“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
