by Ray Clark
“Nonsense, you’re worried, and I’d like to help. And there’s something else we can talk about tonight.”
Stan picked up the empty pipe and puffed on it, as if it contained tobacco. “What?”
“My work here is nearly done, Stan.”
“Are you leaving?” Stan’s eyes widened and his grip grew tighter, and it was only then that Harry realised his hands were still coupled to those of his friend. “You can’t leave! Where will I go, who will I talk to?”
“Well, that’s just it, Stan. Where I’m going, you can come, too.”
“What?” His friend seemed horrified by the suggestion. Yet only seconds ago, he had feared for his life on the streets.
“I’m going back to New York. I want you to come with me.”
“To New York? Are you out of your mind? I can’t go to New York, it’s less safe than here.” Stan stood up and abruptly let go of Harry’s hands. “Besides, I don’t know anyone in New York. What if they don’t like me? Or I can’t make friends? What shall I do then?”
“Stan, stop worrying and calm down. You’ll be with me.”
“Doing what, for heaven’s sake?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” replied Harry.
Stan made for the door, knocking over a chair in the process. “I can’t. I just can’t.” He turned to Harry. “Don’t you realise, Henry, here is all I know? I may not have much of a life, I may be in danger, but I know here. We drive on the right side of the road. We don’t eat pancakes smothered in syrup for breakfast. We drink Earl Grey tea, not coffee in Styrofoam cups...”
Harry thought he had stopped but the barrage continued. “We are civilised human beings.” He pointed a crooked finger at Harry. “We don’t carry guns.”
Harry sensed the man was physically distraught and suspected the situation was about to spiral out of control when Mary Phillips came into the room. Her appearance momentarily calmed Stan down.
“Is everything all right, Mr Fowkes?” asked Mary.
“It’s fine, Mary, Stan’s just a little worried about something. But I’ve asked him to come and stay here tonight, haven’t I, Stan?”
His friend hesitated before replying. “If you’re sure I’m not intruding.”
“Don’t be soft, man.” Harry turned to Mary. “Can you make up a spare bed for me?”
“Of course I can.” She turned to Stan. “You’ll be more than welcome, love.”
He tipped his deerstalker. “If you’re sure it’s no bother.”
“None at all,” said Harry.
He tipped his hat once again and bowed. “I must be on my way.”
“Where are you going?” asked Harry.
“There are things I need to attend to, but I shall return. And only if you are sure.” It was a point he kept making.
“I’ve said so. You stay here tonight, we’ll have a meal and a talk, and I’m sure everything will seem much better in the morning.”
“You’re very kind.” He stepped back into the hallway. “Till tonight, Harry.” His friend was gone in an instant.
“That’s odd, Mr Fowkes,” said Mary.
“What is?” asked Harry, clearing away the pots into the kitchen.
“He just called you Harry.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Despite Reilly having made a little more effort with his attire, he was still dressed in denims. Laura wore an expensive two-piece suit in emerald green with matching jewellery. Gardener, however, had once again used his son as a guide. He was wearing a plain black jacket tailored by Pinstripe, a midnight blue Lee Cooper shirt, and a pair of bleached black Koman original vintage jeans imported from the United States. He wasn’t convinced, but Chris told him they were in. More than half the students must have thought so, because they had glanced in his direction as if he played a part in the events about to unfold.
The stage had been prepared to create the perfect ambience to an evening which he suspected would be full of surprises; the fact that Corndell could actually act, for one. Two blackout curtains had been used to maintain the secrecy of what lay behind. There were speakers either side, positioned top to bottom. A fog machine belched out a fine mist at carefully timed intervals, and the lighting created an eerie silhouette of a sinister figure, rising up and down on the surface of the curtain. The background music was Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells. The idea was clever, but Gardener was unable to concentrate fully because of what had been said at the meeting earlier in the day.
He turned to Sean, noticing that Laura was deep in conversation with the person next to her. “Did you manage to find Cuthbertson, Sean?”
“No. Called him three or four times, and then took a car round his place. Neighbour said she hadn’t seen him for a couple of days, which was unusual, because if he ever went anywhere for long, he normally left her a key to look after the place.”
“Has she gone round to see if he’s okay, or still there?”
“Only once. She was out in the garden and heard his phone ringing. If he was in, he never answered. After that I drove round to Ruffin Street to Madame Two-swords. They haven’t seen him for a couple of days either.”
“I don’t like the sound of this. You don’t think he’s done anything stupid?”
“Like topping himself and leaving a suicide note to say that we’re responsible because we wouldn’t leave him alone? It’s a possibility.”
“I wasn’t actually thinking of that. More along the lines of fleeing the country. Have you tried the shop?”
“Yes, still closed. I don’t think he’s left the country, boss. I’m sure the neighbour would have seen him bundling a suitcase into a taxi. She didn’t strike me as the type to miss anything. We should probably check the airports anyway.”
“Like we really need this right now,” said Gardener. He changed the subject. “Anything on the rental companies?”
“Not yet, but that’s a big job, so it is.”
