IMPRESSION
IMPRESSION
Poison, murder and kidnap unsettle a godforsaken Yorkshire town
THE DI GARDENER CRIME FICTION SERIES
BOOK 4
RAY CLARK
Published by
THE BOOK FOLKS
London, 2020
© Ray Clark
Polite note to the reader
This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.
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We hope you enjoy the book.
Impression: 1. An effect, especially on the mind or feelings. 2. An uncertain idea, belief or remembrance. 3. An imitation of a person, or a sound, or an act, done to entertain.
“This is the sublime and refined point of felicity, called, the possession of being well deceived: the serene peaceful state of being a fool among knaves.”
Jonathan Swift
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Epilogue
More fiction in this series
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Chapter One
Friday 5th August
The station door burst open with enough force to smash glass.
A couple sitting on the bench in the lobby jumped and glared. A poster on the wall fell to the floor, a potted plant on the window ledge tipped over, and the desk sergeant’s wish for an easy, late-summer evening all but disappeared.
A distraught blonde and her male companion covered the distance to the counter within seconds. Her eyes were red, her face streaked with mascara. She was slim and short, with blue eyes and a hooked nose like a female Peter Pan. She wore a blue quilted jacket and faded jeans. One glance and he knew her nerves were shot to pieces. She wrung her hands together continually, twisting the ring around her third finger.
“You have to help me,” she pleaded, making a grab for the desk sergeant’s hand. “My daughter’s missing.”
The man with her said nothing. He wore a green overall with a badge bearing the name ‘Rudstons’, and Wellington boots. His flat cap complimented the image of a farmer. He held a rucksack over one shoulder. From the way he comforted the woman, the sergeant guessed she was his wife.
“What’s your name, love?” responded Sergeant Williams.
“My name?” she shouted. “Never mind my name.” She stepped back, pointing to the lobby door. “We’re wasting time while she’s out there.”
The man put his left arm around her. “Sally, try and calm down.”
“Calm down, Gareth? She’s out there. Our baby is lost. She could be anywhere, with anyone, and you want me to calm down.” She quickly pointed at the desk sergeant. “And why aren’t you doing anything about it?”
Sergeant Williams came round to her side of the counter. “Your husband’s right, love. You need to keep calm so you can remember all the details.”
“Details?” she repeated, at her wits’ end. “What details, for God’s sake? I wasn’t there.”
“What I meant was, try and keep calm so you can answer our questions.”
She was about to respond, but Williams held a finger up to cut her off. “Please, if you’ll just tell me your name.”
The woman hesitated before replying. “Sally Summerby.”
When it was clear that she wasn’t going to introduce the man with her, the desk sergeant glanced at him.
“Gareth Summerby, her husband.”
“And your little girl is missing, you say?”
“Yes. She could be anywhere.” The woman’s voice started to rise again, hysteria taking over. “Please, you have to help. You have to do something.”
Williams knew he needed to take control, otherwise they would have little chance of gaining any useful information. By chance, a WPC whose name he wasn’t sure of entered the lobby.
“Is DI Goodman in?” he asked the female officer.
“Yes, Sarge.”
“Ask her to come through, please.”
The WPC slipped back through the doors without question. Sergeant Williams asked Sally Summerby and her husband to take a seat, even though he doubted she would. Sally was too distraught to do something rational like sit down.
The WPC quickly returned with Goodman, who was immaculately dressed in a tight-fitting, knee-length grey skirt with a dark blue blouse and grey jacket. She was slim, with raven black hair and a smooth complexion. She wore little make-up other than a narrow layer of eye shadow and a touch of rose-coloured lipstick. Williams quickly filled her in on the couple’s predicament. Within minutes Goodman had them both in an office, asking another officer to make tea for all of them as the WPC joined them.
“Mrs Summerby. I’m going to ask you a few questions. Please try and stay calm–”
“Calm!” shouted Sally Summerby. “Why the hell is everyone telling me to stay calm? My daughter’s missing. She’s out there, prey to all kinds of maniacs, and you want me to sit here and drink tea and answer your questions. Why aren’t you doing something?”
“We are,” replied Goodman. “Believe me. But I need answers to some basic questions. My team will then have the information they need to plan the right course of action to find your daughter.”
The WPC spoke up. “Please, Mrs Summerby, we will do everything possible to find your daughter, but you have to help us.”
