The Winter Killings, page 3
Gardner was glad she’d been interrupted by the thespian; her apology would surely have been pathetic.
She took a deep breath to stem the inner turmoil she was feeling while the tale of this old seadog’s adventures continued in a swashbuckling, grandiose fashion. And, although the surrounding punters were lapping it up, expressing themselves with guffaws and the occasional cheer, Gardner become more and more tempted to remove herself from the pub.
But when she glanced at the sadness in O’Brien’s face again, she decided that leaving now would only intensify her disappointment and the embarrassment. So, she drank from her pint glass, hoping that more alcohol would steady her need to flee.
‘…and it was this dream that told me that the treasure… the vast treasure… had been tucked within a chapel ruin.’ He swigged ale from another of his props – a tarnished metal tankard. He purposefully let the ale run down over his chin and down his front.
Cue more raucous guffaws.
‘And naught but silence and spiders guarded it.’
While Robert mimicked the creak of the chapel doors, the skitter of the spiders and the sound of his own steps, Gardner leaned over to O’Brien’s ear and whispered, ‘Let’s go down; we need to talk.’
‘I want to watch the show,’ O’Brien whispered. She didn’t turn to look at Gardner.
I’ve hurt her. ‘Okay… after?’
‘I thought you might have somewhere to be.’ O’Brien didn’t bother whispering this time.
There was a woman’s voice behind Gardner. ‘Shhh… I’m trying to listen.’
‘Sorry,’ Gardner whispered over her shoulder, without looking back to see the offended party.
‘My hands,’ the storyteller continued, holding them up to his audience. ‘My hands, gnarled as the ancient driftwood that lines the shores of this isle.’ He turned from the audience and went around the side of the table, and to another prop: a wooden treasure chest. ‘My hands hovered above the bounty, the curse…’ He raised an eyebrow and turned to smirk at the small crowd. ‘The mystery.’
There were murmurs of excitement from several of the listeners. Gardner was desperate to move to O’Brien’s ear again and whisper more apologies. But not only would she incur more wrath from O’Brien, but she now had a frustrated patron just behind her too.
Gardner felt her stomach cramp. She dealt with the discomfort with two mouthfuls of ale.
Robert still had his hands over his fake treasure chest, and was letting them quiver dramatically, as if it was a source of supernatural energy. Gardner suddenly felt irritated by him.
She closed her eyes and took another deep breath. Give him a break, Emma. Yes, this wasn’t her bag, but her irritation was because of her own conduct this evening and not this well-meaning showman.
She opened her eyes and cast another glance at O’Brien, who still looked annoyed, and then over to Cassandra. Her hand was to her mouth as if the tension over what was in the chest was tearing her in two. Ridiculous really from someone who must have seen this performance a thousand times.
Again, harsh, Emma!
This was a family business – Cassandra probably considered it a job to help with the atmosphere. If she was kicking back at the bar, drinking the profits and rolling her eyes, wouldn’t that be more ridiculous?
Finally, Robert moved his bloody hands down to the treasure chest and traced the cheap stainless-steel latches. He suddenly looked up, wide-eyed. ‘Hear that thunder! Believe me all – the curse is real! A storm had arrived that could sink a thousand ships.’ He held a finger in the air. ‘Never again would I underestimate the power of unrequited love, and neither should you.’ He lowered his finger, took a loud deep breath and closed his eyes. ‘And then, I doubted whether I could go on. Something was not as it should be. My memories of that story. Of Captain Raphael Duarte’s head being torn from his shoulders. All semblance of God was gone from Valentina’s world. What was I doing here? At the bounty of evil?’ He flicked back one of two latches. ‘And yet I couldn’t stop myself. The mystery was too great. What had the wretched pirate queen placed in here before her final breath?’ His hand hovered over the second latch. He looked at the audience. ‘You…’ He pointed at the man he’d embarrassed earlier. ‘Would you’ve opened it?’
‘No,’ the man said, laughing nervously, and looking at his partner.
‘Not even for riches and rewards? I think the chance of the abyss may be a risk worth taking. I opened it… Do you wish to know what I found?’
