by Ray Clark
“About what?” Gardener asked.
“That you’ve managed to ruin the whole evening.”
“How do you make that out, Mr Brown?” asked Gardener.
“You upset him. He was all for cancelling the show, but it was me who persuaded him otherwise. I could see he wasn’t happy. But I’ll tell you this much,” – he pointed a finger in Gardener’s direction – “I will be placing a formal complaint about your behaviour here this evening.”
“We’re just doing our job,” said Reilly.
“You told me you were not on official business. As far as I’m concerned, you came here deliberately to upset him, for what reason I have no idea. What the hell has that man done to warrant you hounding him?”
“Where is he now?” asked Gardener.
“I have no idea, but wherever he is, I don’t suppose he’ll want to see you.”
“That’s irrelevant.” Gardener pushed past Martin Brown, but was unsure in which direction to go. He turned back again. “Where are the dressing rooms?”
“That way.”
“Don’t point,” said Gardener. “Show me!”
Martin Brown reluctantly did so, glancing back at the students who had paid good money for the show and were now lost as to what was going on.
At the end of the corridor, they found the door to Corndell’s dressing room open and empty. To the side, the door that led out on to the street was also open, the cold night air creeping in. Gardener stepped outside but he couldn’t see anyone.
Martin Brown was in the dressing room when he came back. “He must have gone. Are you satisfied?”
“Not really.” He turned to his partner. “Sean, let’s take your car.”
“Where are you going?” asked Martin Brown.
Gardener didn’t answer but simply left the building. When they reached his sergeant’s car and jumped in, Reilly turned and asked, “Horsforth?”
“I don’t think he could have got that far just yet. Drive around the streets. See if we can see anything of him. After all, the way he looks, he won’t be hard to spot, will he?”
* * *
Fifteen minutes of driving yielded nothing. Gardener was mystified. Corndell couldn’t possibly have disappeared so quickly, unless of course he’d managed to flag down a taxi immediately. Or had his own transport.
They eventually pulled up outside the house at Horsforth. Gardener jumped out of the car and in the background, through the trees, he noticed lights burning on the bottom floor. Then a bedroom light went on. “He must be here, Sean.”
Reilly stood close to the gate and the intercom. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and drew out a miniature digital voice recorder, and then pressed the button on the wall.
The intercom flicked into life with Corndell’s unmistakable voice. “I do not wish to talk to anyone.”
The intercom cut off and the bedroom light went out. Reilly pressed the intercom once more, but nothing happened.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Gardener was in the office for eight o’clock. The heating hadn’t yet kicked in, and the room was chilly. Reilly hadn’t arrived, and the overpowering silence was something he could do without. He crossed the room, switched on the small radio perched on the window ledge, and immediately re-tuned to Radio 2, listening briefly to a news broadcast about the economy. As he turned towards his desk, Maurice Roberts, the night shift duty sergeant, tapped on his door and entered. He was holding a clipboard.
“Morning, sir.”
“Morning,” replied Gardener, about to take a seat.
“A message came in for you last night, about nine o’clock.”
Gardener remained standing. “Who from?”
Roberts consulted his notes. “A man called Henry Fowkes.”
“Can’t say as I know him. What did he want?” Gardener’s emotions started to race. Although Roberts hadn’t said as much, his manner and his posture were associated with bad news. He wasn’t his normal cheerful self, and the expression in his eyes was not simple fatigue.
“He runs the St John’s Hospice.”
“Where’s that?” asked Gardener.
“In the town, sir, a couple of streets from Mark Lane. You know, where St John’s Church is.”
“What did he want?” asked Gardener.
“He was a bit concerned about one of his... clients, is how he put it.”
Gardener wondered where the conversation was going. “Concerned, how?”
Reilly’s presence in the office lifted Gardener’s tension a little.
“He didn’t go into details, sir,” replied Roberts. “But a man he’s come to regard as a friend was acting very strangely yesterday, worried about the state of the city and the violence. He was particularly concerned about a killer whom we can’t catch. According to his friend, we had no idea who we’re looking for, and he feared for his own safety.”
“Did he give any names?”
“No, sir. I had the impression that Fowkes thought he was a doctor – patient confidentiality, and all that. Anyway, he left a contact number.”
Gardener glanced at his partner and then Roberts. “Did he say anything else?”
“No, but the way he was talking, I think he had a lot more on his mind. He wants to speak to you.”
Roberts placed the number on the desk and then left the office.
“Any chance we have a lead on Harry Fletcher there, boss?” asked Reilly.
“It’s possible. Shall we ring the number or drive straight over there?”
“We may as well drive–” Reilly’s answer was cut short as duty sergeant Roberts launched himself back into the room.
“Sir?”
“What is it?”
“We’ve just taken a call from St John’s Hospice, there’s another body. I think the killer may have struck again, only this time, it’s much worse.”
“Worse! What could be worse than last time?” asked Gardener, moving around the desk.
“The woman’s hysterical, but she did manage to blurt out the name Henry Fowkes. She kept saying ‘poor Henry’.”
