by Ray Clark
As the senior officer, Briggs allocated the tasks. He asked Gardener’s second-in-command Reilly to interview the two stagehands on the other side of the auditorium. He then stepped outside the stage area, calling Colin Sharp over.
“Colin, take a number of uniformed officers and cover all the exits. Go to the entrance and set up tables. Sort out a couple of digital cameras for the officers, mouth swab kits, and personal description forms. I want names, addresses, and any available ID. After that, send them to a table for a DNA mouth swab and get the officers to write down all details, including what they’re wearing.”
Sharp sighed. “Looks like we’re in for a long night, sir. Are we allowed to take their DNA?”
“Not by law,” replied Briggs. “You’ll need to ask their permission, sign a form. Explain to them it’s only for this investigation. After that we’ll destroy it. If anyone gives you any trouble, call me and I’ll come and sort it.” Sharp nodded before leaving. Finally, Briggs organised a roof search with the use of a helicopter.
Moving back to the stage, Briggs asked. “Who found the body, other than the entire audience?”
“Still trying to determine whether the first person on the stage was Paul Price, or his stage manager Steve Rogers,” replied Gardener. “As soon as I got here, I checked that Leonard White was dead, then went out and spoke to the audience.”
“Where have you been since then?”
“Over there to talk to Rogers.” Gardener pointed to him.
“In that case,” said Briggs, “you stay here with Fitz until he’s completed his examination and the body is removed. I’ll interview Steve Rogers.”
Gardener and Fitz had to wait for the SOCOs to finish the ESLA before approaching the corpse. During that time, Gardener asked the sound technician to check all of the equipment to see if it had been tampered with. He requested all tapes – whether they belonged to the theatre or not – to be taken away for analysis.
Fitz eventually donned a pair of surgical gloves. “So, what happened?”
Gardener repeated what Paul Price had told him.
“Was this how you found him when you came backstage?” asked Fitz, checking each of the man’s joints.
“Yes.”
“Let’s cut him down, then.”
Gardener ordered a couple of uniforms to cut the rope from the beam but to save the knot. He also wanted photos before they made the cut.
The pathologist inspected the skin around the neck. “The rope marks on the neck don’t bear the inflamed edge of a vital reaction.”
“Meaning?” inquired Gardener.
Fitz sighed, clicked his tongue. “There are no signs of a struggle, which suggests it wasn’t suicide.”
When the body was finally on the floor, Gardener leaned nearer. “I know he’s dead, but why is he so pale?”
Fitz produced a thermometer from his surgical case, removed the actor’s trousers and underpants, and placed it inside his rectum. After a short period of time he removed it, noting the reading, before reaching into the bag for a razor blade.
Gardener felt hollow inside. How was he going to break the news to his father? Leonard White had been a close friend.
“I can’t believe all this has happened in, what...” – he checked his watch – “...four or five hours.”
“It hasn’t,” replied Fitz, slicing the right thigh of the corpse.
“It must have done,” protested Gardener. “I came to pick my father up at four o’clock. We exchanged a few words.”
“Not with him you didn’t.” Fitz pointed to the thigh. “Leonard White’s body is stone cold. The reason he’s so pale is because he has no blood. At a guess, I’d say Leonard White has been dead since yesterday.”
Chapter Four
Once the body had been removed, Gardener and Reilly decided to interview Paul Price.
The SIO glanced curiously around the manager’s office. It was small, sparsely furnished, and disorganised. A desk had been placed in the middle of the room without a moment’s thought to the symmetry. Along the left wall, Paul Price’s computer was perched incongruously on another small desk that could barely be seen due to a mountain of paperwork. A couple of wall-mounted shelves on the right contained an assortment of files without labels. The decor consisted of a carpet that had probably been left over from a production when the theatre had first opened. A pale green emulsion covered the walls. It was extremely warm, but despite appearances smelled fresh: lavender, and something Gardener couldn’t put his finger on.
Sean Reilly was sitting in the only chair available. He had a notebook and pen in his hand. Paul Price leaned forward and removed a bottle of whiskey and three glasses from one of the desk drawers.
“For emergencies, you understand,” he offered, as if excusing himself. “Would either of you two officers like a drink?”
“No, thank you, Mr Price,” said Gardener. “We’re on duty.”
The manager poured himself one before very quickly draining the glass. He then poured another, placing the bottle back in the drawer, along with the two unused glasses. Sitting back in his chair, he sighed very loudly.
Gardener closed the office door and leaned back against it, arms folded. “Has a murder ever occurred in your theatre before?”
Price sipped his whiskey, clasping the glass with both hands. He was dressed in a pale blue suit, white shirt, and blue tie. He had a large head with a round face, dark blue eyes, and a pencil thin moustache. What hair remained around the sides was still black. Gardener suspected his nose had been broken and reset, and then broken again. On the bridge of his nose, a line suggested glasses were an everyday item, but he had chosen not to wear them. His frame was abnormally thin and emaciated, and the white spots on his teeth and fingernails indicated a lack of calcium within his diet.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Over thirty years. In its 127-year history, the theatre has only had six managers. I took over from the late George Green in 1994, who’d taken the position in 1963 after his father had vacated.”
