“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