‘Yes,’ the man said meekly, looking awkward. Gardner saw his partner nudge him. ‘I do. Yes, I do!’ the man said, loudly, forced to enter into the spirit of the thing before shaming him and his wife.
Gardner’s phone buzzed in her pocket.
‘Now… we must all be silent,’ Robert boomed.
Gardner took her phone from her pocket. The image from Cecile had arrived.
‘So, I flicked the second latch.’ He gasped. ‘All the while contemplating what awaited me. Jewels… gold… coins?’
Gardner had to force back a gasp of her own as she stared at the photograph of a dishevelled, emaciated man sitting on a garden wall of a decrepit terrace house, swigging from a Coke bottle. His hair was long, and he was unshaven, but it was unmistakably him.
‘Or would this lost soul, consumed by her own darkness, have left a void?’ A thumping sound made Gardner flinch and she looked up. Robert bashed his own chest. ‘My heart was thrashing.’
Exactly how I feel.
It was him. Riddick.
Her mind whirred. She didn’t know what she felt.
Relief that she’d found him?
Despair over the fact that he looked more broken than ever?
Robert threw back the lid of the chest.
Riddick was alive… he was alive… alive!
‘It was the head!’ Robert shouted, reaching into the chest. ‘The missing head… Captain Raphael Duarte’s head!’
There were murmurs of astonishment from the crowd.
Gardner leaned over to O’Brien, who looked as far removed from the tension and drama in the performance as anyone could be. ‘I’ve got to go… Sorry, something incredibly urgent—’
‘Shit… Christ,’ Robert hissed. ‘Shit!’
Gardner turned in time to see Robert pulling a skull from the chest before recoiling, releasing the grip on his prop. It fell back into the chest with a clatter.
There were more gasps and guffaws from the crowd over Robert’s revelation.
However, the image of her wasted former colleague hunched over on a garden wall completely distracted Gardner. She desperately needed to get out of here. ‘I’m sorry, Lucy.’ She turned to leave.
Robert’s voice was growing in volume. As were the number of obscenities used. ‘What the hell? What the hell is that doing in there?’
Realising Robert had clearly slipped out of character, Gardner swung back in time to see him throw himself back against the wall, staring wide-eyed at the treasure chest.
Gardner felt her instincts kicking in.
Something’s very wrong here.
But the crowd didn’t think so. They were enjoying his performance of shock and horror, clapping and guffawing.
The drama hadn’t been this good before; nowhere near. To go up so many notches in quality could mean only one thing…
She confirmed it by looking over at Cassandra. Gone were the doe-eyes and the fangirl response. She, too, was stunned.
‘That’s a real sodding skull!’ Robert shouted.
Confirmation…
Gardner marched over to the treasure chest and stared down.
Indeed, the skull was no cheap prop.
She turned and watched Robert edging around the wall, past the window, which showed the market square Christmas tree in all its glory, to Cassandra’s side. ‘That’s not mine… I didn’t put that in there…’ he shouted over to Gardner.
The noise from the crowd quietened. The penny was dropping.
She turned and saw one old couple still clapping at the table. Robert Thwaites looked like he was going to keel over from a heart attack, for pity’s sake!
And Gardner, herself, had just broken the fourth wall.
Gardner, who still had her phone in her hand, exchanged it for her badge in her pocket. She held it up. ‘DCI Emma Gardner.’
Silence descended, but people still glanced at one another, perhaps confused over whether this was part of the show.
It’d be a very random show, Gardner thought. ‘I’d like everybody to go downstairs please, quietly, and slowly. Nobody is to leave.’
‘It’s not mine!’ Robert said, plucking off his eye patch.
Gardner looked at O’Brien. ‘Detective Constable, can you stay with the remains while I make the calls?’
‘Remains?’ Cassandra gasped.
O’Brien nodded. ‘Yes, boss.’
8
Henry Ackroyd made a horrendous groaning noise.
It pulled Riddick from his semi-conscious state and he turned his head.
Beside him, Henry thrashed about.
Riddick tried to reach out, but his arm was slow to respond. By the time he was close enough, Henry’s convulsions had pitched him forward from the sofa.
