’s brow creased. “I’d say he is too defensive when you mention porn and his film company in the same breath.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Having said that, he surprised me on Saturday. When I mentioned the DVD of the Santas, he immediately resigned his books and told us about Clayton. If you were involved, surely you wouldn’t be so cooperative.”
Reilly stopped for a traffic light. “Unless he’d engineered