Before Sally Summerby could say anything else, Goodman asked her first question. “Can I have your names?”
“We’ve already given them to the desk sergeant,” replied Sally Summerby.
“I realize that, but please bear with me.”
Names were reluctantly given. Sally Summerby had taken to
biting her nails and fidgeting in her seat. She was very agitated, as Goodman would have expected. Gareth Summerby wasn’t.
“And your daughter’s name?”
“Chloe.”
“How old is she?”
“Five.”
“Is she an only child?”
The mother nodded.
“Where do you live?”
“Esholt,” she replied. The rest of the information came out in bullet points. “At the bottom of Main Street, the last house on the left. Near the church hall, opposite the church grounds.”
Goodman knew it. Esholt was a small village a few miles south of the A65 into Leeds, with a pub, a church, and a café. The rest of the area was residential, surrounded by farms and outbuildings. She suspected from the overalls that Gareth worked for one of those smallholdings.
“Does she have any disabilities, illnesses we should know about? Receiving medication?”
“No, no, no,” cried Sally. She slammed the palm of her hand on the desk in front of them. “Please, do something.”
Goodman continued. “When did you last see her?”
Sally turned to Gareth. “You saw her at seven this morning, didn’t you?”
He nodded.
“He starts work early. She saw him off at the gate.” Her voice trailed off as she started to weep. “You have to find her. She’s only five years old. She can’t survive out there by herself.”
Goodman doubted she was by herself. “When did you last see her, Mrs Summerby?”
“About twelve-thirty.”
“When did you find out she had gone missing?”
“Three o’clock.”
Goodman was surprised. She continued to make notes. “Where was Chloe in all that time? Where were you?”
“She’d gone to the local playground with her friend.”
“Do they normally go without supervision? Were any other parents or adults there?”
Sally grew defensive – more aggressive. “They go together all the time. And the parents take it in turn to watch. We’re not monsters, you know.”
“Where were you?”
“At home, cleaning.”
Goodman was unhappy with her answers. “What’s the name of her friend?”
Sally Summerby glanced at Goodman with a blank expression, one she couldn’t quite read. But by now she didn’t much care. What concerned her was the whereabouts of a five-year-old girl who had been out of her mother’s sight for at least two and a half hours, time enough for someone to gain a head start if she had been abducted.
“Can you tell me her friend’s name, please?”
“Masie Turner.” As if she had guessed what was coming next, Sally reeled off all the details. “She’s ten years old. Her family live on Station Road, the corner house, at the junction with Main Street.” Following a pause, Sally added, “Masie is very trustworthy. She always looks after Chloe.”
“Do you know whose turn it was to watch the children?”
Sally’s expression changed to one of embarrassment.
“Who was supposed to be looking after them?”
Sally pushed a handkerchief to her nose and continued to cry. She said she wasn’t sure.
“Has she been unhappy about anything recently, or acting strangely?”
“She’s five years old, what would she be unhappy about?”
The interview continued for another ten minutes, by which time Goodman had ascertained what Chloe had been wearing, her relationship with Sally and Gareth and her friend Masie, and her parents. Her questioning also uncovered the fact that there were no relatives in the area, so it was unlikely she had gone to any of those, and that Chloe had never gone missing before.
Goodman listed all the places the Summerbys had so far searched without success. They grew very irritated – almost abusive – when she asked if they had searched their own house. She recommended that someone stay at home all the time, in case Chloe made contact or returned.
With tear-stained eyes, Sally Summerby finally added, “Wherever she is, she has her favourite doll with her. It’s called Molly.”
“Can you describe the doll?”
Sally Summerby broke down again, sobbing loudly. “I just want her back.”
Gareth hugged his wife before reaching for the rucksack under the table. He opened it and produced a small picture, which Goodman took to be Chloe holding the doll that Sally had mentioned. She was quick to spot it only had one arm. Goodman noticed Gareth Summerby had also retrieved something else from the rucksack, but held it in his clenched fist.
“How recent is the photo?”
Goodman hoped Gareth would answer. His input so far had been scant. Instead, Sally replied, “Two weeks ago.”
She placed the photo in the folder and turned to Gareth Summerby. “Do you have anything to add to what your wife has said?”
Gareth unclenched his fist, and a crucifix dropped onto the desk in front of them.
“God works in mysterious ways.”
