by Ray Clark
A knock on the door diverted Gardener’s attention. Steve Fenton opened it and walked in, immediately helping himself to a biscuit. Before the door closed, Frank Thornton and Bob Anderson entered as well, each carrying a folder in one hand and a coffee in the other. They, too, helped themselves to biscuits.
“What the feck’s going on here, then, open biscuit day?” Reilly exclaimed.
“Give it a rest, Reilly. You probably pinched them anyway,” said Thornton.
“That’s hardly the point now, is it?”
“Depends whose office you raided,” said Anderson.
“Yours.”
Gardener was amused by the banter of his colleagues, the first since the investigation had started, as far as he could remember. “Okay, Steve, what do you have for us on the prints?”
Fenton reached out for another biscuit, but Reilly was quicker and held them close to his chest. “Information first, son.”
Fenton turned to Gardener. “Nothing, sir. Yours are on there. And Corndell’s, I assume, because his are not on file.”
“Okay, it was worth a try. Give him a biscuit, Sean.”
“Feck off! That’s no good to us.”
“Frank? Bob? What have you got?”
“There’s a lot of information about Chaney, but I don’t suppose any of it’s new,” said Thornton. “I’ve copied some stuff and put it in the folder. Basically, it’s a rags to riches story about a bloke who was born to deaf and dumb parents. His ability to act came from miming for his parents. He went to Hollywood, but it was quite a few years before he made it big.”
Thornton seemed embarrassed by the fact that he’d found very little.
“He did make a film called The Scarlet Car, but I think the killer has used it purely as a red herring. It was filmed in 1917, and information is a bit bloody thin on the ground. I think the film rhymed with what he wanted to say, and the only reason was to point us in Chaney’s direction.”
“Despite being an icon, very little was known about Chaney,” said Anderson. “Apparently, it’s believed he once gave an interview and the only thing he said was, ‘My whole career has been devoted to keeping people from knowing me’, and with that he got up and left.”
“You’re joking,” said Gardener.
“Apparently not. He was very secretive. As I said, there was no bigger film star, but very little was known about him.”
“A bit like our friend Willy,” said Reilly.
“At least Chaney had a traceable career,” replied Gardener. “Anything on Harry Fletcher?”
“I spoke to a bloke who used to work with him at the Playhouse. Apparently, he left there and went to work in one of the Broadway theatres in New York. Anyway, he didn’t stay too long, and the last time the man saw him was a couple of years ago. He was back living in Leeds but didn’t say where, and he was quite excited about a new project, but didn’t say what.”
“What is it with these thespian types?” said Gardener. “They’re always shrouded in bloody mystery. Keep trying. He must be somewhere. If you’ve found one person who knows and remembers him, there may be others. We need to find them.”
“Before it’s too late,” added Reilly.
“Assuming he isn’t the killer,” replied Gardener. “Trace the flights, there must be records.”
“But it’s two years ago,” said Thornton.
“I know that, but we need a break before someone else gets murdered. Trace the flights, talk to the taxi drivers, someone must have picked him up. Maybe recognized and remembered where he took him. If it was a hotel, they’ll have records. There will be a trail. It’s a matter of finding it. We can’t leave any stones unturned.”
Colin Sharp interrupted the conversation as he knocked and walked in. He also had a coffee in his hand, and managed to spot the biscuits straight away. “Hey, my favourites.”
“And everybody else’s, by the look of it,” moaned Reilly.
Gardener glanced at Sharp. “Okay, what do you have?”
“Not a lot.”
“If one more person says that today…” said Gardener.
Sharp sat down in the only available chair and opened his folder. “I checked out with BT first. You might find this interesting. In the last ten years, Corndell’s only had one phone call to his landline, and hasn’t made any.”
“What?”
“He’s made no calls, and received only one.”
“Who was that from?”
“Martin Brown,” said Sharp.
Gardener glanced at his partner. “Isn’t that Laura’s friend at the university?”
Reilly nodded. “What about his mobile?”
“He doesn’t have one,” said Sharp.
“He does,” said Gardener. “He was using it when we visited.”
“Sorry, sir, according to my records, he doesn’t have one.”
Gardener was confused, but didn’t see the sense in arguing. Sharp was a very dedicated member of staff who chased up leads with a determination he’d never seen before. “Okay, patronize me. Check a little deeper, will you? How does he pay for his BT line?”
“All his transactions are done electronically. He never goes into the bank or pays a bill in person.”
“Which bank is he with?” asked Gardener.
“An independent in London.”
“Why London?” asked Gardener, astonished.
“I assume it’s because he came from London originally.”
“But surely you would change banks if you moved so far away,” pressed Gardener.
“Unless you wanted to hide something,” said Reilly. “What about an income?”
“He doesn’t have one,” replied Sharp. “But then again, he doesn’t need one. His parents left him over three million pounds, and the house.”
“How did his parents die?” asked Gardener.
Colin Sharp sorted through his notes. “His father had a heart attack.”
“Brought on by what, I wonder,” said Gardener.
“Who, more like,” said Reilly.
“I don’t think it was anything to do with Corndell. He was still down in London when it all happened.”
