The car’s engine died abruptly with a crash and a clang as it seized up. The car then backfired, sending shockwaves through the crowd, most of whom were already backing away.
Gardener also retreated as the police arrived on the scene, urging people to let them through.
Before he stepped aside, he caught sight of the mangled, almost decapitated corpse of Warthead, trapped underneath the front wheel of the Rover.
Gardener turned and cursed, and slipped back around the corner onto Boar Lane, furious at the fact he’d been cheated of the chance to vent his anger on his wife’s killer.
Behind him, the sirens of the ambulance service wailed as they came to deal with the dead and the injured.
In front of him, a car screeched to a halt. The passenger door opened.
“Get in, now!” Reilly shouted.
Chapter Seventy-five
Gardener stepped back, confused.
More ambulances, more squad cars, and more people swarmed the accident behind him.
“For Christ’s sake, boss, get in the car,” Reilly shouted again.
Gardener relaxed. A feeling of security returned. He hadn’t recognized his colleague’s vehicle. The last thing he’d needed was to jump into a car full of hoodlums. Once inside, Gardener closed the door. Reilly made a U-turn on Boar Lane, heading out towards Kirkstall.
“Am I pleased to see you,” said Gardener.
“The feeling’s mutual. What the hell’s going on back there? Don’t tell me you’re responsible for that carnage?” Reilly glanced over. “What’s happened to your face?”
“It’s not just my face.”
Gardener told Reilly about his previous twenty-four hours. How he’d struggled to find Bob Crisp, the beating and, finally, his eventual meeting with the vagrant and the revelations he’d heard. He also mentioned Warthead’s spectacular finale.
“I knew it! I fucking knew it.”
“You knew what?” Gardener was momentarily puzzled. His body had started to ache as the painkillers wore off.
“We’ve got Summers back at the station.”
“On what charge?”
“The discs we retrieved from Myers’ flat. I watched them again last night, with Briggs. We were about to leave. I’d forgotten to switch it off, and another film started on the same disc. It was an amateur video of Warthead with a teenager in the panelled library.”
Gardener sighed. “How did you recognize it?”
“A coat of arms on one of the walls.”
Gardener fell silent, digesting the information, quietly elated that something was finally going right.
“Well done, Sean. Bob Crisp told me about the coat of arms. If you move it, a secret panel opens and leads you down a set of stairs to another room.”
Reilly left the town centre, heading toward Summers’ house.
Gardener checked the clock on the dash. It was almost two in the morning. He hoped and prayed the butler had not done anything with Chris. Assuming he was being held prisoner at the house.
“I knew that bastard was guilty,” said Reilly. He then told him about the incident at the station.
Gardener seethed inside at the thought of what Summers may have been planning to do with Chris. What he may already have done. “I hope to God Chris is all right.”
“Another five minutes and we’ll be there.”
Gardener shifted in his seat. “So, we know he’s a paedophile. Is he a killer?”
“I wish I could answer that question. I’d be willing to stake my career on it.”
“It’s always possible his employees have been blackmailing him,” suggested Gardener.
“He makes the films, they all have a fallout, and he starts killing them because they know something about him?”
“Something along those lines. The problem with that is they also stood to incriminate themselves by putting him in the spotlight.”
“Maybe they didn’t care. But I don’t hold with that one, though.”
“There’s a missing link here, Sean. I’m pretty sure he’s in it up to his neck. But there’s still one piece of the jigsaw puzzle outstanding. The curare and the plant serum.”
Both men fell silent. Gardener needed Sharp’s portfolio. Maybe the document would provide the final nail in Summers’ coffin. He also needed to contact Fitz.
Before Gardener realized where they were, Reilly had parked the car on Summers’ drive.
He eased himself out of the vehicle, pulling up on the grab handle with his left arm, comforting his ribs with his right. The silhouette of the house provided a gloomy backdrop against a clear sky.
The pruned bushes resembled a group of standing stones. Gardener was aware of an overpowering silence as the darkness closed in on him. The night had grown more chilly. A faint breeze on the back of his neck unsettled him further. Although he knew he had to go in, he was petrified at the possible outcome.
Reilly patted his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”
The front door was locked.
“Let’s try round the back,” said Gardener.
“Fuck that!” Reilly reached down and hefted a stone planter over his shoulder. He took a step back, ran at the door, and hurled the concrete figure through the glass section.
To Gardener, it sounded like a bomb exploded. The glass shattered, the plant stand disappeared, and, to their amazement, the house remained silent.
“No alarm? That does surprise me.”
“Who cares if there is?” replied Reilly.
With the door unlocked, the two men raced through the study into the library, lighting up each room as they entered. Reilly pointed out the coat of arms and moved it. To their left, a whole section of books glided silently inwards.
Gardener stopped at the opening, peering into the gloomy recess. He could smell leather and furniture polish. He breathed in, glanced upwards, his insides churning. “Please, God, let him be okay.”
Reilly found a