There was a loud cracking sound.
He’d hit the edge of the coffee table before rolling off it onto his back.
‘Shit,’ Riddick murmured as the world spun around him. He leaned forward, but coordination was an issue, and he didn’t want to end up the same way as Henry, so he eased himself down to his knees between the sofa and the table.
He took a deep breath. Steady yourself, Paul. He exhaled and took another breath. The world was spinning, and he could so easily let himself fall back into that void, but he had to keep going. Henry was young. And I allowed this to happen.
He reached out again. This time his hand fell to one of the lad’s legs. Henry, who was lying on his back, didn’t respond.
Riddick tried shaking him but wasn’t sure if he’d put enough energy into it to register.
Damn it, you old dickhead. Move yourself.
Feeling close to vomiting now, Riddick worked his way between the sofa and the edge of the coffee table, until he had more space. He couldn’t measure the time it’d taken to achieve this, but he eventually made it to Henry’s side.
Oh God.
The gash in the centre of Henry’s forehead looked severe. Blood ran over his pale face, mingling with the white froth that oozed from the sides of his mouth.
He knew Tommy was there, watching. ‘He needs… help… quickly.’ It surprised him he got the words out. ‘Please.’
Riddick slumped to his side now beside the motionless man. He wanted to lift himself up, feel for Henry’s pulse, maybe get a phone call off to the emergency services, but the floor seemed to suck him down, not allowing him to move.
He glanced towards Tommy standing above them now, looking down.
‘He… needs… help,’ Riddick managed.
‘He’s past that,’ Tommy said.
‘Phone…’
‘Who?’
‘Help.’
‘You’re out of your mind! You’ve forgotten what’s in this house?’
Riddick couldn’t find the energy to respond. A good thing. Right now, his world may have been fragmented, but one thing was still clear. Demanding that Tommy invited emergency services to one of his main cribs was suicidal. Watching Henry lose his life was soul-destroying, but it’d surely cost both their lives if he pressed this issue.
Riddick closed his eyes, shutting out the swirl.
Tommy said, ‘Seems I was right to be concerned about this batch. It’s fried the both of you. I’ll maybe cut it some more and let Taz and Sonia give it a whirl. But you’ve worried me, Jay, with your sentiment. You know what we’ve got coming in this week.’
Riddick tried to say, ‘Sorry… everything lost focus,’ but he wasn’t sure if he got the words out. He hoped he had done. This was all he had left, and he needed it.
He closed his eyes and fell back into nothing.
9
Blind Jack’s attracted attention. Mainly from drunken locals staggering home from other pubs. Despite being below his paygrade, DI Phil Rice took on the task of waving on the rubberneckers with relish; he always enjoyed the opportunity to demonstrate his power.
The residents of Knaresborough knew Rice as a no-nonsense copper. He genuinely believed that being part of law enforcement meant that you were on one side of a great war. Although Rice would never admit to it, he believed war needed a healthy dose of testosterone, and a complete absence of modern-day bureaucracy and political correctness.
As a result, Gardner worked hard to keep him in check. She could chalk it up as a success to date. Frequently, he’d proven his hidden efficiencies.
And to be fair, the way he waved on the rubberneckers with perfect ease was commendable.
There was, of course, a notable exception. A group of off-the-rails local kids watching intently from the sides of the Christmas tree. Rice’s evil eye had no impact on the new gen, of course. They knew a more rigorous system protected them than their predecessors and didn’t know what Rice’s desired 1970s approach to policing looked like.
As Rice wielded his axe, Gardner hopped from foot to foot to keep warm, while forensics went about their business indoors. It was a small public house, after all. The fewer trampling around in there, the better.
They’d already confirmed and recorded the identity of every person in the public house this evening, and after being warned that they may be contacted over the next couple of days, they’d long since made their journeys home.
‘Are you pissed, boss?’ Rice asked, approaching Gardner.
‘I’m certainly pissed off that you just asked me that.’
‘Fair question; you were in the pub…’
She held up three fingers. ‘Three pints of ale, Phil.’ It was four, but she preferred to keep ammunition from a cut-throat soldier like Rice.