“Doesn’t mean much,” said Reilly. “He could still have had a hand in it.”
“Well... he could, but it doesn’t seem feasible at the moment.”
“What about his mother?” Gardener asked.
“Died in 1985. Cancer.”
“Okay,” said Gardener. That tied in with what Corndell had told them. “Anything else?”
“The only thing left for me to do is follow up the London lead, find out everything I can about his life down there. If anything’s going to give, that’s where it will come from.”
“In that case, go down tomorrow. That privately owned bank must have a previous address. His father was famous enough, try the film studios, the West End. That reminds me, Sean, check with Fettle and see whether or not his mate has any information.”
“Do you two really think Corndell is our man?” Thornton asked Gardener.
“He’s at the top of the list for now.”
“Then why don’t we bring him in?” asked Anderson.
“No evidence,” said Reilly. An air of defeat circulated the room.
“Another murder should do that,” said Anderson.
“Only if we can tie him in,” said Gardener.
“Does he have alibis for the previous two?” asked Steve Fenton.
“No, but you can’t prove or disprove what he’s said because he was home alone. And let’s face it, even if he wasn’t, who’s to know with the two disguises he’s used? Quite frankly, another murder would put us bottom of the popularity stakes, and Briggs would come down so heavy on us we’d have to reach up to tie our shoelaces.”
Gardener sighed as another knock on the door came and Patrick Edwards poked his head around the frame. “Anything on that missing limo, Patrick?”
“Not a lot,” replied Edwards. “Still hasn’t turned up. It was paid for in
cash by a man called Robert Sandell, and we’ve now found out all the documents produced were false.”
“Wonderful,” replied Gardener. “Okay, I have something else for you. I want you to check all the rental companies and find out whether or not a William Henry Corndell has hired any vehicles recently using electronic transfers from a London bank as payment. Colin will give you the name of the bank.”
“Okay, sir,” replied Edwards, still standing his ground. “Sir, that number you wanted us to check, Burley in Wharfedale?”
“Oh, yes.”
“It’s not in service anymore. When the owner sold the property and moved on, the new owner had it changed.”
Gardener glanced at the sheet of paper that Edwards had passed over. The address – a side street off the main street, seemed familiar. “Who lives there now?”
“Someone called Cuthbertson... Alan Cuthbertson.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Midday had come and gone, and with early afternoon approaching, Harry Fletcher had to try to organise the next day’s supplies for the soup kitchen. He’d been at work since six o’clock and he was bushed, having prepared and served all the breakfasts, and afterwards, helping to rearrange the furniture in the room of the big house for that night’s local council meeting. But five minutes with a cup of tea and his diary wouldn’t hurt.
Mary Phillips, one of three volunteers, was cleaning the kitchen. She’d said it was fine by her if he took a break, seeing as he started two hours before anyone else. Kathy and Sarah, the other volunteers, had left early due to doctor’s appointments.
Harry took a sip of the now lukewarm tea. He dipped a custard cream and popped it into his mouth, savouring the taste because it was the only thing he had eaten all day.
Since leaving New York, Harry had changed his life completely, starting with his name. Here, he was known as Henry Fowkes, the name he was known by on Broadway. He had a very strict diet, eating virtually nothing during the day, but finishing the evening with a decent meal. Two hours prior to supper he used his time wisely, writing in his study. After his meal, he would then spend a further two hours writing, before retiring to bed early with either a good book or his portable television.
Since returning to Britain he had enjoyed himself, but his current project was coming to an end, and he felt that he should speak to his friend Stan very soon about the whole thing. He had hoped he’d see Stan today, but he hadn’t yet shown his face.
Harry liked Stan. The first time the man had walked into the homeless shelter – which had only been three months ago – Harry had known he was the one. Stan was perfect for the part without a word being spoken. For all Harry had known, Stan could have been a deaf mute. But he wasn’t, and they had started speaking, and the more they had talked, the more he’d seen his project opening up into a bestseller. Americans loved stories about eccentric Englishmen.
Stan’s first appearance had been towards the back end of January when the weather had turned bitter. Hunched into a topcoat with the flaps of his deerstalker down, he’d crept quietly through the door, glancing everywhere, as if he was searching for someone but he wasn’t sure who.
He wore woollen mittens with his fingers poking through, and always had a pipe clamped firmly between his teeth, perfecting a Sherlock Holmes that Conan Doyle would have been proud of. There was no tobacco in the pipe; whether it was because he was trying to give up or he couldn’t afford it, Harry had never determined, and it didn’t seem that important anyway.
Stan had chosen a quiet corner in which to sit, and as Harry approached, he’d tipped his cap and then hesitated, as if he shouldn’t really be there. Harry had laid a hand on his shoulder because he felt sure that Stan would have left the table and the shelter had he not made the gesture. Harry had made tea and sandwiches and sat with his newfound friend while he consumed them. Stan’s mannerisms had reminded Harry of a typical, old English gentleman, as though he had suddenly materialised out of nowhere from that Victorian era.
Stan’s strange phobias and superstitions also suited the part. Harry would never forget the day of the big storm.
