Gardener wrapped his left arm around Chris’s neck and extended his right hand towards Reilly. “I owe you one, Sean.”
“You’d have done the same for me. All that matters is that this wee lad of yours is okay.”
Gardener nodded. “I take it you didn’t find the butler.”
“Lucky for him, no.”
Chapter Seventy-six
Gardener replaced the receiver. He joined Laura, Sean, and Chris around the breakfast table. The tiled kitchen was large and spacious, coloured floor to ceiling in different shades of grey, with a black and chrome tubular-framed table and chairs. Along with fully fitted cupboards and a breakfast bar, Gardener noticed a large, full wine cooler. Strip lighting had been installed underneath the units. The kitchen opened out onto a dark wood conservatory, with a computer and a selection of prints Laura had developed during her work as a freelance photographer.
“Good news?” Reilly asked.
“I think so. Fitz confirmed the contents of the syringe were from the plants.” Gardener grabbed a slice of toast and glanced at Chris. He seemed to have settled.
Both he and his son had cleaned up before going to bed. It had been Gardener’s first opportunity to check his injuries. He had a swollen cheek and a cut across his forehead. His chest and stomach were covered in purple bruises, some of which had turned yellow. Laura had bandaged his battered body. Gardener had insisted he neither had the time nor the inclination to go to hospital.
He had also telephoned Malcolm, informing him that he and Chris were fine. His father had been unhappy about their decision to stay with Sean and Laura, saying that he wouldn’t be settled until he saw them both for himself.
Gardener had slept with Chris in the spare double bed. Although both felt secure at having found one another, neither of them had relaxed enough to sleep soundly.
“He seems more content,” said Laura.
“At least he’s safe.”
Reilly ruffled Chris’s hair. He turned to his boss. “So, where do we go from here?”
Gardener finished eating his toast, staring out the window. The sun was up, and the garden was full of chattering sparrows. Despite being Christmas Eve, there was a distinct lack of seasonal atmosphere.
“The way I see it, Derek Summers is by far the most likely suspect. We have enough evidence against him for everything but the murders.”
“What about the plants?”
“We have to start with what we know. Who we know. That means Anei.”
Laura rose from the table. “I’ll make another pot of coffee. Chris, would you like to come and see the fish?”
“Okay.” He left the table with an understandable lack of enthusiasm.
Gardener realized his son had been through quite an ordeal. He knew it would take time to adjust. He was grateful to Laura for the diversion.
Reilly shook his head. “I’m struggling to see where Anei fits into it. I just don’t think she’s capable. I’m sure she’s over seventy. I know she has the means and the knowledge, but she isn’t strong enough.”
Gardener eased back in his chair. In the other room, he heard Laura talking and Chris laughing. It was a boost to him. “I think the best thing we can do is get back home and have a look at Colin Sharp’s portfolio. I’m still convinced it’s Summers, and the missing link we’re looking for will be in there – if Sharp has done as good a job as usual.”
Chapter Seventy-seven
Gardener observed the tearful reunion between Chris and his grandfather, appreciating how close the two of them had become. He could see how relieved Malcolm was to have them both back safe and sound.
They were sitting around the kitchen table. His father had made tea. He’d given Chris a milkshake and a couple of chocolate bars. Gardener was surprised when Chris said he was going to his room to watch TV. Spook had followed. Gardener thought it best to let his son adjust in his own way.
Colin Sharp’s portfolio was spread across the table before him. Gardener was impressed with Sharp’s work, as usual. His colleague’s dedication should be rewarded with a promotion of some description.
Gardener glanced up at his partner. “There’s no shortage of material. Our only problem is the time to go through it all.”
“Would you like me to help?” offered Malcolm.
“Thanks for the offer, Dad, but I wouldn’t know where to start you off.”
Malcolm stared at the mountain of paperwork, sifting through the small piles. As he came across a photograph, he picked it up and studied it. “I don’t like the look of him.”
Gardener stared at the picture in his hand. “Derek Summers. The photo doesn’t do him justice, believe me. He’s far worse than he looks.”
“Have you found anything that links him to the curare and the flytraps?” Reilly asked Gardener.
Gardener sighed. “No, not yet.”
“No, it can’t be.”
Gardener glanced at his father. The colour had drained from the old man’s face, leaving a pale, anaemic complexion. He noticed Malcolm’s shaking hand as he held the photograph.
“Dad? What’s wrong?”
Reilly stood up. “I’ll get him a glass of water.”
Gardener reached out to steady his father’s hand. “Dad, what is it? You don’t look well. Is something wrong?”
“I think I know who this man is,” said Malcolm, at last.
Reilly sat down, placing a tumbler of water in front of Malcolm.
“How do you know him?” asked Gardener.
“Anei once showed me a photograph of her sister Irina’s husband. He was a footballer. In the photo, he was holding a trophy. There was a report underneath.” Malcolm took a sip of the water. “His name was Sid Summers.”
Gardener and Reilly stared at each other. Gardener’s head started to spin,
