by Ray Clark
“If not a little loopy,” added Reilly.
“Oh, he was educated,” said Sharp, “just not in school. His mother and father paid for a private education at home. He had two different teachers, and they looked after him until he was about fourteen.”
“Did you speak to them?” asked Gardener.
“Only one of them is still alive. The other one died in a traffic accident a few years ago. Anyway, she said the same as you, he was intelligent, but he didn’t always use it, or show an interest. His pet subject was English. He used to love writing stories. They were always gruesome, but she blames his father for that. He used to take him to the film studio a lot, even bought him a make-up kit when he was eight. Eventually, Corndell spent most of his time at the studio. He worked with his dad on the films, and with the professionals in the make-up department by the time he was ten.
“And it was about that time Corndell discovered Lon Chaney, and how good he was. He was never away from the library, or the film studio’s archives, reading everything he could lay his hands on. By the time he was twelve, he’d honed his skill so much that most of the professional actors preferred him to any of the regular crew. The private tutors eventually left, and his mother and father hired a new nanny by the name of Elizabeth Cranshaw.”
“We already know what happened to her,” said Reilly.
“The people I spoke to said she had a stroke,” said Colin Sharp. “She was old.”
“Age had nothing to do with it,” said Gardener. “We’ve since learned from Fitz that Elizabeth Cranshaw was an asthmatic. She’d had a heart attack, which probably led to a stroke brought on by a lethal dose of sherry mixed with nuts that had been ground into a fine powder, creating the drug ephedrine.”
“What does this have to do with Corndell?”
“Janine Harper was killed the same way.”
“Interesting,” said Sharp.
“Did you speak to anyone who knew both Corndell and the nanny? Someone who could verify what kind of a relationship they had?”
“Briefly. The old lady had a daughter. They were together on the day of her death, shopping in London. She said her mother never stopped complaining about Corndell. He was highly strung, bad tempered, would go out of his way to play tricks on her. She did say her mother could be quite hard to get on with, and she was a bit strict: maybe the lad was just rebelling against a disciplinarian.”
“Not worth killing for,” said Reilly.
“Well, after what you’ve told me, maybe there was more to it. Elizabeth Cranshaw told her daughter about Corndell’s strange behaviour, and the fact that he hated authority, and she figured the only way to get her message across was through his make-up kit.”
“What did she do with it?” asked Gardener.
“That much I don’t know, the daughter never told me.”
“She probably got rid of it,” said Reilly. “That would send him up the wall, so it would. Especially if he was using it at the studio.”
“I’m sure it would be reason enough for Corndell to kill her ... in his eyes,” said Gardener.
“But he can’t have been much more than ten or twelve,” said Sharp. “Surely he wouldn’t have had the know-how at that age.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” replied Gardener. “That’s something we’re all guilty of – underestimating him.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Sharp.
“Show Briggs your evidence and see if he’ll get us a warrant for his arrest. Did you delve into his bank accounts?”
“I did. We need to take a closer look. His father left him about three million pounds all told, if you take the property into account. All the cash was deposited into an account at a private bank in London. What with client confidentiality, and the fact that I didn’t have a warrant, they wouldn’t tell me too much. What I did find out was that he has taken out large sums of money, and the bank is either not sure what he’s done with them, or won’t tell me.”
“Most likely the latter,” said Reilly.
“In that case, use the computers and the banks up here to find out what you can. My guess is, he’s set up accounts in different names and he’s used them to finance his little ventures, perhaps to hire transport. How else would he get around and do the things he’s done?”
“Makes sense, boss,” said Reilly. “We need somebody to help Colin. The quicker we get this bastard off the streets, the better.”
Gardener’s mobile phone chimed, which he quickly answered.
“Sir, it’s Frank.”
“Hello, Frank, what can I do for you?”
“We’ve just had a call from Mary Phillips. She wants to speak to you urgently.”
“She leave a number?” asked Gardener. Frank Thornton gave him the number and then mentioned that Briggs had been asking after him. Gardener called Mary Phillips.
“Oh, Mr Gardener, I’m so pleased you’ve called.”
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“A little one. You asked me if I’d look and see if there were anything missing from Henry’s room, after you’d finished with it, like.”
“Is there?”
“Yes, love. It’s his mobile phone, I can’t find it anywhere.”
Chapter Forty-six
Gardener realised he still had no proof that Corndell had actually killed the nanny but it was stretching one’s imagination to believe someone else had done it. Also in his favour were the murders with the puzzles, the use of a lethal cocktail as a weapon of disposal, and Corndell’s genuine obsession with Lon Chaney.
Was that enough?
And where did the film Imperfection enter into the equation? He was convinced that it did... somehow. But even Malcolm had no recollection of such a film. A Google search revealed nothing.
That created another problem. Malcolm had been at the cinema all afternoon and Gardener had heard nothing from the officer trailing him, so everything must have been fine. Still, he hadn’t been able to settle.
