He peered around the room. Everything was in order. He crept forward very slowly, glancing into every corner. As he reached his desk, he bent down, slowly circling the piece of furniture. There was no one squashed into the gap behind, where he normally sat.
He turned and faced the door in the corner – the one that led into the library. Creeping slowly forward, he picked up a letter opener from the desk. It wasn’t much but it might come in handy.
As he opened the door, he had his second shock. The coat of arms was at an odd angle and the panel was open, allowing access to the film studio.
Summers was sweating profusely, his breathing heavier. His stomach rumbled and he considered himself lucky there was nothing in it, otherwise he couldn’t guarantee how long it would stay there.
Studying the library, he realized it would be impossible for anyone to hide. He had no alternative but to take the steps down into the film studio, meaning any element of surprise was now gone.
He could always turn and flee. But it would all depend on who was waiting for him. If it was that lunatic Irishman who tried to kill him at the police station, Summers would be wasting his time. He couldn’t outrun him in a month of Sundays.
No, he wouldn’t do that. It was his house and it was up to him to check and see what was happening.
He strolled to the edge of the stairs. Staring down, he could see the lights were on.
“If there’s anyone down there you’d better come out now.”
There was no reply.
“I’m armed,” shouted Summers. “The police are on their way.”
The silence was deafening.
He descended the steps, the paper opener held out at arm’s length, his other arm on the banister to steady himself.
It seemed like hours before he reached the bottom. When he did, he received his third and near fatal shock.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Chapter Seventy-nine
The surface of the table was covered with paper. Reilly and Malcolm were standing, bent forward, reading passages. Chris was still in his room.
Gardener glanced at Reilly, pleased with Colin Sharp’s dedication, disappointed by his own lack of perception.
“Got it,” said Reilly. “Derek Summers started his working life with a newspaper. Seems he was quite committed. Worked his way through the ranks. Made senior editor in ’79. A quick worker, by the look of things. He actually took over the newspaper in 1980. The report says he made his money by selling a couple of Van Gogh paintings.”
“They would have been his father’s,” interrupted Malcolm. “Anei told me Sid’s father had brought the treasure back. She said it was German. He obviously saw it as his insurance. I’ll bet his poor mother didn’t know about the Van Goghs.”
“I’ll bet she didn’t,” said Reilly. “According to the report, and the witnesses Sharp has managed to speak to, Sid Summers died of pneumonia. Sources say Derek blamed the newspaper for sending his father out to cover a story in bad weather.”
“Why would his father need to work if he had the proceeds from the stolen treasure?” asked Malcolm.
“Who knows? Perhaps there wasn’t as much as you think. Maybe his despicable son had managed to filter it away over the years, leaving the old couple penniless,” offered Reilly.
Gardener was sitting in a chair, physically and mentally worn out. His ribs were killing him. “Does it say anything about Jacqueline?”
Reilly held the report aloft. “Not a lot. She was born in 1972, but for some reason disappeared around 1985.”
“Which was obviously when she went to live with her aunt,” said Malcolm.
After searching, Reilly found another file. “Wait a minute. She went to university in 1990. From there, she attended the ministerial college in Bristol. Finally, in 1997, she started her first ministerial circuit in Cornwall.”
“Have we got any paracetamol, Dad?” Gardener asked.
Malcolm nodded, reached into a cupboard, passing two over with a glass of water. Gardener swallowed them. He was deflated by all the new information. He ran his hands through his hair, scraped his scalp, and then slammed them down on the table.
“Why didn’t I see it? All the signs were there!” Gardener raised his head, his eyes meeting Reilly’s. “It’s Jacqueline.” His tone was one of total humiliation, as if all the blame was his own.
“She had the access to the plants. She told me she’d studied biology. She even intimated how bad her relationship with her father was. He was a nasty piece of work. She told me a few of the things he’d done. She obviously chose to leave out some of the more emotionally distressing incidents. She was harbouring so much hate for him. I’m certain her father abused her. Perhaps the others were in on it as well. It accounts for her living with her aunt and taking the Romanian family name.”
Gardener glanced at Malcolm. “For God’s sake! Why didn’t I see it?”
“Jacqueline... a killer?” Malcolm seemed stunned, defeated. “No, she can’t be, son. You must have it wrong.”
“I saw her on Monday morning in the store, minutes after it had happened. She said she was with her aunt.” Gardener glanced at his partner. “Sean, ring the station, will you? Get someone to go over all the witness statements, check all the names. Tell them what they’re looking for.”
“There must be some mistake,” said Malcolm, still refusing to accept it.
After a strained silence, Gardener heard his partner replace the receiver. “They’re on to it.”
“What do we do now?” Gardener asked.
Reilly’s hard eyes softened. He shrugged his shoulders. “What are your choices?”
Gardener turned to his father. “They’re not coming back, are they? Jacqueline and Anei?”
Malcolm sighed, his expression one of defeat. “It doesn’t look