“You did say late,” interrupted Reilly.
“Yes.”
“Be no good calling him, then.”
Price didn’t reply. He merely continued to sip the whiskey.
“What are you actually responsible for, Mr Price? What do you do?” asked Gardener.
“I’m pretty much a one-man band. I look after the general running of the theatre. I book all the shows, take care of the marketing, supervise the team that works for us, oversee the finances, and I cover all the health and safety as well. It’s a very demanding position.” Price let out another heavy sigh before draining the contents of his second tumbler of whiskey.
Gardener wondered what all the sighing was about, and how many whiskies he was going to drink before the night was out; in fact, before the interview was concluded.
“I take it then that you booked Leonard White?”
“Yes. I had the details of his nationwide tour. His films were good, so I thought it would be interesting to hear him talk about his life.”
“Did you book him through an agency?”
“PMA Promotions in Manchester.”
“Did you actually know him as a person?”
“No.”
“Do you know if he was married?”
“I think he was, but I’m sure the agency will be able to supply that sort of information.”
“How much have you seen of him today?”
“Not at all.”
“Pardon?”
“I haven’t been here. I’ve had meetings all day, didn’t get in until about five o’clock.”
“And you didn’t see him then? Didn’t think to go and introduce yourself?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I wanted to, but as soon as I arrived I had a number of phone calls to make, and that took me well past six o’clock. There was little point after that. But I’m sure my staff looked after him in my absence.
”
Gardener changed topics. “Who owns the theatre, Mr Price?”
“A consortium. There are four of us who have an equal share of twenty-five percent.”
“Any financial problems?” asked Sean Reilly.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business, but since you ask, none whatsoever.” Price sounded appalled by the last question, though Gardener couldn’t think why.
“It is our business and we’re curious,” said Reilly. “Get a few money problems, you never know what folks will do.”
Price jumped out of his chair. “I hope you’re not suggesting one of my partners would be involved in something like murder.”
“You know them better than we do.”
“We’re not suggesting anything, Mr Price. We’re merely conducting an investigation, and we have to explore every avenue.” Gardener paused. “Now, back to the questions. No financial problems. Has anyone approached you wanting to buy the theatre? Perhaps someone who wants to demolish it and build a supermarket?”
Price resumed a seated position, poured himself another whiskey.
Gardener was pleased to see that he didn’t drink any.
“No.”
“What kind of a staff turnover do you have?”
“Very small. Despite the fact that it’s a consortium, we’re actually family run. All the owners are related to each other, which is why I took exception to your earlier comment.”
“You can’t think of any disgruntled ex-staff member with a grudge to bear?”
Price stared hard at both detectives. “This is not an inside job, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nearly all of the people who work for the theatre retire. As I’ve said, we’re all happy to work here.”
Gardener doubted that very much. “If you say so.”
The DI changed topics again. “Let’s talk about the general public. We all know that it can’t be easy dealing with them. People tend to complain about all sorts of things. The price of tickets, seating availability, have you experienced anything of the sort recently? Received any intimidating letters? Complaints about the standard of shows, for example?”
The manager snorted and then laughed. “You really do watch too much Agatha Christie. Do you honestly think someone is going to murder for the price of a ticket?”
Gardener had had enough of Price’s demeaning manner. “You’d be surprised why one person decides to murder another. But it doesn’t really matter what I think. The information I extract from others is far more important.”
Gardener moved away from the door, leaning over Paul Price’s desk. He spoke slowly and methodically, his anger having reached its peak.
“Now, as I’ve already said, we’re conducting a murder investigation. I don’t think you realise how important it is. So, when I ask you a question, I would like a straightforward answer, not some snotty-nosed derogatory remark filled with sarcasm. Or, for that matter, your opinions. That way, we’ll all be through a lot faster and still be friends.”
Price’s expression would have stopped electricity travelling through cables.
Gardener continued. “And where tickets are concerned, I’d like to see your bookings for the whole of this year.” He then added, “Last year as well.”
“Why?”
“So that we can check any last-minute cancellations, advanced bookings made at the start of the season for a reduced rate, see if a new customer has suddenly started appearing at Saturday afternoon matinees when he normally attends evening performances.
“You see, Mr Price, whoever killed Leonard White knew this theatre. He managed to not only get himself in here, but a dead body as well, not to mention concealing it somewhere. Perhaps he’s fooled your staff into thinking he has a connection with the theatre.
“I want to know everything about this place. Attempted break-ins, trespassers, threatening or strange phone calls, obsessive fans, mysterious events at previous performances by earlier theatre groups, everything! Whatever you know about this theatre, I want to know.”
Gardener stood back, folding his arms again. “And for that matter, I’m going to make it my job to find out everything you don’t know.”
