Rather unsurprisingly, Gardner didn’t sleep well.
She gave up completely at 4 a.m., and then opted for a run along Waterside at 5 a.m. while the sun was rising.
A sleepless night and too much wine weren't conducive to an athlete’s lifestyle, but she wasn’t trying to clock up serious miles, or ridiculous speeds. She had two aims. To shift some of the weight she’d put on since Collette’s passing, and to de-stress following the revelations about Riddick, and the news of her sociopathic brother’s release.
There was a car park opposite the entrance to Waterside. She didn’t bother with music, but had her phone pinned to her arm just in case someone tried to call her. She was also tracking the route.
There was no coincidence in her choice of run; Bradley’s killer had been here somewhere on the night of his murder.
She started at the Ugly Duckling Tearoom, grateful it wasn’t yet open; a hot coffee and a warm Danish would probably have been one temptation too many. She then crossed over Bond End, which was effectively a large hill that led up into the town, eyed up the Worlds End pub, which was also, fortunately, closed, and broke into a sprint.
If you could call an eleven-minute mile a sprint.
She gazed over the Nidd as the sun continued to break the darkness overhead. The river, adored by the locals, meandered along, peacefully, glittering under the first of the day’s rays. The fauna and broad-leafed trees that lined the banks were enjoying the spring weather, both swelling and blossoming. Rowing boats, from five-seaters to ten-seaters, lined the bank, ready for the punters to descend.
She passed rows of thatched housing on the right side, perched on the riverbank. On her left, were larger, impressive houses pushed further back at the end of long driveways. Some were raised high, allowing them staggering views of the Nidd. There were also large craggy cliff faces imposing themselves on the beautiful gorge.
Did the killer walk this way? If so, someone saw him. There were houses, CCTV cameras outside the numerous quaint cafés. It was only a matter of time before Barnett and his team identified him.
She thought of the hooded figure arguing on the phone.
Was that you?
She paused, gasping for air, beneath the eighty-foot viaduct. She looked up at the stone structure that took away the breath of many an observer. She didn’t quite get it. A glorified railway bridge in her opinion. The area around it was awe-inspiring, and she certainly ‘got’ the staggering view from the castle grounds, but she couldn’t help but feel that this element was overrated.
Mind you, she felt like this about all man-made structures. Being from Wiltshire, she lived for the greenery. And this place did have it in abundance.
She continued along the killer’s potential route until she reached the foot of the steps that wound up to the castle. She recalled Barnett’s explanation. From this point, there was no more CCTV, at least no more working CCTV, until Bland’s Hill. So that hooded figure could very well have continued alongside the river at this point into irrelevance.
Alternatively, he could have turned off and walked up these steps to commit murder.
She started to run up the steps, but when it became very clear that they were far too steep for such a gung-ho approach, she slowed. When she reached the top of the steps, she was out of breath despite moving at a snail’s pace for most of it.
Okay, Emma. You are cutting down on the booze, and you are getting fit!
Still gasping for air, she looked at the fourteenth-century crumbling keep. She touched the blue-and-white police cordon which led right around the viewpoint beside the keep. It should keep people off the scene until SOCO were happy that they had harvested all they could.
She looked at the yellow markers. Number one for the used condom. Number two for the footprint on the patch of mud.
She threw a glance over at the shade behind the keep where Bradley Taylor had ended his days. Then, she turned to face the staggering view again.
The clouds had cleared now, and the sun burned heavily in the sky.
She watched a train soar over the viaduct and made a promise to herself to do that train journey when this was all put to bed.
She reached for the phone in her pocket and contacted Barnett first.
‘Ray, briefing is cancelled. I want you and your team down on Waterside first thing. Our killer walked that route. I can feel it. Do what you have to. Pound on the doors until they’re hanging off. Scrutinise every person picked up on CCTV. Find out who the hooded chap is. Widen CCTV as far as you can. We will reconvene at six tonight in Harrogate.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Also, the press. The Viaduct Killer? Who did that? Any ideas?’
‘No, boss. It didn’t come from me or anyone in my team, I assure you.’
‘Are these leaks common?’
‘Not really. Chief Constable Marsh runs a tight ship.’
‘Any idea who could have spoken to Marianne Perse?’
A pause. ‘No, boss, sorry.’
Being careful, eh? Fair enough, no one likes a snitch.
During her sleepless, drunken night, she’d taken the liberty of inputting the numbers of important members of her team into her phone. She phoned them to inform them that the briefing would only be once today, and to also set them relevant tasks. This included: visiting the local school and fleshing out Bradley’s background; preparing detailed statements from all of his close friends; interviewing the bar staff working at The Crown Inn; interviewing, again, the aggrieved pizza takeaway owner, Marco Russo. She also let the antagonistic DS Phil Rice loose on Bradley Taylor’s criminal history. He was grateful for the responsibility. She wondered if he was usually overlooked. Wouldn’t surprise her.
Then, she phoned Riddick, her heart slumping in her chest as she did so. Today was the day she’d be having a conversation with him about what she’d found out from Barry, and it filled her with dread.
‘Boss.’
‘Morning Paul. Briefing is cancelled. I want to meet for coffee. When’s the earliest we can do that?’
‘You’ve finally been online then?’
Well, my husband did. And it cost me a decent night’s sleep. ‘What’s the earliest, Paul?’
‘Seven a.m. Town square. Caffè Nero. It’s opposite Blind Jack’s statue.’
From beside which, Bradley potentially contacted someone for a late-night rendezvous, she recalled.
‘Okay,’ Gardner said, trying not to sigh as the anticipation of their conversation weighed heavily on her.
‘But I warn you, boss. They don’t do soup bowls of coffee in there.’
‘I’m aware of what Nero sells, Paul. I’m from Wiltshire, not the Outer Hebrides.’