“Christian, born-again Christian, what’s the difference?”
“Quite a lot, if you speak to a real one. You see, the real practicing Christians see the born-again converts as part-timers – people who are not really taking the Lord and the good book seriously.”
“Well, my Gareth isn’t one of them. He goes to church every Sunday and prays every morning and night, especially for the safe return of our daughter.”
“What did he mean by his comment that ‘God works in mysterious ways’ on the night you reported Chloe missing?”
“Simply that. Everything happens for a reason, despite the fact that we can’t see it.”
“And what are your thoughts on it?” asked Reilly. “Are you a Christian, a believer in God?”
“My religious views are my own, Sergeant.”
“So you’re not a Christian.”
“What this has to do with my daughter, I’ve no idea, but if you must know, I’m an atheist.”
“Are you now? Bet that causes some friction.”
“Not at all. My husband is a very forgiving person who accepts my beliefs.”
Reilly nodded and left it at that.
“Does the name Barry Morrison mean anything to you?” Gardener asked.
“Pardon?”
“Barry Morrison?”
“No, nothing.”
Gardener felt she answered too quickly. He didn’t believe her answer. “You’ve never heard of him, either?”
“I’ve already told you. Look, if you’re investigating her murder, why are you in my house asking about Chloe and people I’ve never even heard of?”
“Because we found this photograph underneath the body of Nicola Stapleton.”
Gardener passed it over. Sally Summerby studied the photo. Her eyes filled up. “Oh my God.”
“Do you recognize the photo?”
She shook her head to indicate she didn’t.
“Or the clothes she’s wearing?” asked Reilly.
“No.” She handed the photo back to Gardener.
“If you don’t recognize it, maybe it’s been taken since she was abducted.”
“No,” replied Sally. “I don’t recognize the photo because that isn’t my daughter.”
&
nbsp; Chapter Twenty
Margaret Pendlebury glanced at her watch. It was late afternoon, and the clinic was all but empty. Dr Trent was consulting with his final patient. With her workload finished it was time for afternoon tea and biscuits: custard creams, her favourite. She’d brought a packet in with her on the way to work.
She was in the kitchen when she heard Trent’s door open and close, followed by the footsteps of his patient leaving. She glanced at the file sitting beside her on the kitchen worktop. Since she had taken the call with disturbing news earlier in the day, Margaret had been unable to concentrate on anything. She needed to speak to the doctor. She placed everything on the tray and took it through to his room.