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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 are we dealing with here?”
“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.”