“Let’s move,” Gardener said to Reilly.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Everyone arrived simultaneously: Gardener and Reilly, forensics, Fitz, and even Briggs. Gardener jumped out of the car and immediately started barking orders, which included sealing off the building with scene tape, constables to be placed front and rear, and no one allowed in or out until he said so.
He glanced around. It was surprisingly quiet. Considering it was a homeless shelter, he would have expected to see more people. The building was Victorian, three-storey, in a good state of repair with guttering, window frames and front door, all new.
Entering the building, Gardener heard hushed female voices in another room. To his left was a group of vagrants. He turned around. Glancing down the path, he shouted to one of the officers, “Come in here.” He faced the tramps. “I’m afraid you gentlemen will have to leave.”
“What about our breakfast?”
The two policemen entered the building. Gardener gave them their instruction before walking away. In the kitchen he found the three women, each in tears, comforting each other. A strawberry blonde was leaning over a draining board, repeating the phrase, “poor Henry”. A large pot stood on the cooker and, above that, the one thing he could have done without.
Scrawled on the wall, written in blood, was the new message.
Gardener’s whole world closed in around him. The kitchen was suddenly reduced to the size of a shoebox; sounds were blocked out, people disappeared, and he sensed a rush of adrenaline like he’d never experienced before. His whole body felt full of pins and needles. He was cold, but at the same time he was sweating.
Briggs’ loud voice brought him out of his momentary stupor. “I don’t suppose anybody recognises that?”
“I do, sir,” said Colin Sharp, “it’s from the Phantom film.”
Gardener read the message again:
So far so
good, for a house with a curse on it.
Drawn on the wall underneath the message was an arrow, pointing to the cooking pot. Gardener dreaded to think what was inside. He turned to the three women. “Has anyone touched the pot?”
The strawberry blonde nodded. “I did.”
He realised the stress she was under, but he needed to know the answers to his questions. “What exactly did you do?”
She took her time in replying. “I lifted the lid.”
“Other than the pot, have you touched anything else?” he asked her.
She shook her head, as if to confirm she hadn’t.
“Can you tell me your exact movements from the time you came through the door?”
She was obviously very upset, and Gardener sensed she was perhaps closer to the man they called Henry Fowkes than the others. He waited patiently while she described her movements. She’d been the first to arrive. Let herself in, hung up her coat, and came straight through to the kitchen, where she’d remained, joined by the other two as they arrived.
Fitz came into the room. Gardener produced a pair of gloves. After slipping into them, he approached the cooking pot and lifted the lid. The strawberry blonde turned her head and let out a stifled sob. The pan was three quarters full with warm water – tinged pink. A severed head stared back at him. Gardener wondered if the blood had been drained prior to death – and where.
Because the water wasn’t boiling, the skin had not blistered, and the face would be recognisable to anyone who knew him. The eyes were open and the depth of shock disturbed Gardener; if they could speak, he was quite certain he would not want to hear what they had to say.
“Is this the head of Henry Fowkes?” he asked the strawberry blonde.
Although she didn’t answer, one of the others confirmed it.
“Has either of you been anywhere else in the house?”
They said they hadn’t.
“So, none of you have any idea where his body is?” Gardener asked.
Once again, they confirmed they did not.
Frank Thornton and Bob Anderson were also in the room. Gardener addressed them. “Can one of you take these ladies out of here and see if you can arrange for a strong drink? Meanwhile, call the station and have them send round a couple of female councillors.”
Gardener wasn’t very pleased that they had probably contaminated the crime scene, but there was little he could do about it now.
Briggs had moved a little closer. “What’s that in the bottom of the pan?”
Gardener followed his line of vision, and only then did he notice what Briggs was talking about. He glanced around the kitchen, found a pair of tongs and lifted out the object: a sealed test tube with a note inside.
Briggs turned away in frustration. “This bastard’s been busy.” He threw his arms in the air. “And I suppose no one saw him again. And even if they did, we’re not likely to know who the fuck he was this time.”
“We don’t know that, yet,” said Gardener, removing the stopper and the note from the tube.
The silence in the room became intolerable as each man patiently waited for Gardener to unfold what would more than likely be another puzzle, which would send them off to God knew where in order to find God knew what. Hopefully it would be the remainder of the corpse.
He read the message out aloud:
Here’s the man you’ve been looking for,
So continue your search, out through the door.
Poor old Harry has met his doom,
If you want the rest, it’s in his room.
“Does this mean we’ve found Harry Fletcher, who might be called Henry Fowkes?” Briggs asked.
“Possibly,” said Gardener, passing the note to Briggs. “At least it would explain why we couldn’t find him.” Before leaving the kitchen, a uniformed officer deposited some scene suits and each officer donned one. They walked slowly through the house to find the three women whom Thornton had taken away. They were all sitting in a lounge. “Which one is Henry’s room?”
One of them women stood up. “I’ll show you.”