A resounding knock on the door broke the tension. Reilly stood up, but Gardener opened it and was met by his colleague, DC Colin Sharp.
“Sir,” said Sharp. “We need you on the stage.”
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
He turned back to the theatre manager. “Well, I think I’ve outlined everything I want, Mr Price. I’ll leave one of my officers on hand to collect the information as soon as you have it.”
“Just hold on, I can’t do all that by myself.”
“Why not?” Gardener replied. “You seem to manage everything else.”
Gardener opened the door to leave, and then turned back. “Two more things. The theatre will be closed until further notice. Second, I’d like a list of all your meetings for today, names and contact numbers.”
“I’m a suspect now, am I?” asked Paul Price.
Both detectives left without answering.
Chapter Five
Albert Fettle was a small stump of a man with a rotund belly that stretched a pair of brown braces almost to breaking point. His legs were too small, his shoes too big. He was bald, had blue eyes, and wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, which he kept pushing back up his nose. His mouth was cavernous, because his teeth were small and stumpy like him. He walked with a limp, his voice was high pitched, and his accent broad West Riding. He was dressed in a checked blue and red lumberjack shirt with rolled-up sleeves and brown pleated trousers.
“Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener and Detective Sergeant Sean Reilly, Mr Fettle.”
Both men showed their warrant cards. They were standing in the corridor leading to the stage. Three of the dressing room doors were open and being searched by SOCOs.
“Aye, I remember you, Stewart Gardener. You won’t remember me, though. Caught you and your mate one time nicking wood from behind my shed.”
Fettle pointed at Gardener but chose to stare at Reilly. “He were bloody selling ’em by the bagful. Took me ages to find out who it was.” The old man smiled and turned back to Gardener. “You made good on yourself, though.”
Gardener vaguely recalled the incident and smiled. “I’m sure you must be mistaken.”
“Like hell,” replied Fettle.
“So, what have you got for us, Mr Fettle?”
From further down the corridor, DC Sharp called to his superior officer. “Sir, we’re having trouble with this door. It’s locked.”
Reilly glanced over. “Whose dressing room is it?”
“Leonard White’s.”
“Go and find a spare key, somebody must have one!”
Fettle piped up again. “Well, do you want to know, or don’t you?”
“Know what?” asked Gardener.
“Christ, Gardener, how the hell did you make a copper if you can’t concentrate on the job in hand?”
“There is rather a lot going on at the moment.”
“I saw Leonard White walk out of the building. He left the theatre through the stage door.”
“When?”
“Just after half past seven. I’d been for a leak. I wondered what the hell were going on. Then I heard a lot of noise from the theatre. Only it can’t have been Leonard White, can it? He were dead by then, so it must have been your killer.” Fettle snorted. “Bloody perfect disguise, I can tell you.”
Gardener was about to ask another question when Sharp shouted “Jesus Christ!” as the dressing room door was opened.
Reilly immediately made his way to the room. “Boss, you’d better come and see.”
“There’s never a dull moment.” Gardener turned to Albert Fettle. “Stay here, I need to ask you some more questions.” He then brushed past Sharp into the already crammed small dressing room with Fitz, Reilly, and Alan Briggs.
At the back of the room stood a table. Above that, a mirror had been fix
ed to the wall. Perched on the table were eight one-pint glasses. Each one was mostly full with a substance resembling raw liver. The bottom section of each glass, however, was a clear serum.
“What’s going on?” asked Gardener.
“At a guess, I’d say we’ve found Leonard White’s blood,” replied Fitz.
Gardener stared at the glasses, horrified. “It doesn’t look like blood.”
“That’s because it’s clotted. It’s been in those jars quite a while. Like I said on the stage, I think the victim was killed yesterday. And that’s not all,” said Fitz. He pointed to the wall above the mirror.
The colour of the scrawl was slightly lighter than the congealed blood, but Gardener suspected that’s what had been used to write it:
For long weary months I have awaited this hour.
Chapter Six
Gardener was standing in the garage, staring at the stripped Bonneville motorcycle.
The place was a tip as usual, with spare parts all over. A variety of engine parts sat in a cardboard box, transmission parts in another. At least he hoped they were, and not mixed up. Two wheel rims leaned against one wall, ready for cleaning. Almost every other part of the bike was in a random location he was yet to recall. There were photocopied pages of the service manual tacked to every wall. He was pleased that he’d eventually sent the frame to Jeff Harrison – the enthusiast he’d met in Rawston – to have it professionally cleaned and protected.
His CD player was blaring out Holding Out For A Hero by Bonnie Tyler, the excessive drum rolls reverberating around the small enclosure, rattling the door and anything else that was loose. He could feel the beat on the floor under his feet.
He allowed himself a brief moment to think about Sarah and that fateful night in Leeds. She had been holding out for a hero – her husband – but he couldn’t find the necessary superpowers to save her. He hadn’t felt like a hero then, and he didn’t now.
