“You smell unwell, Janine.”
Eventually, she found the nerve to speak, but the voice didn’t sound like hers. “How do you know my name?”
He didn’t answer.
Her entire body felt as if it had been enveloped in ice. Her skin started to itch, and her vision had dark shadows around the edges. What did he mean, she smelled unwell? Surely it wasn’t because it was that time of the month? She’d taken every precaution. Always had.
“Fear, Janine,” he said, as if he’d seen inside her head. “I can smell fear. Are you frightened of me?”
She saw his lips part, but it wasn’t a smile. “No,” she managed to lie.
He let go of her hand. Smirking, he turned to leave the shop. “If you say so.”
Chapter Eight
Gardener and Reilly met outside the mortuary.
For a Sunday morning in late March, the weather was acceptable: blue sky with a little cloud, the sun low, the breeze taking away any warmth.
Reilly glanced at his partner. “Like the new image!”
Gardener smiled. After a shower, he’d changed into a new pair of designer jeans and Ben Sherman shirt, finished off with a pale grey suit jacket. It was the fashion these days, Chris had assured him. He’d wanted his dad to change his image, bring himself more up to date. Gardener had readily agreed, feeling that the time was right.
“Not really my idea, you can blame Chris for that one.”
“A young man with taste.”
“Maybe he can start on you next.” The pair of them laughed. Gardener replaced his hat. It was time to work.
“So, what are we dealing with, boss? Why hang a bloke after you’ve killed him?”
“Maybe he’s trying to prove a point.”
“What point? The man was already dead.”
“He’s trying to tell us something, Sean. There’s a reason to what he’s doing, as far as he’s concerned anyway. He’s drained the blood for a reason. He very obviously killed the man for a reason. We just have to find out what it is.”
Reilly shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about what he might have done leading up to that. Did he leave him alive, and let him watch his life drain away? But once he’d done him in, he packed him up, moved him, hung him in front of an audience, and then calmly walked out of the place dressed as the man he’d killed. Why? It was a hell of a risk.”
“Impact, Sean. Everything he’s doing is meant to shock. The first is for the audience. They have no idea anything has happened. Consequently, they think they’re watching an execution, which, to all intent and purpose, is part of the show. The second is for us. We have a corpse with no blood. The next is for anyone who sees him walk out. And the final shock is ours again, we get the blood back.”
“A control freak?” asked Reilly. “Is he doing it all because he can? It’s a great way to cover your tracks, so it is.”
“That’s all part of it, isn’t it?” said Gardener. “He can do anything he wants if we don’t know who he is. If he’s so good at disguising himself, how the hell are we going to stop him?”
“The same way we usually do. We wait for him to make a mistake.”
The pair of them entered the building, walking down the corridor leading to Fitz’s workroom, the resonant sound of their heels bouncing off the walls. Gardener nodded to the receptionist as they passed. “You know, I can’t believe that someone could be so good with make-up that he could fool everyone around him.”
“Wouldn’t take much if you didn’t really know who he was supposed to be,” replied Reilly.
“My dad did.”
“What do you mean?”
Gardener turned to face his partner. “My dad went to see Leonard White at the Grand Theatre yesterday afternoon. He spent an hour with him.”
“And he didn’t notice anything?”
“I haven’t spoken to him yet. I’ve only had an hour at home, and that was before I came here. It doesn’t look to me like he’s had any sleep. I thought maybe we could both talk to him later.”
“Has he not said anything?”
“No. The only time we spoke was when I picked him up from the theatre. He was really quiet, so I asked him what was wrong, and he said he didn’t know. He told me that Leonard wasn’t himself, he was very subdued.”
“Did your dad ask him what was wrong?”
“He did, but he said his friend wasn’t very talkative, which was unusual in itself. But he also said that Leonard seemed worried about his wife... and how she was going to take the news.”
“What news?” Reilly asked.
“That’s just it, he didn’t say, even though my dad tried to get it out of him. He said he seemed depressed. My dad had the feeling something awful had happened, and his friend couldn’t bring himself to discuss it.”
“Still, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? We already know that your dad wasn’t talking to his lifelong friend,” Reilly said.
“Frightening thought, that one.”
Both men turned and continued toward the steel silver door at the end of the corridor. Reilly opened it, allowing Gardener to walk in first. Theatre No.1 was a narrow building, long and low with strip lighting, accommodating four steel gurneys. Only one was occupied. Fitz stood behind it, facing Gardener, talking to DCI Alan Briggs. The pathologist wore gloves and a green surgical gown. His mask had been lowered. A microphone hung above his head.
The smell of formaldehyde was overpowering. Gardener had never become accustomed to it.
“Morning,” said Fitz. “You’re just in time.”
Before Gardener had a chance to reply, four wall-mounted speakers powered out the opening bars of Puccini’s
