Pop Goes the Weasel

91

DC Grounds stood and stared. He had never seen anything quite like it. It was utter carnage.

Anton Gardiner had proved an elusive figure in death, as he was in life – he liked to move base constantly to keep the police and his competitors guessing. He didn’t own any property, preferring short-term rentals, so that if he did have to vanish suddenly, he wouldn’t be left out of pocket. And in the end this had provided DS Bridges and his team with the breakthrough they needed. Anton Gardiner only dealt in cash, didn’t like the trail that cheques and credit cards left, so a few hours hammering the phones, pressuring landlords into giving up the details of anyone who’d paid in cash for a short rental in the last twelve months – who might match Anton’s description – had eventually yielded a result.

The landlord had been only too happy to help, opening up the basement flat on Castle Road for their inspection. But he was as shocked by what greeted them as Bridges was. Chairs were smashed, tables turned over, the only bed lay upside down on the floor, a shredded mattress lying on top of it – it was as if someone had declared war on the flat and shown it no mercy.

In the bedroom, beneath the ravaged bed, was a dirty, brown stain that spread out in a jagged circle of at least a metre’s diameter. DC Grounds instructed one of his officers to call for a SOC team, but he didn’t need anyone else to tell him it was dried blood. Someone had bled out in this dingy room.

The stained patch of carpet was one of the few areas that hadn’t been turned over. Even here, in this tiny room, the wardrobe had been smashed up, the corners of the carpet lifted. Scanning the other rooms in the flat, DS Bridges digested these developments. Two things were abundantly clear. First, someone – probably Gardiner – had been attacked and killed here. And second, someone had been looking for something.

But what was it? And why were they prepared to kill to get it?