Stan didn’t like storms. That had proved interesting. Harry had closed all the doors and windows, and had insisted that Stan stay at the table and finish his meal. He would never forget the fear in the man’s eyes, and his insistence that all doors and windows should be opened at once to allow any lightning bolts to pass straight through. With white knuckles he had gripped the table, refusing to eat. When the storm had finally passed, Harry had paid a taxi driver to take Stan to wherever he felt he needed to be.
But for all that, he enjoyed Stan’s company. All he had to do now was persuade him to give up his life here. What life? Harry knew he was homeless, but homeless people lived somewhere, even if it was only a makeshift shelter at the back of the shops on Albion Street. Harry had toured the city in search of Stan, and none of the vagrants had had any information. No one knew him; neither had they heard of him. He’d checked the other shelters, but Stan had not frequented those either. Having finally found the taxi driver and asked him where he had taken the man who resembled Sherlock Holmes, the answer had been the train station in Leeds.
Harry was puzzled by that one. That was another thing about Stan: he loved his puzzles.
“Hello Henry,” said a voice behind him.
Harry turned and saw the man he had been thinking about. Stan was staring down at him, dressed in his usual garb.
Poor Stan must have had a tough life. Harry estimated his age as mid-sixties, and because he had odd eyes, his expression was one of constant torture. Not only were they different colours, one was lower than the other, and bore the marks of a nasty scar. Harry had brought it up in an earlier conversation but Stan had refused to talk about it. His skin was extremely wrinkled and leathery to touch, like the hide of a bull. But for all that, he was well nourished. Although he ate little at the shelter, the man had to be eating somewhere.
“Stan, my man, how’s it hanging?”
“Oh Henry, I’m not at all sure I shall ever catch on to your use of language.”
“You should have done by now, what with living on the streets.”
Stan removed his pipe from his lips before speaking. “One cannot change one’s upbringing, Henry. A terrible place the streets may be, but because one lives there doesn’t mean one should lower one’s standards and adopt the ways of others who do.”
“I’ve not seen you for days, where have you been?”
“Keeping low, Henry, pondering over the rising violence within the city, and wondering where a man’s to go for safety in times of crisis.”
Harry wasn’t keen on the tone of conversation today. But Stan could be like that. One time he would be all cheerful and full of himself, talking of a life that Harry wasn’t sure he had actually lived or simply wanted to. It was saddening to hear. Other times he was very philosophical, taking the world’s problems to heart. Today was going to be one of those days. Perhaps it really would be best for him to tackle Stan about a change.
“Come and sit down, Stan. I’ll make a fresh cuppa, and then I’d like us to talk.”
Stan did as he was asked, returning the pipe to his mouth. Glancing at the floor, he suddenly asked Harry a question.
“What’s with the rope?”
Harry stooped and picked it up. It was about twelve inches in length and had a large knot in the middle. “Oh, it’s nothing, just something I’m checking out for a new project.”
“What kind of a knot is that?” Stan pointed.
“I’ve no idea, that’s what I’m trying to figure out. Anyway,” said Harry, “let’s not worry about that now, you and me have other things to discuss.”
When the tea was made, Harry placed a cup in front of his friend. “I’ve brought your favourites as well. Fig rolls.”
“Praise the Lord that I should ever have found a friend like you, Henry.”
“What’s troubling you, Stan?”
“Is this to be
the subject of our conversation, what is bothering me?”
“Amongst other things, yes.”
Stan placed his pipe on the table and sighed and rolled his eyes upwards.
Harry thought again that he was so perfect for his play. It was simply a question of whether or not he could adapt to another life, and utilise what was very obviously a natural talent. It was one thing to convey expressions and mannerisms in everyday life, but to display them on a stage in front of a crowd of people was another matter entirely.
“I know things, Henry.”
“What kind of things, Stan? Come on, drink your tea and have a fig roll.”
“You don’t understand, Henry. Tea and fig rolls will not help alleviate the problems of the world.” Stan’s tone worried Harry. Despite knowing what he could be like, he had never seen him acting as weird as today. Another indication that he should make his move.
“Has something happened?”
The old man gripped Harry’s hands with a speed that startled him. “Do you not read the newspapers, Henry?”
“Which ones? What are you talking about?”
“There’s a murderer on the loose. He has to be stopped.”
“You don’t want to worry yourself about that. I’m sure the police will catch him before long.”
“I hear things on the street. The police have no idea who they’re looking for. They have no idea where he’ll strike next. The city of Leeds is no safe place.”
“When you say you know things,” said Harry, “do you mean you know things about the killer which could put you in danger?”
Stan remained silent for so long it really unnerved Harry. During the ensuing silence, his thoughts were sporadic. Was Stan’s life in danger? Did he know the killer, or something about him? “Where exactly do you stay at night, Stan?”
Stan’s glare created a feeling of depression within Harry. Their conversation was not going to plan. “The streets are unsafe.”
“Would you like to stay here tonight?”
“Is it any safer here than anywhere else?”
“Well, I’m here. There’ll be plenty of other people here tonight, we have a council meeting.”
“I’m not sure, Henry. You are too good a friend to me, I have no desire to place you in the danger I myself may be facing.”
