by Ray Clark
“I’ll not argue with that summary,” she replied. If her expression was anything to go by, she must have left her enthusiasm back home in the Lake District. Her answers were blunt, emotionless. “But you’re talking from a personal point of view,” she continued. “I shared his home. Your view is from the public eye. As you say, a fine actor, well liked on the silver screen. Off screen, not the husband I’d hoped for.”
Gardener thought back to what his father had said. Val White certainly had a talent for making people feel uncomfortable. Despite the heating, there was a distinct chill in the atmosphere.
“If that was the case, why stay together?” asked Reilly.
“I had my reasons.”
“Money being one of them, I shouldn’t wonder,” he said, cutting to the chase.
Val stared at him. His comment had hit a nerve. “Maybe.” She maintained her self-control. “You’re entitled to your opinion, cock, it’s a free country. Not everyone’s relationship runs to what’s expected.”
Gardener sensed a real difference of opinion building, not to mention an instant dislike between Val White and his partner Sean Reilly. That was nothing new; most people didn’t like his abrupt manner. He had an unerring ability to see through people. He had an excellent technique for ruffling feathers and obtaining the information he wanted when interviewing.
“So, there is something you can tell us,” continued Gardener. “Why wasn’t he the husband you wanted?”
“My home life was what I made it. He was never there. When he was, he might as well not have been. We hardly ever talked, rarely went out as a couple, unless it were a social function of some standing. Quite frankly I played second fiddle to everything, especially his life on screen. The film industry was his mistress.”
I wonder why, thought Gardener.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” said Gardener, eager to maintain a better balance. “Tell me how you met, where you went from there. I need to build up a picture. Someone didn’t just kill him, they went to great lengths to make a public spectacle out of an extremely gruesome murder, which suggests an enemy, and a very personal one at that.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
“Why?” Gardener asked.
“He was pompous. I’ve known people stop him in the street for an autograph, and he’d turn ’em down flat. Nothing and no one ever seemed good enough for him.”
That wasn’t the impression his father had given Gardener, but then again, he wasn’t married to the man. You had to be much closer than a friend to claim you really knew someone.
“It would take more than a disgruntled autograph hunter to do what was done to your husband.”
Val White finished her tea and poured another without offering Gardener or Reilly. If she had been a party to all the gruesome details, she was not letting on. “I dare say. He was born in Blackpool in 1940. He had three sisters and one brother. They’re all dead. He left school at sixteen and joined the RAF. After leaving the services, he landed a job in the theatre. A talent scout spotted him in 1959, and he went down to work London’s West End. He was there until 1964, then he landed a small part in a film.”
“All sounds very condensed.”
“It’s short and sweet because I don’t know a great deal about his life before we met.”
“Where and when did you two meet?”
“I think it were the late Sixties, because by then he’d settled into films at Hammer Studios. But he’d taken a part in a play back in the West End. The whole thing went on tour and we met here, in Leeds. I went to see the play with a friend. She had backstage passes, and Leonard and I met at the party thrown afterwards. It was the last night, you see.”
“What first attracted you to him?”
“He was very confident, knew what he wanted out of life, outspoken... and he had money.” As Val White had made her last comment, she smiled at Reilly. “Six months later we were married and bought our first home.”
“Where?”
“Horsforth, on the A65 going out towards Rawdon. You can’t miss it, big grey house set back from the road, black and gold wrought iron gates guard the arched entrance, grounds full of poplar trees.”
“My father mentioned that, but he couldn’t remember the name. Can you remember who you bought it from?”
“Not really, although the name Ashington rings a bell. I think that’s what it was called, Ashington Manor.”
“It’s not that important. I suppose I’m clutching at straws, trying to find a link where there isn’t one. What happened next?”
“We stayed up here in the house for a couple of years, but then the film bug got him again. He went back to Hammer sometime around 1966 to work with Christopher Lee in one of his Dracula films. And he stayed there for the next ten years. I hardly saw owt of him.”
“Any family?”
Val White took a sip of tea and lit a fresh cigarette. “No.” Her expression softened. “I would’ve liked a couple of kids.”
“Judging by the circumstances in which he died, he must have made an enemy for himself. You said it didn’t surprise you. Can you elaborate?”
“I’m not sure I can, cock. I’ve no idea who he saw and what he was up to in the ten years he was at Hammer. I’m basing my comments on his attitude.”
“Did your husband ever conduct any private business deals, either in or out of the film world?”
Val White was obviously thinking about the question as she inhaled deeply on her cigarette and blew out smoke rings.
“None that I’m aware of.”
“There’s nothing in his past that you can think would generate such a callous act of revenge?” pressed Gardener.
“We’ve all got skeletons, Mr Gardener. Just because I can’t think of anything doesn’t mean they’re not there.”
There really was very little to go on. Gardener had a conflicting picture. According to his father, Leonard White was an icon, a straight man whom you could trust with your life. He felt the same way about his father. Whatever the old man had told him, Gardener had no reason to distrust. But then, had he really known Leonard White?