When Chris had arrived home from school, the pair of them had spent an hour in the garage sorting through the Bonneville engine components, checking what could be re-used and what couldn’t. But even then his concentration was lacking. Eventually, Chris had finished up and gone to his room.
Gardener heard the front door open. He glanced at the kitchen clock. It was a little after six. He realised that he hadn’t yet prepared anything to eat. But it wasn’t the end of the world: worst-case scenario, they could all go out for a meal or phone for a take-away. As Malcolm entered the kitchen, he heard voices. “Stewart, I’d like you to meet someone.”
Gardener glanced over his father’s shoulder and noticed Martin Brown standing in the doorway.
“Mr Gardener,” said Brown, nodding. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
“May I come in? There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Of course, come and sit down.”
“I’ll make us a cup of tea,” offered Malcolm.
Gardener was confused, concerned. His dad had gone to the cinema for an afternoon matinee. Having returned with Martin Brown, he suspected that something was wrong; but the old man appeared to be fine. “Is everything okay?”
“Depends what you mean by okay, son.”
Gardener wasn’t happy with his father’s evasive answer. “Has something happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. We’re here, or should I say, Martin’s here, because he thinks he may owe you an apology, and he may also have disturbing news for you.”
Gardener sat back down and glanced at Martin Brown. If the man was here to speak, then he would let him.
“It’s about Corndell,” said Brown.
“Everything about him disturbs me. What’s he done now?”
“I’m not sure that he has. I met your father this afternoon for the first time. I had no idea who he was.” Martin Brown stopped talking while Malcolm put the tea on the table.
“We ended up in the cinema foyer during the interval,” said Malcolm.
“What did you go and see, anyway? You never said.”
“A Lon Chaney double bill, as it happens.”
Gardener grew cold at the mere mention of Chaney. “Which ones?”
“The Phantom of the Opera and The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” said Martin.
“The Hunchback was first,” said Malcolm. “At the interval I went out for a coffee and a chocolate bar, I felt a little peckish. As I turned around, Martin here knocked into me and I spilt my coffee. He ordered fresh drinks and we started talking. It turns out that he was sitting directly in front of me.”
“We talked about films in general, and Chaney, and how good he was,” continued Martin Brown. “And then Corndell slipped into the conversation. I told your father that I was in charge of the entertainment at the university and about the fiasco earlier in the week. Your father then told me who he was and who you were and what you were involved in.”
Gardener wondered how much his father had told Martin Brown. “Dad, you’re not really supposed to discuss police cases. In fact, I’m not supposed to discuss them with you.”
“Under normal circumstances I would agree, but these are not normal, and I am involved,” replied Malcolm. “I haven’t given away any secrets, but what we’ve stumbled across could prove useful.”
“Go on,” said Gardener.
Martin Brown sighed. “I booked William Henry Corndell because of what I’d thought had been a glittering career. Everything I’d heard, and seen for that matter, was nothing short of stunning. The man is an absolute genius with make-up. He can do anything. I’ve seen him on the London stage for The Phantom–”
“You actually saw him play the part?” interrupted Gardener.
“No. I had a friend who worked for the theatre, and I was given backstage passes to one of the performances. I was there on the morning Corndell was given his big break, and his rehearsal was nothing short of a revelation. He put so much emotion into the part that the stagehands reckoned he was better than Crawford.”
“Did you use the tickets for the performance?”
“No, my wife, girlfriend at the time, took ill, and we couldn’t make it. But I later heard he had an accident.”
“It was a little more than that,” said Gardener. “I found out that he’s brilliant in rehearsals but no good in front of a crowd. During the matinee he fluffed his lines, wrecked the scenery, and eventually broke his own leg, blaming everyone but himself.”
“I never heard that.”
“Take it from me, it’s true.”
“That puts the night at the university theatre into perspective a little bit. If he is frightened of crowds, that’s probably why he fell off the podium.”
“Exactly. And he used the fact that we were there putting pressure on him as an excuse for his own incompetence.”
“That’s where the apology comes in, I think.”
“Don’t worry about that. What else have you got to tell me?”
Martin Brown appeared hesitant, as if he didn’t want to speak.
“Martin, you’re not under arrest, anything you tell me will be in the strictest confidence.”
“Malcolm told me about Leonard White’s death, and the quote on the dressing room wall. ‘For long weary months I have awaited this hour.’”
Gardener’s stomach tensed. “And?”
“I know which film that comes from; or should I say which two films. It’s a quote from The Phantom of the Opera, the Lon Chaney version released in 1925.”
“We know…” Gardener stopped talking when he realized what Martin Brown had said. “Two films?”
“Before we go any further, Mr Gardener, I need you to tell me if there were other quotes at the scenes of the other murders, and what they were.”
“You do know I’m not obliged to tell you anything,” replied Gardener.
“I’m only trying to help. Maybe it’s my turn to inform you that anything you tell me will be in the strictest confidence. Do you want to catch your killer?”
Gardener struggled with his conscience.