‘Ale? Really?’ He looked intrigued.
She scowled. ‘You really are from the Dark Ages.’
‘You just didn’t strike me as the ale type.’
‘This is 2024. It’s a fact that women can acquire the taste for hops too.’
He held up his hands. ‘Don’t know where you get these ideas from, boss. I just saw you as sophisticated, more of a prosecco drinker.’
‘Prosecco… sophisticated… Jesus wept. The kids bloody drink it these days!’
‘Did someone say prosecco?’ Ray Barnett said, coming up alongside his two colleagues.
‘You like prosecco?’ Rice asked.
Barnett, a tall, black DS, was a fourth dan in jujitsu, who threw weights around for fun; she imagined protein shakes were more his thing.
‘Partial to a glass… or two on a Friday,’ Barnett said and winked. ‘Why?’
Rice shook his head, looking disgusted.
Gardner snorted. ‘You’ve just shattered one of his many stereotypes. Sophisticated middle-aged women drink prosecco. Not men. And certainly not strong ones.’
‘Bollocks,’ Rice said, frowning. ‘I don’t think that. And I never said Ray was strong.’
‘Let’s not forget Phil also thinks three pints of ale is a lot for a wee lassie,’ Gardner continued, glancing at Ray.
‘Did I say that?’ Rice asked. ‘How did you work all this out? By the way I walk? Sherlock Holmes you aren’t, boss.’
Gardner kept her eyes on Barnett and raised her eyebrow.
‘No comment,’ Barnett said. ‘But I’ve requested the CCTV footage from behind the library.’
Robert and Cassandra had already informed them that someone had broken into their car behind the library while they’d been indulging in pre-show drinks at another local pub called Six Poor Folk. This, Robert believed, was the only way the skull could have ended up inside the fake treasure chest. ‘When I packed earlier,’ Robert had said to Gardner, ‘it was a plastic skull in there. Someone must have planted it after smashing the car window.’
Barnett looked at his notes. ‘And I’ve got more information on Robert and Cassandra Thwaites.’
Gardner listened as Barnett went through the extra information on Robert, who she’d only briefly questioned. He’d been rather stunned by the experience, so Gardner was planning to follow up back at his house in a short while.
Rice stopped him mid-flow. ‘He’s a commercial solicitor?’
Barnett nodded. ‘Was… yes… retired a good while back, when he was fifty-five. He’s been doing this show lark for over ten years!’
‘The man is a bloody ageing hippy!’ Rice said.
Gardner rolled her eyes. ‘He’s a storyteller.’
‘Storyteller, thespian, hippy…’
‘Being arty doesn’t make you a hippy.’
‘Maybe not,’ Rice conceded. ‘But it doesn’t really make you a commercial solicitor either. How many artistic lawyers do you know?’
‘None that I know of,’ Gardner said. ‘But I don’t have a large sample of lawyers in my friendship group, and those I have, have never disclosed their artistic interests to me.’
Rice grinned. ‘Because they don’t have any.’
‘Hmm,’ Barnett said, ‘I’ve met several lawyers who could spin a good yarn to be fair.’
‘True enough,’ Gardner said.
Ignoring the irritation on Rice’s face, Gardner requested Barnett continue.
‘Sixty-five, and Robert shows no sign of slowing down. He’s built himself up quite a name as a storyteller, employed by festivals and events. He’s branched out into making audiobooks for authors.’
‘These artistic types keep themselves busy,’ Gardner said, unable to resist baiting Rice a little. This was out of character for her; maybe, she was spreading irritation around because of how she currently felt regarding the Riddick and O’Brien situations.
She wouldn’t be sharing the revelation that Riddick was alive with these two men around her. Rice, for a start, despised Riddick. And that feeling was very mutual. Rice and Riddick had come to blows on the roof of Harrogate hospital shortly before Riddick’s disappearance. Rice was adamant he’d been there to help Riddick, who was reasoning with a murderer and flirting with danger. Riddick had held Rice responsible for the murderer’s subsequent suicide and had rained fury down on him. The murderer had been a vulnerable young man with learning difficulties who Riddick had befriended and been trying desperately to save.