As for his wife, she couldn’t abide to be in the same room. Why was that? What was she hiding? What had Leonard White done that had so turned her against him? He needed to find the root of the problem. “So, what happened after Hammer?”
“He sort of retired. We had enough money for him not to work again.”
“But he did work again, correct?”
“Oh, aye. He couldn’t help himself. He formed part of a local watch committee here in Leeds.”
“My father was on the same watch committee.”
“Really? What’s his name?”
“Malcolm Gardener.”
“My God! Are you Stewart? You always were a good looker.”
Gardener blushed, but the name drop apparently proved effective. Maybe now she was going to open up, say what was really on her mind.
“What a small world. Well, I’m pleased to see you’ve made something of yourself.”
Eager to continue, Gardener repeated his point. “The watch committee, what can you tell me about it?”
“Not a lot.” Her attitude had softened. “I was never that involved.”
“Did you meet the other members?”
“I did. There was your dad, and a bloke called Fletcher. I think he was a writer. No idea where he is now. And then there were Jack Harper; don’t know what he did. A historian, something like that. I don’t know where Fletcher is, but Jack Harper was killed in a car crash a few years back.”
“Yes, my dad mentioned that, he just couldn’t remember their names.”
“Oh well, there you are, then. Something’s come out of this morning.”
“There was nothing involving the other members of the committee that may have caused ill feelings towards your husband? No scandals? No major disagreements?”
“None I can think of, but I’m sure if there were, your dad would remember.”
/> Gardener was beginning to feel frustrated. Despite the fact that Val White hadn’t liked her husband, she had still not provided any real evidence, or a reason to kill him. “What about the years after the watch committee?”
“We sold the house in about 1979 and moved to the Lake District, where I live now. Leonard continued working in theatre until he officially retired.”
“Who did you sell the house to? Can you remember?”
“I certainly can. It was one of his friends in the film business. A director. Corndell, his name was.”
“Do you know if he still lives there?”
“No, he doesn’t. We had a letter from his wife, apparently he died four months after buying the house.”
“So she might still live there?”
“It’s possible, she’d be getting on a bit now, though.”
Gardener glanced at Reilly. “It’s worth a visit.” Then to Val he said, “I take it then that your husband came out of retirement again.”
“A couple of years back, playing small parts in small theatres. Earlier this year he was persuaded to go on a national tour to talk about his life in films.”
“Who persuaded him?”
“His agents, a company in Manchester called PMA.”
“How did he feel about that?” asked Gardener.
“He loved it.”
“So, it wasn’t something he was forced into doing because he needed the money?”
“You must be kidding, cock. Leonard was worth a fortune. Money were the last thing on his mind. He did it because he loved it.”
“Where was he staying for the Leeds gig?”
“Same place he always stayed while he was here, The Manor House in Skipton. Big luxurious place on the road going out to Keighley.”
“Same place? Was he a man of routine?”
“I wouldn’t say so. He liked to do certain things in certain ways.”
“Such as?”
“Well, it was more when he went on stage, really. He was very superstitious. Most thespians are. He would never have live flowers on a stage, something to do with flowers having a short life, and it would reflect on the performance. He didn’t like whistling on stage. That was to do with the early days of theatre, when dock workers were often scenery change men and whistle calls went wrong. But other than that, no.”
“So, he never had a cup of tea at the same time every day, or did anything else at a certain time in a certain way because that’s the way it should be done?”
Val White thought about the question. “Not that I can recall.”
“When my father came to see him last week, he said that Leonard wasn’t himself. He seemed worried about something, and that you wouldn’t understand. Any ideas what that might be?”
“Like I said, we didn’t get on very well, we didn’t talk much. If he did have a problem, he never told me about it.”
“You obviously knew him pretty well, you’d been married a long time. Despite not getting on, any reason to think he’d been acting strange lately?”
“No.”
She’d answered a little too fast for Gardener’s liking.
“Who checked his post while he was on tour?” he asked.
“Well, I did, of course.”
“Nothing unusual there? No threatening letters, or phone calls?”
“No. His post was mainly fans wanting signed photos, asking the usual questions. Would he ever go back into films? Was his stage show coming to their area? We had the odd bill, but there were nothing that carried any warnings about him being killed, or blackmailed, or anything else.”
Reilly gave her time to sip her tea and take a drag on the cigarette before his next question. “Where were you last Thursday night, Mrs White?”
“Come again?” Judging by her expression, Gardener suspected she was puzzled by the question, as if Reilly had no right to ask her about her private life.
“It’s a simple enough question,” retorted Reilly. “Where were you on the night your husband was murdered?”
“Back home in Kendal.”
“By yourself?”
“No.”
“Who were you with?” Reilly persisted.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“We would like to establish your whereabouts,” said Gardener. “Do you have an alibi?”
“You think I murdered him?”
