by Ray Clark
“Who the bloody hell’s he?” asked Cuthbertson. “Another one of your lot?”
“For a man who likes his films, you don’t know much about them,” said Reilly.
“I never said I was into films, not in the way you mean. Theatre and stage is more my thing.”
“I see,” said Reilly. “Well that figures, given the type of shop you run. Like dressing up, do you? Putting on the make-up, that kind of thing?”
Cuthbertson narrowed his eyes. “I’ve done a bit, why do you ask?”
“What other interests do you have?” asked Gardener.
Cuthbertson stalled before answering, as if he was trying to work out where they were heading. “I like to read.”
“What sort of books?”
“Biographical. Mostly non-fiction.”
Reilly leaned forward and folded his arms across the top of the table. “For long weary months I have awaited this hour.”
“Pardon?” asked Cuthbertson. Turning to Gardener, he asked, “Is he all right?”
“Do you not recognise it? And you being a thespian, shame on you.”
“I never said I was a thespian. Look, is it me, or is it hot in here?” Cuthbertson loosened his shirt collar and ran his hands around his neck.
Gardener wondered why he’d done that. He’d seemed okay until Reilly had mentioned the quote. Why had that unbalanced him? He leaned forward. “The night passed – a night of vague horrors. Tortured dreams.”
“Look, what the hell are you two talking about? Is there something in the coffee? If I’m not under arrest, why am I still here?”
“I’ve told you already, you’re helping with our enquiries. We just wondered how well you knew your films, and whether or not you recognised the two quotes.”
“Oh, I see.” Cuthbertson folded his arms. “You think I did it, and now you’re using the quote on the wall next to Janine’s body. Trying to catch me out.” He leaned forward himself now, a smug smile crossing his features. “I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that, gentleman. I’ve already told you, I have nothing to hide.”
“I wouldn’t say that, judging by the state of your body,” said Reilly.
“What?”
“How did you come by the marks?” asked Gardener.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Take your shirt off,” demanded Reilly. “Maybe that will refresh your memory.”
“Look, okay, I admit to having one or two bruises, but they’re not what you think.”
“How do you know what we’re thinking?” asked Gardener.
“You two think I killed Janine, and the bruises on my body are proof. That’s what you’re thinking.”
“Wouldn’t you?” said Reilly. “On the night a young girl was butchered in your shop, you’d left at four o’clock and were not seen again until the next morning. But when you do make an appearance, you look like you’ve survived a terrorist attack.”
“It’s not as bad as you’re making out.”
“Show us,” said Reilly.
“Gentlemen...”
“Show us now!” Gardener demanded. Although Cuthbertson appeared unwilling, he did finally peel off his shirt.
Gardener grimaced. His back bore the marks of a cat of nine tails: long, stripe shaped cuts. Most of the bruising was purple, yellow in the middle. What Gardener couldn’t understand was why Cuthbertson had not shown any outward signs of discomfort. But having said that, the man had not sat back in his seat.
“So, where were you last night, and how did you get those?” asked Reilly.
Cuthbertson replaced his shirt and returned to his seat.
“Well?” persisted Reilly.
“It’s not what you think.”
“You keep trying to tell us what we’re thinking, instead of what’s going through your head,” pressed Gardener.
Cuthbertson rubbed his hands down his face and sighed heavily. “I never killed Janine Harper. She was my assistant, my friend.”
“Last night!” Reilly reminded him. “Where were you?”
“Ruffin Street,” he replied, quietly.
“Say again,” said Reilly.
Cuthbertson brought his head up a little fast, his manner aggressive. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? I said, Ruffin Street.”
“I thought you did.”
Gardener tried to picture the area. He knew where the street was, but he wasn’t quite sure what Cuthbertson was trying to say. “What’s on Ruffin Street, Mr Cuthbertson?”
“I’d have thought you’d know, being a policeman.”
“I’m aware that it’s an area of ill repute, but I don’t frequent the place myself. So, you’ll have to do a little better than that. We need your alibi.”
“I ... I was...” He stopped talking, licked his lips.
Gardener waited.
“I was at Madame Two-swords. Happy now?”
Gardener turned to Reilly. “Where the hell is Madame Tussauds in Ruffin Street?”
Reilly’s smile widened. “Trust me, boss, you wouldn’t want to know. But I’ll tell you this and I’ll tell you no more, it’s not a waxwork museum.”
“What is it?”
“Madame Two-swords, and the spelling is two as in the number, and swords as in the sharp bladed implements that knights used to use, is a house of ill repute for people who like to be fulfilled sexually in a very strange way.”
Gardener glanced at Cuthbertson, who was staring at the floor. He passed over a pen and paper. “Write the number down. We’ll check. Were you there the night Leonard White was murdered?”
“Yes, I was.”
Gardener couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What? Do you go for that kind of punishment every night?”
“No.”
“How often?”
“I’m there most nights, but not for anything physical. A lot of them like to dress up and wear make-up. I can supply all their needs. Sometimes I help them put it on.”
Gardener shook his head.
Cuthbertson continued. “But I can promise you, I never murdered Janine, and I didn’t do Leonard White, either.”