“Your first murder was Leonard White,” continued Martin Brown. “He was found hanging in a theatre.” Martin Brown stopped talking, but Gardener realised he knew more. His glare forced the man to continue. “At the autopsy you found a puzzle carved into the man’s chest.”
Gardener left the table without saying anything and collected the file from a cupboard in the living room. Although the central heating was on, he felt a chill. Martin Brown had told him something that only the police knew. He sat back down and studied the file, then asked Martin Brown for the second quote.
“‘The night passed, a night of vague horrors, tortured dreams.’ The second murder,” said Martin Brown. “You found the second body hanging upside down in a kind of reverse crucifixion. Furthermore, at that autopsy you found another puzzle about the case, in a test tube inserted into the victim’s anus.”
The blood in Gardener’s veins had turned to ice. Either Martin Brown knew more than was good for him because of inside information... or he was their killer. And in all honesty, Gardener wouldn’t know: he wasn’t sure anyone else would either. He couldn’t believe the tension in the room. It felt like time had stood still. No one was drinking. In fact, it didn’t sound like they were even breathing.
“The third quote?” asked Martin. “Would it be, ‘so far so good, for a house with a curse on it’?”
Gardener nodded.
“Your third victim was found in a locked room, suspended in the crucifixion position once again. However, this time the body was the right way up, naked, and his real head was missing, but he had someone else’s in its place. Along with a puzzle in his right hand.”
Gardener was mortified. His stomach ached, his legs felt weak. “How do you know all these things?”
“Each of the people killed was a member of the local watch committee and had been killed by an independent film producer because they had banned his film for being too horrific. The man was totally incensed because he was unbalanced. But the police couldn’t catch him in the film because he was a master of disguise.”
“What film are we talking about?” asked Gardener, as if he didn’t know.
“A film called Imperfection, written by William Henry Corndell, and produced by his father, Wallace.”
“Have you seen the film?”
“Yes.”
“Where?” Gardener asked.
“An underground copy. The film never made it to the big screen. The one the censors issued an ‘X’ certificate for was not the film distributed around Leeds. Therefore, the local watch committee that your father sat on banned the film immediately, told him in no uncertain terms he had to make cuts. It was too violent, too graphic; he had to cut it and then re-present it.”
Gardener glanced at his father. “But you weren’t there that night. You didn’t see the film.”
“Corndell obviously doesn’t know that,” replied Martin Brown.
“So Corndell made a film back in the Seventies and has basically lived it out since then?”
“Sounds like it. He’s killed everyone the same way as he did in the film and used quotes from Chaney’s films because he’s obsessed with the man. Three down, one to go, and we all know who that is.” Martin Brown stared at Malcolm.
“Do you mean to say I’ve been going out, unaware that my life was at stake?” asked Malcolm.
“Actually, no,” replied Gardener.
“What do you mean?” asked Malcolm.
“You’ve been under twenty-four-hour surveillance for some time. Every move you’ve made has been watched and monitored.”
Malcolm’s bottom jaw fell open and nearly hit the table. After he’d regained his composure, he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t, Dad. Firstly, we’ve never been sure of our facts from the beginning, and secondly, because of that we didn’t want you worryi
ng unnecessarily. Thirdly, we had to make sure everything you did was natural, so we could lull the killer into making an attempt and therefore expose himself.”
“But I could have been killed.”
“No you couldn’t, we know what we’re doing.”
“I’ve never seen anyone following me,” said Malcolm. “Corndell could have taken me anytime he wanted.”
“He couldn’t,” argued Gardener. “You were being watched, and the reason you didn’t know was because you weren’t meant to; and the reason you didn’t see him was also because you weren’t meant to. That’s how good a job we’ve been doing.”
Malcolm didn’t reply.
Gardener grabbed his mobile and scrolled his way through the contacts list.
“What are you doing?” asked Martin Brown.
“I think it’s time I spoke to our friend William.”
“I have his landline number,” said Martin.
“It’s okay,” smiled Gardener. “We’ll ring his mobile.”
“But he doesn’t have one,” argued Martin Brown.
“Yes he does,” said Gardener.
Chapter Forty-seven
Laura had left the house early in the morning, spending the best part of the day in the centre of Leeds shopping for clothes. She had returned to Yeadon about an hour later, depositing her carrier bags before popping back out again to pick up a parcel at the Royal Mail sorting office. Her intention had then been to drive back home, but the car had other ideas.
All morning her engine management light had been on, indicating a problem that the garage had been unable to find two days previously when it had been booked in for that reason. The excuse the garage had given was that their computers had been attacked with a virus which had somehow been passed on to the diagnostic machine they were using. She now wondered if it had transferred the virus to her car. She supposed it was possible, but would readily admit she knew nothing about computers or cars, so if you mixed the two together she was doubly lost. What she did know was that the car was not running properly.
Overhead, the rich blue skies were cloudless, creating yet another warm day for the time of year. Laura had her driver’s door window open, and was listening to the radio. As she drove down Rawdon Road heading towards Horsforth, the car misfired. “Oh, Christ, don’t do this to me.”
