by Ray Clark
Suddenly, the dashboard lit up, and the vehicle rolled to a halt at the side of the road. Despite having lost her power steering, she managed to guide it into a drive fronted by a pair of magnificent wrought iron gates. She tried in vain to start the engine, but it simply turned over without firing.
Laura jumped out of the car and reached back in for her handbag. She took out her mobile phone and glanced around in order to ascertain where she was. Phoning the breakdown service would be something akin to passing an X-Factor audition, and then she would probably have to wait about four hours before the tow truck arrived, which they would promise within the hour.
Laura took a peek inside the grounds of the house beyond the gates. “Someone’s tight on security,” she said to herself. After phoning the breakdown service, she also left Sean a voicemail message.
Laura pressed the intercom button and waited for an answer, which came quite quickly. “Hello?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve broken down outside your gates. I thought it only polite to let you know.”
“How unfortunate. Are you all right?” came the reply.
Laura recognised the voice, but she couldn’t place it.
“Yes, I’m fine. I’ve phoned the breakdown service and they’ve promised to be here within the hour. Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. But we can’t have you waiting out there by yourself in this day and age, you never know who’s around. I’m going to open the gates to allow you a little more room for the breakdown service. And if you’d like to take a walk down, I’ll make you a nice cup of tea, er... I’m sorry... you never told me your name.”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Laura answered.
She heard him laugh before he said, “Goodness me, that is rather an unusual name. It’s no trouble.” With that said, the gates silently opened.
She spoke back into the intercom. “Thank you. My name’s Laura, Laura Reilly. I’ll see you in a couple of minutes, Mister...?”
The intercom clicked off, but the man on the other end never gave his name.
The walk to the mansion wasn’t as long as she’d imagined. When she arrived, the front door was open, which led her into a panelled hallway framed by film posters. She then turned and saw her host.
Chapter Forty-eight
Briggs stared at the file on his desk. It included everything Gardener could muster, along with the folder Colin Sharp had prepared, and details of the information everyone else had supplied. It had taken Briggs an hour to sort through it all, with the help of Gardener and Reilly who were now sitting opposite. “Well done, Stewart, Sean. There’s a lot of information here.”
“Enough to gain a warrant for his arrest?” asked Gardener.
“I don’t see why not,” replied Briggs, sitting back and folding his arms across his chest.
“Can I ask you a question, Stewart? And I’d like your opinion on this one as well, Sean,” said Briggs.
“Go on.”
“From everything we’ve seen, you’re absolutely sure it’s Corndell?”
The question knocked Gardener off balance a little. “As sure as I can be, why?”
“What about Martin Brown?”
“The thought did cross my mind, particularly when he came out with the information that no one else knew.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, sir,” said Reilly. “If Martin Brown was our killer, then why didn’t he abduct Malcolm at the cinema? There was nothing to stop him.”
“Maybe he wanted to rub Stewart’s nose in it,” offered Briggs. “You know what these people are like. Brown takes the opportunity to befriend Malcolm at the cinema. They get talking, Malcolm takes him home to meet his son and therefore gain some more inside knowledge. You said yourself he gave you information that only we knew.”
“From a film written by Corndell, one that he’d seen,” protested Gardener.
“How long ago, Stewart? A bit of a good memory, wouldn’t you say? Can you remember quotes from films you watched over twenty years ago?”
“I can’t, but I bet my dad can. The point I’m making is that if you’re a film buff, then maybe you would remember these things.”
“And another thing, sir,” Reilly said. “Laura knows Martin Brown. She’s worked with him, so she has. She hasn’t given me any reason to suspect him.”
“And you still haven’t seen this film anywhere, or come across anyone but Brown who knows anything about it?” Briggs asked.
“Actually, we do know who has a copy,” said Gardener.
“Who?”
“Corndell,” replied Gardener. “He has a canister in his cinema with that title on.”
Briggs sat back and stayed quiet for a moment or two. “Okay, Stewart. I’ll go with it. I’ll get the warrant, you get him off the streets.”
“How long will it take?” Gardener asked.
“Not long,” replied Briggs. “But there is a problem.”
Gardener’s stomach lurched. “Go on.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you handle the case.”
Gardener knew it had been coming “Why?”
“Because whoever it is, whether it’s Corndell or Martin Brown or someone we haven’t yet come across, they’ve made it personal. Your father is next in line. How would you feel if I allowed you to drag Corndell in, spend all day interviewing him, only to find when you got home your dad was missing, or worse, strung up?”
“That won’t happen if we get Corndell off the streets,” said Gardener.
“I’m not taking that chance, Stewart. I appreciate all the work you’ve done on the case, but I still have to ask, are you one hundred percent certain? And the answer is no. Even now, your judgement may be clouded–”
Gardener was about to say something, but Briggs put his hand out to stop him. “What I want you to do is go home and spend time with your dad. You keep him under twenty-four-hour protection, at least until this thing blows over. Reilly and I will handle Corndell’s arrest.” Briggs stood up and nodded to Reilly. “Come on, let’s go.”