“It’s okay,” said Gardener. “Just tell us.” After the information, Gardener, Reilly, and Briggs traipsed up the stairs to a second storey landing.
Briggs glared in Gardener’s direction. “Before we go in here and see what he’s left for us, I want it made abundantly clear right now that I don’t care if we have to turn the entire city upside down or how many men it takes, I want this lunatic caught.”
Gardener glanced at Reilly and then Briggs. He understood his superior officer’s frustration, for he felt it himself. Choosing not to reply, he turned and opened the door.
Nothing on earth could have prepared them for the carnage.
The smell hit them first, and each man took an involuntary step back, assaulted by a vile, cloying odour, which immediately coated the insides of their nostrils. Gardener doubted that the remains of a skip full of tightly packed corpses sealed up for the entire summer period would have topped it.
His cast-iron reserve almost slipped and forced him to show his emotions. He had seen what The Roundhay Ripper had left behind, had attended all manner of suicides, observed the victims of car crashes, lived through the experience of the Christmas murders; and he was pretty confident that his partner had seen his fair share of atrocities during his time in the Royal Ulster Constabulary. But here, in what was beginning to resemble a Charnel House in a Yorkshire city, in a man’s private study, they were now observing perhaps the most inhuman degradation that any of them had ever witnessed.
Briggs remained speechless, as did Fitz, Anderson and the SOCOs – who by now had joined them. Even Reilly inhaled a sharp breath.
In the middle of the room was the naked corpse of Henry Fowkes. To all intents, he was levitating. In a spectacular illusion, his whole body had been suspended in mock crucifixion, but there seemed to be nothing holding him in place. The entire room was awash with blood. By far the biggest and most disturbing stain was on the ceiling. He had obviously been decapitated here, in his study. Large globules that had been ready to fall to the floor had finally given up and congealed. Splash patterns doused the walls and the carpet and his PC.
“Jesus Christ!” said Briggs, peering a little closer. “What’s holding him up?”
Gardener glanced to the sides of the room and immediately understood. A series of pulleys were screwed to the walls, and as he strained his eyes he could make out the tines of catgut, or fishing wire. It had been wound round so tight, that the limbs it held were bulging and must have been close to being severed.
In his right hand, a sheet of A4 paper had been fastened. It had the same scroll pattern as the ones they had seen at each crime scene, and no doubt contained another cryptic message. On the floor directly below Henry’s body was a pile of discarded clothes, amongst them, a deerstalker and a pipe.
However, despite everything, the killer had really played an ace, because the most disturbing scene was that the corpse was not headless, raising the question of all questions: whose head was on top of Henry Fowkes’ neck?
“I really don’t believe this fella anymore,” said Briggs. “If Henry Fowkes’ head is in a cooking pot in the middle of the kitchen, who does that belong to? And where is the rest of that fella?”
Gardener’s scene suit rustled as he brought his hands to his head and ran them down his face, exhaling a loud sigh. “We need to see what’s on that paper.”
Briggs turned to Fenton. “You lads seal the room off and do what you have to do, as quickly as you can. He’s right, we need to see what’s on the paper.” He turned to Gardener. “We have to do something, Stewart. The press get wind of this, and we’ll all be out of a job. And quite frankly, I can’t see any way of preventing them from hearing about it.”
“Well, let’s start by going downstairs and interviewing.”
Chapter Forty
The blonde appeared more composed. She took a sip of tea, and then introduced herself as Mary Philli
ps.
“How long have you worked here, Mary?” asked Gardener.
“Four years,” she replied.
“What do you do?”
“A dog’s body, really.” Her gaze was devoid of emotion. “I suppose that’s a bit harsh. I help out with a bit of cooking and a bit of cleaning, nothing special.”
“How long have you known Henry Fowkes?”
“He started work here two years ago.” She took another sip of tea, and Gardener suspected he was going to glean little more information from her than standard replies to his questions. But he’d settle for that. For now.
“Did he live here?”
“Yes, his room was up the stairs, and he pretty much had the run of the house in return for all he did for us.”
“Which was what?”
“He ran the place, Mr Gardener. He was up early in the mornings, cooking all the breakfasts. Once that was over, we’d all have a cup of tea and then we’d straighten the place round. He used to see to all the deliveries.”
“Did he have any family that you know of?”
“No.”
“Any idea how he spent his spare time?”
It was a while before she answered, and Gardener wondered whether or not she’d actually heard him, or had simply forgotten the question.
“Come to think of it, no.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Yesterday teatime, about five o’clock. We’d set out the room for the council meeting.”
“Do you know what that was about?” asked Gardener.
“Henry wanted to try to raise extra funding to keep the place open. We rely on charity, you see. He thought if he could get the council involved we might be able to keep going indefinitely. Anyway, they came for an inspection.”
“They? Do you know how many?”
“Afraid not.”
Gardener stood and left the room. When he found Bob Anderson, he asked him to contact the council for a list of all the names of the people who had attended the previous night’s meeting. When he returned, he continued to question Mary Phillips. “You don’t happen to know where he worked before here?”