Gardener leaned further forward, noting that Laura was still talking. “Do you think she’ll miss us for a few minutes?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I thought we might pay a visit to our friend’s dressing room, seeing as we’re all in the same building at the same time. We may not get another chance.”
“It’s a good idea, but I think you’d achieve more if you went alone,” said Reilly. “I don’t think he’ll talk anyway, but if he sees both of us, we’ll have no chance. What do you think he’ll say now that he didn’t before?”
“Nothing, but I’d just like him to know we’re here. And while I’m at it, I’d like a word with Martin Brown. I want to know what time Corndell arrived, and how.”
“I’ll talk to Martin,” said Reilly.
“Okay.” He watched as Sean leaned towards Laura and had a quick word in her ear. She glanced around, and then pointed to a man on the far side of the stage talking to one of the students, which he took to be Martin Brown.
Gardener and Reilly left their seats, shuffled to the end of the row, and down to the stage where Martin Brown’s conversation was coming to an end. He smiled and politely nodded as the student walked off.
Down as close to the stage as he was going to be, Gardener felt it was much warmer, and wondered whether or not it was an effect of the lights.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” asked Martin.
“Maybe,” said Gardener, flashing his warrant card. “We’d just like to ask you a few questions.”
“Has something happened?”
“We’re interested in Corndell.”
Martin Brown wasn’t at all what Gardener had expected. Standing a little over six feet, he had mousy coloured hair in a style more erratic than most of his students. Perhaps he hadn’t combed it today. He wore a beige shirt left hanging out of his denim jeans, and a pair of loosely fastened brown loafers. Despite being born and bred in London, there was only a trace of an accent. He was slim, and had one of those postures that could easily be mistaken for a man
who preferred other men.
“You could have picked a better time, he’s on stage,” he replied, glancing at his watch. “He is due on in ten minutes, and I have to announce him.”
“It won’t take long. How and when did he arrive here today?”
“I really haven’t the faintest idea.”
“I thought you ran the entertainment around here,” said Reilly.
“I do.”
“So, how come you don’t know what’s going on?”
“Because I have a lot more to do than keep my eye on who comes and goes and at what time.”
“You must have some idea,” said Gardener, eager to return to the point.
“I believe it was around four o’clock. I wasn’t here myself. Naturally, I would assume he arrived by taxi.”
“I wouldn’t assume anything with this man,” said Reilly.
“What are you trying to imply?” asked Brown.
“Nothing,” said Gardener. “We’re just making sure you answer the questions correctly and to the best of your knowledge, not with what you think you know.”
Martin Brown glanced at his watch again, seemingly more agitated.
“So, did he arrive by taxi, or didn’t he?” pressed Gardener.
“Just a minute.” He walked over and consulted another colleague. On his return, he had better news. “Yes, he did arrive by taxi; just after four o’clock.”
“From where? And do you know which taxi firm?” asked Gardener.
“Look, is this really necessary? I do have a show to present.”
“We wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t,” said Reilly.
“Aren’t you Laura’s husband?”
“Now that is an unnecessary question,” replied Reilly. “But for the record, yes. So, can you tell us where he was brought from?”
“No, I can’t. I assume, rightly or wrongly and quite frankly I don’t care, his home in Horsforth.”
“I’d like to go backstage and have a word with him,” said Gardener. That statement took Martin Brown one step closer to madness, or so his expression conveyed. “Are you kidding me? The man is about to go on stage and present a show. Have you any idea of the kind of pressure he will be under?”
“Not as much as me,” replied Gardener.
“I don’t think it would be wise.”
“I’m not really interested in your opinion, Mr Brown. And whether or not you like it, I am going behind that curtain and I am going to have a word with your client.”
“Are you here on official business?”
“In what capacity?” Gardener asked.
“Police capacity. Has Mr Corndell done anything wrong?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Then, I don’t see any reason why it can’t wait until after his show. And before you ask, I have to tell you his contract specifically states that no one will be granted interviews either before or after the show.”
“I don’t want an interview, I simply want to wish him all the best,” Gardener answered.
“Haven’t quite gone the correct way about it, then, have we? As I mentioned, his contract stated no interviews, no guests. He was very particular about the contract being followed to the letter.”
Gardener noticed the crowd growing restless. The background music changed again, to another heavily orchestrated piece he didn’t recognise. “Do you have that contract to hand?” he asked.
“It’s in my office.”
“I want a copy before I leave. And now, I’m going backstage for a quick word, after which, you can introduce him.” Gardener turned to his partner. “Sean, you stay here and see that Mr Brown is kept amused.”
Gardener tipped his hat and walked off. He entered the stage through the side curtain, suddenly caught off balance by the atmosphere.
The set was incredible, a mock cathedral with red velvet drapes and huge backdrops and images from horror films. In between the photos, the crumbling brickwork had arched windows and turrets, bearing the hallmark of a million spiders spinning their webs. And he could smell garlic.
But none of what he saw had prepared him for the centrepiece. In the middle of the stage stood a huge podium surrounded by strobe lights, which were currently being switched on and off one by one. A fog machine added to the effect. A number of stagehands were asking the person on the podium if everything was okay, and he knew from the replies that it could only be one person behind the breathtaking make-up.