Gardener realised there was little more he could ask Cuthbertson at the moment until he could confirm his alibis. He informed the man he was free to go for the time being.
Chapter Twenty-six
“We need to nail this bloke, and fast! Otherwise we’re all going down.” Briggs was agitated. The incident room was full, but you could have heard a fly fart in the next world. “I’ve had the press and the Commissioner on my back, and neither of them are in the mood for negative answers.”
“It isn’t our fault,” said Reilly, glancing at the stranger sitting quietly in the corner of the room.
“Well, everybody seems to think it is,” retorted Briggs. “We’re paid to protect the public, and we’re failing. We’ve had two murders on our patch, and the press have already made the connection. In fact, they know as much as we do because we can’t do our jobs properly.”
Briggs threw his folder on the desk and studied the photographs on the easel. “So, can anyone tell me anything new?”
Sharp inched forward. “I’ve spoken to the taxi driver who picked up Leonard White on the night he was killed. Or should I say, the man impersonating Leonard White.”
“And what did he have to say?” asked Briggs.
“Very little. He wasn’t called in advance, he simply happened to be driving by the theatre at the time and was flagged down.”
“Where did he take him?”
“The station.”
“The station?” questioned Briggs. “It’s only a five-minute walk, for Christ’s sakes.”
“He was an actor,” said Gardener. “Famous or not, he’s not likely to walk through the town centre.”
“Okay,” said Briggs, “fair point. What happened when he dropped him off? Did he see where he went?”
“No. White shoved a ten pound note in his hand and then walked into the stati
on without waiting for change.”
“Don’t suppose he’s still got the note, has he?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Well, check it out, for God’s sake! People keep souvenirs for all sorts of reasons.”
Gardener interrupted. “What good would it do us? We wouldn’t be able to lift any prints worth having.”
“We don’t know that,” said Briggs, turning to address Colin Sharp again. “Did White say anything while he was in the taxi?”
“Apparently not. He got in, told him to go to the station, and then got out after paying. The driver tried to engage him in conversation because he recognised him, but White wasn’t having any of it. He simply ignored him.”
“Brilliant. Did you question anyone at the station? Ticket booth operators, railway porters, cleaners, tramps?”
“I did, but no one saw anything unusual.”
“They must have done, for Christ’s sakes, he wasn’t exactly dressed for travelling on trains. Didn’t White buy a ticket to anywhere?” demanded Briggs.
“I did talk to the person who was selling tickets all night. I showed him a photo because he didn’t know who Leonard White was, but no one of that description bought a ticket.”
“Well, he can’t have just disappeared in the middle of a fucking station! He was a well-known actor.”
“He may not have left the station as Leonard White,” said Gardener.
Briggs hadn’t thought of that and quickly moved on. “Anything on CCTV?”
“We’re still checking,” said Sharp.
“Keep at it. And while we’re on the subject of transport, what about white vans?”
Anderson spoke up. “We’ve drawn a blank so far. Not many companies hire out seven and a half ton trucks, those that have can account for them, and the customers.”
“How does he do it?” shouted Briggs. “Not only does he walk around Leeds, but he drives around in big white vans that no one remembers seeing, both of which finally disappear into thin air. Thank Christ somebody has their eyes open. Eyewitness reports indicate a very strange person seen in Leeds on the night Janine was murdered. We’ve interviewed a couple of them and managed to sort out an artist impression.”
Briggs passed around the sketches from his folder.
“You’d have to be blind not to notice him walking round. He looks like Dracula,” said Anderson.
“This is precisely why we can’t catch him,” said Gardener. “The first murder saw him impersonating Leonard White. His second sees him as someone totally different. He can commit as many as he likes if we can’t figure out what he looks like.”
“I agree, but there might be a link between the people he’s impersonating. It might be something to do with films, maybe they’re all from the same film, or a series of films made by the same director. Or maybe portrayed by the same actor. Have we got a list of the films White made? Did he star in anything with a vampire that looks like the impression?”
“I’ve made a start on that one,” said Dave Rawson. “I called his agents and they’ve agreed to draw up a list.”
“Get his wife back on the phone,” said Briggs, “she’ll have a list as well.”
Gardener quickly took over, glancing at Colin Sharp. “Colin, the quote on the wall next to Janine Harper, anything?”
“Same film, sir, Phantom of the Opera.”
Gardener stared at Briggs, “that might answer one of your questions, films with the same actor or director. Phantom of the Opera is favoured here.” He addressed the rest of them. “Two quotes from the same film, Phantom, so what’s happening here? Is he obsessed with The Phantom? Was it a case of unrequited love: he stalked Janine Harper but got nothing in return? It’s definitely a lead worth following.”
“You wouldn’t say it was the same film judging by the disguise he used in Leeds on the night she was killed,” said Briggs, nodding toward Reilly.
“The CCTV from the arcade is interesting enough, but it doesn’t show us anything more than we already know.” Reilly switched on the recording and they all watched as the vampire character matching the witness statements entered the shop at nine forty-two, and left well after midnight. “No one else was in the arcade, so he was allowed to come and go unchallenged,” he said.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,’ said Anderson, ‘but the character he used there was not from The Phantom.”