Gardener had no chance to reply.
Chapter Forty-nine
Gardener pulled his car to a halt opposite the stage door and switched off the engine. He glanced further down the street to where a road crew were unloading the trailer.
Through the stage door and down the steps, he heard Fettle humming to himself. When he came into view he realised why, the man was making tea. “Just in time,” said Fettle. “Fancy a brew?”
“Do you ever do anything else apart from drink tea all day?” replied Gardener. “I’m afraid I don’t have time this morning.”
“Why’s that then?”
Gardener felt heavy and hollow. He really wanted to be there to see Corndell’s reaction when they arrested him, but he understood the reasons behind it. He told Fettle if he came across any more information to ring Sean and let him know.
Fettle nodded as Gardener turned and mounted the steps to the stage door. Before he reached the top, Fettle called him. Gardener came back down and Fettle was standing with two dog-eared copies of Film Review in his hands. “Thought you might like to show these to your dad. Might take his mind off things and cheer him up a bit.”
“Thank you, I’m sure he’ll love it. I’ll get them back as soon as possible.”
“There’s no rush,” said Fettle, returning to his tea and biscuits.
Outside, Gardener settled himself in the car and threw the magazines on the passenger seat. As he reached for the ignition, he changed his mind and picked one up, leafing through. He was about to put it back on the passenger seat when he came across a photo that made his blood curdle. His knees weakened, his fingers tingled, and he felt numb. Gardener fumbled for his mobile phone.
It couldn’t be!
Chapter Fifty
Briggs launched himself towards the door, but it took another two attempts before it caved in. When it did, he jumped back into the hallway and held his nose. “Jesus Christ!”
Reilly covered his own and walked into the room. The place was a tomb. As he’d suspected by the view from the outside, the window had been covered with newspaper. The floor had no carpet, only bare boards. The walls were back to brick. An old-fashioned range adorned one wall; frames – which had probably hung for years – had been removed, exposing clean wallpaper. For what purpose, he had no idea.
In the middle of the room, tied to a rocking chair was the naked, headless corpse of the man they suspected was the real Trevor Thorpe, the profiler.
Briggs sighed. He’d taken a harried call from Gardener who had spotted the image of the Trevor Thorpe they had seen in one of Fettle’s Film Reviews. The photo was in fact Lon Chaney in the lead role of a film called The Road To Mandalay: and the exact disguise Corndell had used for the incident room meetings. It had taken them almost an hour to find Thorpe’s address and drive to the remote farmhouse.
Briggs stared at the emaciated body, bound tightly with cheese-wire, having been there some considerable time. He’d struggled to free himself, the congealed rivers of blood trailing down his chest attesting to that fact. Briggs glanced around the room for any notes or messages, but there were none. “What are we dealing with here?”
“One sick individual.”
“How long do you reckon he’s been here, Sean?”
“Hard to say... I reckon at least a month.”
Briggs clenched his teeth. “If this is Thorpe, and I’m sure it will be, then the killer has been disguised as our profiler, and he’s listened to everything we’ve had to say. What’s more, he took us all for idiots, by throwing us duff information about the kind of person we should be looking for.”
“He’s a clever man, so he is.”
“Either that, or he’s lucky,” said Briggs.
“No, sir, he’s clever. And he’s been allowed to get away with it because he’s so damn good with a brush and paint.”
“Corndell it is, then?”
“Too feckin’ right.”
Briggs walked outside for a breath of fresh air and checked the signal on his mobile, glancing up at the three-storey farmhouse. It was old and in need of repair with missing roof tiles, damaged render, leaking gutters, and rotting window frames. It was hardly befitting an ex-police profiler. He noticed the barns and outbuildings were no better.
“It’s the middle of nowhere for Christ’s sakes, Sean. Why the hell does he want to live here?”
“Who’s to say he does?”
“What do you mean?” asked Briggs.
“The only letter we have is the one you received. We don’t know anything about him, only his reputation. Who’s to say he actually wrote the letter? Who’s to say that’s him in there?”
Briggs sighed loudly and called the station.
Chapter Fifty-one
“There’s something wrong,” said Reilly. He pulled the car to a halt outside the wrought iron gates.
“Why?” Briggs asked.
“Because the gates are open.”
“Drive on, Sean, I’d like to have a look at this place, and the maniac that lives here.”
Reilly put the car in gear and drove down the gravel drive, parking outside the front door.
Briggs opened the car door and heaved himself out, glancing around. “I can see why you’d want to protect the place.” He turned to Reilly. “Have the gates always been closed?”
“Yes, you have to ring the intercom if you want to talk to him.”
Briggs knocked on the door, retrieving the warrant for Corndell’s arrest from his inside pocket. When there was no answer he knocked again, before eventually trying it. Stretching his legs, he walked around the perimeter. When he reached the back door, he knocked once more.
When Reilly tried the handle, the door opened.
He glanced at Briggs. “I’m not happy.”