Even Gardener – who was by no means a film buff – knew that Corndell had recreated the character Quasimodo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
The attention to detail was fascinating, hypnotic. His nose was shaped like a tetrahedron, a sort of four-sided triangular pyramid, with a mouth arched like a horseshoe. Corndell’s left eye was pushed upwards, and his eyebrow had bristles like those of a carrot. The right eye was buried behind a tumour. He had irregular teeth like the battlements of a fortress, and a horny lip over which the teeth protruded like a walrus tusk. His head was covered with red bristles, and between his shoulders he had a hell of a hump. How he had balanced it, Gardener had no idea. His legs were so strangely positioned that they only touched at the knees, as if they had been broken in order to achieve the effect.
He wore a dark grey three-quarter smock that must have been laid on a warehouse floor for the last ten years, and a tight pair of black leggings for which Gardener was sure Corndell had used padding. No one on earth could have legs like that. The whole effect was neatly finished with Corndell trussed up and held firm to the podium by chains that appeared to be real, but were surely not.
Suddenly, as if in slow motion, Corndell turned his head, spotting Gardener. Despite the intense amount of make-up, Gardener detected an expression of pure rage on Corndell’s face. His remaining eye widened and nearly popped out of its socket.
“Would you please remove that man from this stage? Now!” he whispered, but still managed to make it sound like he was shouting.
“Now, now, Mr Corndell, that’s no way to treat an old friend.”
“If you were my friend, Mr Gardener, you wouldn’t be here. I will not give you any further instructions other than either leave the stage now, or the whole show is cancelled.”
“If that’s what you want,” replied Gardener.
Martin Brown appeared at Gardener’s side. “Can I ask you what the hell you think you’re doing?”
“I told you. I came to see an old friend.”
“You don’t look like a friend from where I’m standing. Now you either leave or I’ll call the police and have you removed officially!”
“Okay.” Gardener raised his hands. As he was about to leave, he turned. “Oh, Corndell, by the way...”
The Hunchback glanced in his direction but didn’t speak.
“Good luck,” shouted Gardener. He didn’t wait for a reply.
As he passed the curtain in front of the stage, he could hear the commotion he had caused. Corndell was quite clearly distressed and Martin Brown was doing his best to reassure him that everything was fine and that they really had to continue with tonight’s performance. Gardener doubted very much that it would be cancelled now, what with Corndell already chained up, but it may well be delayed.
One thing was certain: Corndell’s excellent use of make-up had only confirmed his suspicions about who their killer could be. Gardener joined Reilly back in his seat, removing his hat.
“How did it go?” asked the Irishman.
“Let’s see, shall we.”
“You didn’t upset him, did you?” asked Reilly, smirking.
“Would I?”
The main hall lights dimmed and the background music died. The lighting creating the eerie vampire effect on the black curtains diminished and eventually they were lifted, leaving the red velvet drapes and a silhouette of the Hunchback. The entire stage lighting petered out, leaving the whole theatre in darkness.
The tension was electric. People spoke in hushed whispers, and he could see that most o
f them struggled to contain their excitement. The drapes opened, followed by the hiss of fog machines and a blast of the white mist. The speakers roared into life, and despite the fact that he’d been ready for something to happen, the sound still startled him and half the audience. He did not recognise the piece of music, but figured it would feature in one of the film versions of the character Corndell was playing.
At that moment, Gardener was beginning to believe there was a possibility that Corndell really could act; perhaps he had been a big name in the theatre, had done all the things he’d professed. The effect was certainly dazzling.
All four strobe lights lit up, each one of the beams directed at Corndell. Even with his head bowed and the chains in place, he still managed to send a ripple of fear around the audience.
The music grew in volume and intensity, and as it reached a crescendo, died instantly. In that moment, Corndell raised his head and screamed, breaking the chains, launching them across the stage. He raised his hands, which were now free, and glared directly into the audience, more so towards Gardener. Or so it felt.
Until that point, the show was as professional as any he’d seen. What came next blew those thoughts completely.
Whether it was Corndell’s fault or the podium on which he was standing, Gardener didn’t know, but the whole thing completely overbalanced and Corndell fell forwards. He hit the stage with a thud and rolled over, crashing into one of the monitors at the front. Despite the sound created by the pandemonium, the word “Bollocks!” was very prominent. But for that, no one would really have known whether the slip was part of the show or not.
Corndell was quickly on his feet, and the whole audience erupted into raucous laughter. Students rolled about in the aisles and laughed and pointed at the pathetic figure on the stage.
Gardener stifled a smile, but that was wiped from his face when Corndell pointed outwards and shouted, “Fucking police!”
He stormed off the stage to his right. The laughter died, replaced by questions.
Gardener and Reilly were quickly out of their seats, heading towards the front, leaving Laura open-mouthed. They reached the front row. Martin Brown was already on the stage, glancing around. As they stepped up, he turned on them. “Are you satisfied?”