“You’re not wrong,” said Colin Sharp, “I’ve watched it all the way through now and there is no character like that in the film.”
“Something else to go on,” said Gardener, “it’s not the same film so are we back to films all starring the same actor, or made by the same director?”
“How did you get on with Cuthbertson?” Briggs asked Gardener, changing the subject.
“It’s not him,” said Gardener. “He’s very strange, but he has a cast-iron alibi.”
Gardener briefed them about the interview and the things he’d uncovered.
“We still have no idea if there’s a link between Cuthbertson and White?” said Briggs. “Was Janine killed, when it should have been Cuthbertson?”
“It’s a possibility,” said Gardener. “Which could rule out the watch committee connection. But I think there’s a real urgency now to find Harry Fletcher.”
“Two murders carried out with relative ease,” said Briggs. “We’re struggling because we don’t know what he looks like. Look around the room. You’re all out there doing your job, but not one of you has come up with anything concrete. I’m not knocking any of you, I know how hard it is, but if he murders someone else, and the chances are he will, we’re all going to be back out there, looking for another job. It’s not funny. We need a positive lead.” Briggs rubbed his forehead. “What about Scenes of Crime?”
“We found Janine Harper’s mobile phone in the back of the shop, under the Dexion shelving. No idea why it was there. Maybe she was trying to call us, and in the struggle it was knocked under there. Anyway, we’ve checked it for prints and can only find hers. We’ve also gone through the contacts and all the messages, so we have a lead on the boyfriend.”
“Good work,” said Briggs. “Bring him in, let’s talk to him.”
“And we found a list,” offered Fenton. “It looks like an order for make-up, but it’s not easy to make out. It was screwed up in a bin, and it looks like it’s had coffee on it. The only thing I can really see is the name Corndell.”
“Anyone know that name?” asked Briggs.
“I do,” said Reilly. Before the Irishman had a chance to elaborate, Thornton came through the door and apologised for his lateness. He was also out of breath.
“Everything okay, Frank?” asked Briggs.
“Yes.” He turned in Gardener’s direction and had the common courtesy to offer his apologies to his superior officer. “Anyway, I’ve uncovered something interesting. The knots used to hold Janine’s legs were different to the first murder. He used a double loop bowline.”
“Which is what?” asked Gardener.
Thornton explained the technicalities of the knot. “Apparently, it was used at sea for lowering injured men from boats, one leg through each loop.” Thornton sat down, sipping the coffee he’d brought in with him, staring at the stranger in their midst.
Gardener took over. “So, once again we have a link to the navy, or the fishing industry. The first time, he used a sailor’s eye splice. This time he’s used a double loop bowline. So, someone needs to check these out. Is our killer a fisherman? Or does he simply have a good knowledge of knots and he’s using that fact to throw us?” He glanced at Thornton. “Well done, Frank. Can you keep going with that one? Find out as much as you can about the rope itself.”
“Right. Reilly–” started Briggs.
“Excuse me, sir?” The voice belonged to the youngest member of the team, Patrick Edwards. He was fresh-faced, nineteen years old, and had an earring in one ear that no one was pleased about.
Briggs glanced at him, but didn’t offer a qu
estion.
Edwards took it as his cue. “I’ve got something on a missing limo. Took a call about ten minutes ago from a company in Bradford who hire them out for all sorts of reasons. One of them has gone missing. It was hired out for the whole of last week and should have been returned on Monday. It hasn’t.”
“What? And it’s taken them till now to report it missing? Okay, as soon as we’re out of here get yourself over there, lad, and get every scrap of information you can.” Briggs turned his attention to the Irishman.
Reilly stood up. “The list that Scenes of Crime found ties in with what the boss and I have in mind. We have a lead on Corndell, and we’re going to see him this afternoon.”
Briggs was quick to notice a confused expression on Gardener’s face. “Does your partner know about it, Reilly?”
“Of course he does. William Henry Corndell is his name.”
“And where does he fit in?”
“He’s an actor. Lives in a big house near Horsforth.”
“What makes you think he has anything to do with it?”
“I’m not saying he has, but something Laura said tells me he might be able to help, if nothing else. Apparently, there’s a bloke out at the university who books all the entertainment. He reckons this William Henry Corndell is the best there is. Worked the stage in the West End, films as well. Anyway, he’s playing a one-man show at the uni, and Laura’s covering it. And if you want another reason, Steve Fenton’s just given it to us with the list they found in the shop.”
“Fair enough, it’s a lead.”
Gardener asked a question of the CSM, Steve Fenton. “Any luck with that piece of film starring the infamous Inspector Burke?”
“Yes and no. The tech lads have finished with it. They tell me it’s not an old piece of film. It was made to look that way with modern technology. It was filmed recently, but that’s all they can tell us.”
“What brand of disc?”
“TDK.”
“Can you get anything from the batch number?” Gardener figured he was searching for a needle in a haystack, but he had to try.
“Not the kind of info you wanted. I spoke to TDK this afternoon. The only thing they can tell us from the batch number is that it was manufactured about fifteen years ago, and not necessarily in the UK.”