“No, we don’t think that,” replied Gardener. “But unless we can eliminate you from the list of suspects...”
“Why the hell would I murder him?” demanded Val White.
“He was worth a fortune,” said Reilly.
“And it were all mine, alive or dead.” Val White stubbed out one cigarette and then immediately lit another.
“But we don’t know that, do we? For all we know, you arranged to have him murdered because he wasn’t prepared to leave you all his money. You made it plain that you didn’t get on.”
Gardener noticed her mood switch very quickly. “That’s as maybe, but I’m not a murderer. I was at home in Kendal, all night.”
“All night?” asked Gardener.
“Yes.”
“But not alone?” questioned Reilly.
“No. I was with a man called Anthony Thompson, if you must know. He’s been my lover for at least ten years.” Val White smiled. “Well, seeing as you want to know everything, your perfect Mr White wasn’t very good in that department.”
Chapter Twelve
It was late. Gardener was tired and hungry and keen to start the incident room meeting.
The whole team was there, not to mention a number of local PCs for support. They’d all pulled together and done an excellent job preparing the incident room. The bulletin board was littered with crime scene photographs. A table in front of the board contained items of evidence in clear sealed bags. Briggs opened the meeting.
“Right, let’s have some order. I know it’s been a long day and we’re all tired, but we have quite a few things to talk about. Stewart will take over, he’ll tell you what little we know and what actions need addressing.”
Gardener stood up. Dispensing with formalities, he went straight in. “Leonard White’s death is a bit of a mystery. We think he was alive and well on Friday. He was not due on stage at the Grand Theatre until Saturday, but we suspect he was picked up early from his hotel and taken somewhere secluded, given a sedative, and his blood drained. The next time anyone saw the actor, he was dangling from a rope in front of his audience, despite already being dead. In his dressing room, we found eight glass jars of what looked like raw liver. Although Fitz is still waiting for the results, there’s no reason to think it wasn’t White’s blood.”
Gardener paused to take a sip of water. “Sean and I interviewed his wife Val this morning. She gave us almost nothing to go on. By all accounts, Leonard White was the conscientious type who went to work, did his job, came home, put his money in the bank, and enjoyed what he did without creating enemies... or so she says.
“She can’t think of anyone who would want to kill him. She knows of nothing in his past to suggest otherwise. Checking his career will be a big job because he’s travelled all over the UK, if not the world. We need to ferret out his friends, if he had any locally. Check his bank accounts, insurance policies, see if anyone stood to gain anything from his death aside from her. What Val White knows may be open to question because her husband spent so much time away from home.
“Include her in the search. I want to know where she goes, what she does, who she sees. Despite the fact that Sean and I don’t like her, neither of us suspects she actually murdered him; or for that matter, had him murdered.”
Thinking about the interview, Gardener was unhappy. He wasn’t sure who or what to believe. The fact that she disliked her husband was obvious. Why was another matter. Whilst she was probably innocent – having said everything he had was hers, dead or alive – she was still a suspect, though he had no doubt her alibi would check out. She had given no indi
cation of bad business deals, people crossed or enemies made, but something in the man’s past must have triggered that attack.
Malcolm had painted a different picture, and he was quick to realise that it could affect his father and the remaining members of the watch committee, should that eventually prove to be the connection.
“Before we spoke to her this morning, I had a rough idea where the couple had lived when they were here but little in the way of details. Val White thinks the house was called Ashington Manor. Might have a different name now. It’s out on the Horsforth Road towards Rawdon, big grey house set back from the road. Someone please check that out. Find out when White bought it, who from, and how it was paid for. And who lives there now.”
Gardener updated the ANACAPA chart as he went along. The whiteboard was full of straight lines and arrows pointing all over the place; it resembled a map of the London Underground already.
“So, there we have it. Just because his wife doesn’t know about any misdemeanours, or claims not to know, someone does. One thing we have picked up is that he formed part of a watch committee between 1976 and 1979, a group of people who vet films and decide on the certificate before they’re shown locally. It’s an area worth concentrating on. My father, Malcolm Gardener, was on that committee. The only other surviving member apart from him is someone called Harry Fletcher, at the time, a local writer. He shouldn’t be too hard to find. Look close, dig deep. I can’t help wondering if there was an incident connecting the watch committee.”
“Has your dad said anything, Stewart?” asked Briggs.
“Nothing that helps us with the investigation. It’s all been a bit of a shock.”
“And he can’t remember anything involving the watch committee?”
“No. He couldn’t even remember the names of the other two. But, as I said, I don’t think he’s on top form.”
“Okay, so let someone else take a statement from him when he’s calmed down a little. One of our lovely WPCs, maybe? I’m sure he’d like that.”
Gardener nodded and continued. “Val White gave us another lead. Her husband always stayed at a hotel called The Manor House in Skipton. Sean and I will be going there tomorrow. I’d be surprised if we didn’t have a few leads to follow after that.”