“Okay. At least let’s take a look around while we’re here.” Briggs shouted Corndell’s name, but there was no answer. He noticed that the kitchen was spotless and strolled through, glancing into each of the other rooms, which were equally as clean. There was no sign of life downstairs.
Briggs admired the film posters. Reilly pointed out the original Frankenstein poster with Boris Karloff, and told his superior officer how much it had sold for recently.
“What? For a fucking poster?”
“That’s what I said.”
“And that’s what he paid for it?”
“No, he didn’t say he’d paid that much, just that’s what it went for when it sold recently.”
Briggs sighed heavily. “Some people have more money than sense.”
They covered the rest of the house, and Reilly showed Briggs the make-up room and the cinema. But the whole building was like a mortuary: no sign of life. Reilly fished a piece of paper out of his pocket, and then reached for his cell phone. “Shit, I must have left mine in the car, have you got yours?”
“Who are you calling?” Briggs asked.
“Corndell... who else?”
The phone rang, but no one answered.
Chapter Fifty-two
Back at the house, Gardener parked the car on the drive and let himself in through the front door. He went straight to the kitchen and switched the kettle on, placing the two Film Reviews on the table. He pulled two cups from the rack and started to make tea, wondering if his father was in the shed, his usual place of rest.
From a feeling of dejection at having been removed from the case, he was now elated at having found what he considered to be another nail in Corndell’s coffin. The photo of Chaney in the Road To Mandalay – the person they had thought was Trevor Thorpe – had sent a chill right through him, but the sense of satisfaction that followed was immeasurable. He was pretty sure he’d receive a phone call soon to tell him Corndell was safely tucked away in an interview room, and that the next couple of days spent with his father would simply be a paid holiday.
Gardener checked his mobile, but there were no text messages or missed calls. He tried the handle of the back door and found it unlocked, which meant his father should be down the garden in the potting shed. The kettle boiled, so he poured the tea into the pot before going to find him.
Gardener was surprised that his father wasn’t in the shed when he arrived. He tried the garage, and he wasn’t there either. A wave of sadness passed him as he glanced at the Bonneville, which had been abandoned. He really wanted to finish the project.
Gardener checked every room in the house before running back out to the potting shed. He now had his mobile in hand, already ringing his father’s number. A feeling of trepidation hung in the air.
Where was he?
The phone shrilled. Gardener heard it! His guts turned to ice.
The ring tone was coming from the shed. Gardener peeked in, and the phone was on the bench, his number lighting up the display panel.
What did that mean? Had he wasted too much time between the station and coming home? Shouldn’t he have come straight home and not bothered to take a detour to see Fettle? Why had he done that? What had gone through his mind? Surely his father was more important than Fettle.
Had Corndell slipped the net? Had the call to Briggs and Reilly to inform them about Trevor Thorpe actually been the final nail in his father’s coffin? Had they gone to check out that lead instead of arresting Corndell first?
Back in the house, Gardener was about to call the station when the doorbell chimed. In frustration, he threw his mobile on the nearest chair and ran into the hall. Opening the door he was confronted by a UPS van and the driver, dressed in the standard brown uniform. A parcel delivery was not high on his list of priorities, and only served to irritate him further.
“Mr Gardener?” asked the driver.
“Yes.”
“Parcel for you.”
Gardener thanked the driver, took the package, and walked back into the living room before a thought suddenly hit him. The man had not asked for a signature. Gardener picked up the parcel. It was rect
angular shaped, about twelve inches by eight. There were no stamps, no UPS logos, and no writing other than his name. He ripped the package open and quickly scanned the contents: a photo and a newspaper clipping.
Dropping them on the floor, he ran outside, where he found the driver in the process of starting the van. The fact that it was a pleasant day meant he hadn’t shut the door, which gave Gardener the opportunity he needed to pull the driver from the seat, drag him out of the cab, and throw him heavily against the side of the vehicle, so much so that he dented one of the panels.
“What the fuck–”
He gave the driver no chance to say anything else. Instead, he banged the man’s head against the panel in an effort to subdue him. Only now did the driver’s features register in his mind: he was a similar height to Gardener but much thinner, his complexion was tanned and he had a beard and moustache, which Gardener was trying to pry from his face in an effort to see whether or not it was real.
“What the fuck are you doing, man? You’re ripping my face apart!”
“Who are you?” Gardener shouted, breathless, grabbing the driver’s shirt and shoving him back towards the van again. The driver hit the ground in a sitting position with his legs underneath him. He wasn’t going anywhere.
“I’m a UPS driver, for God’s sake.” He tried to push Gardener out of the way. “This is assault, I can have you arrested for this.”
“We both know you won’t. What’s your name?” asked Gardener, his heart pounding.
“You tell me who you are first.”
Gardener used one hand to release and flip open his badge without bothering to explain further.
“Oh, shit.”
“Let’s try again, shall we? Name?”
“Gary Barlow... and don’t bother, I’ve heard all the jokes.”
Gardener had no idea what he was talking about. “Show me some identification. Now!”
