Reilly glanced at the photo again. “She must be the spitting image of Chloe. It fooled Goodman.”
“Not Sally Summerby, though.”
“It was never going to. Mothers know their children.”
“Which brings us back to the question, who do we have here?”
“We have to go and see Goodman, tell her the news.”
“We also need to see if any of our lads have uncovered anything in Stapleton’s past. This wee girl could still be a relative of hers.”
“Or Morrison’s.”
“His brother would have said something. If Barry had a daughter, that would have been one of the first things he’d have thought about, what was going to happen to her?”
Gardener glanced at his partner. “So, either he doesn’t know, which would surprise me…”
“Or he’s involved, and he’s covering,” suggested his partner.
“Covering what, though?”
“Let’s say she was Stapleton’s daughter, and the woman had carried very well. Maybe Morrison was the father. They have a massive row about how he’s treating her, which ends up with abduction and murder.”
“Doesn’t quite fit for me, Sean. Stapleton wouldn’t have wanted a five-year-old ruining her trade.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve heard of prostitutes who have kids and still carry on working. Some of them dope the kids with a mild sedative so they stay in bed all night.”
Gardener thought about it. “Always possible, but then I think Beryl Potts would have known. And if Nicola Stapleton had let Barry Morrison take their daughter while she plied her trade, surely his brother Billy would have known.”
“Questionable,” said Reilly. “He didn’t know about the house.”
Gardener sighed, lapsing into silence. Reilly started the car and moved off.
The pair of them visited Goodman, broke the news, left a copy of the photo with her, and asked if the SPOC could be kept in place until they all had more information. Goodman wanted to continue talking, but Gardener informed her they had another appointment.
They were now parked in the mortuary car park, following a call from Fitz.
“I suppose we’d best go and see what Dr Jekyll wants.”
“You’ve got the wrong half of the duo there, so you have.”
Both men laughed and left the car. Gardener checked his watch. It was after six, which wouldn’t please the old man. They found the elderly pathologist sitting behind his desk, with a coffee. He had a midi hi-fi on the shelf behind him, currently playing a CD from an opera.
Fitz glanced up at them. “Where the hell have you two been?”
“See,” said Reilly, “didn’t I say you had the wrong half?”
Gardener smiled.
“Wrong half of what?” Fitz asked, standing up.
Reilly strolled behind the desk and placed his arm around his shoulder.
“We’ve been working our fingers to the bone. We haven’t had a break all day, and we’ve been so desperate to get here and have a cup of that wonderful coffee from that perfect machine of yours. You wouldn’t believe how desperate we are.”
Fitz mellowed and managed a smile. So did Gardener; the Irishman was a brilliant tactician, capable of defusing any situation. The opera CD finished, and Fitz immediately pressed play again.
“So, what wonderful flavour do you have for us today?”