Chapter Two
Friday 19th August
The house in Hume Crescent was late 1940s, council built, with modernized UPVC windows and doors. From what Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener could see of the exterior, it was cream painted and in a reasonable condition, but daylight may well reveal otherwise.
Gardener glanced behind him. A number of adults had gathered – not to mention teenagers – on the opposite side of the street near a playground. A rotund woman of indeterminate age stood beside a pram. She had a toddler on one arm with a mobile in her hand. How she managed to light and smoke a cigarette and hold a conversation, all while cradling the baby, was anyone’s guess.
Glancing at his watch, Detective Sergeant Sean Reilly sighed. “Midnight on a council estate in the middle of Batley. Can’t wait to see what’s in here.”
“Tell me about it.”
Gardener turned to the PC and flashed his warrant card before signing the scene log and opening the gate. The pair walked up the path. A uniformed PC stood on the path to the right of the front door, which was open. The illuminated porch revealed old-fashioned flower-patterned wallpaper with a faded carpet, chipped skirting and a worn doormat.
Sitting on a wooden dining chair to the left of the front door, wrapped in a blanket, was a woman with grey hair tied up in a bun. She, too, was smoking a cigarette. Despite the fact that it was not cold, she was shaking and mumbling, though Gardener made little sense of what she was saying. She’d obviously been disturbed by what she’d seen. He wouldn’t be there otherwise.
“Are you the attending officer?” he asked the PC.
“Yes, sir.”
Gardener glanced at the lady wrapped in the blanket. “Did she find the victim?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know who she is?”
“Next door neighbour. That’s her chair and blanket as well.”
“Wouldn’t happen to know if she touched anything, would you?” Reilly asked.
“I don’t think so. She was well shaken when we topped up. From what I can gather, she went through the living room to the kitchen, and came straight back out again.”
“And the victim is definitely dead?” Gardener asked.
The PC nodded. “If you’d seen her, you wouldn’t be asking that question.”
Both detectives went through the usual procedure of donning scene suits before entering the house.
To the right of the porch, Gardener noticed a staircase leading to the upper floor. A door opened to the left into the living room. As he entered, Gardener detected a stale odour, but not from food; more like whoever had lived there had not cleaned up recently. A two-seater settee, and one chair with a small coffee table, were the only items of furniture. No television, only a radio. The green carpet had seen better days, as had the curtains and most of the furnishings – though they were not dirty – simply old.
“Jesus Christ,” exclaimed Reilly. He was standing by the kitchen door. They’d been partners for a number
of years. Sean had been trained in Ulster and had pretty much seen everything. His reaction told Gardener the scene in the kitchen must be bad.
Gardener joined him, glancing around the room. It was also barren, furnished with only a cooker, a fridge, a washer, and a small table and chairs. A CD player on the window ledge was lit up and working. He didn’t recognize the song; something about someone who lived in a town called Millhaven. Apparently, it was small and mean and cold, but if you were around when the sun went down, the roads turned to gold.
“You recognize this?” he asked Reilly, pointing to the radio.
“No, thank God.”
Across the cupboard doors were traces of blood spatter. A pool had formed on the linoleum floor. The table and chairs were overturned. In the centre of the room, the victim was tied to one of them, on her back. She was naked. In her mouth was a blue rose.
Gardener counted a number of wounds, any of which could have been fatal. There was no doubt, however, that the killing blow had been the bayonet, which ran through her and the chair, pinning her to the floor.
Chapter Three
Despite the problems it would cause, Gardener realized the crime scene was simple and straightforward – if there was such a thing. It was self-contained within the house, so its natural boundaries could be used to keep it shut. He needed to call his team, but wanted to speak to his partner first.
The song about Millhaven finished and then started again. The machine was obviously on repeat, which he suspected was deliberate. Someone was trying to tell them something.
“What do you think, Sean?”
“The bayonet’s foreign to the scene.”
Gardener faced his partner. “I agree. There’s not much here in the first place, but that still doesn’t fit.”
He leaned in closer, studying the corpse. He estimated her age as late twenties, but she’d obviously had a rough life, because emotional scars had taken their toll: bags under her eyes; lines on her face. Her grey eyes were open, registering the fact that she had undergone serious trauma. Through her lips he could see white teeth. She’d been proud enough to keep those clean. She had shoulder-length blonde hair, also clean. Her breasts were pert despite the damage done to them from the wounds. Between her legs she was shaved; he wondered what she did for a living.