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“Won’t help Corndell either, when I find him. So, where the hell is Stewart?” asked Reilly. “He must know something, which is why he’s left here without telling anyone. He hasn’t even left a note. That means he was in a hurry.”
Reilly hoped so, because the only thing that would stop him wiping Corndell from the face of the earth was if his partner found him first.
Briggs phoned and informed the station before putting his mobile in his pocket. “I think I know where they might be.”
Chapter Fifty-four
Gardener parked the car and switched off the engine. He remained in the vehicle, studying the building opposite: what was thought to be a disused warehouse. He now knew better. In the sodium glow of the streetlamps it resembled the mausoleum he imagined it would be inside. The sky was clear, and he noticed the start of a slight ground frost.
After the disagreement with the UPS driver, Gardener had gone back inside the house and forced himself to remain calm. It was the only way he was going to think rationally. It was obvious who had paid the driver five hundred pounds to deliver the package containing a clue as to whom he held hostage. But it didn’t tell him where.
For that, he had to rely on his police instinct and his memory. The warehouse behind the Playhouse was where the watch committee had held their screenings, the very same group of people that had banned William Henry Corndell’s film Imperfection. That’s where he had to be.
He’d phoned the station to find out that Reilly and Briggs had gone to see Trevor Thorpe, after which they were going to Corndell’s with an arrest warrant. Gardener figured they would have been far too late.
In the car, he glanced at the parcel he’d received and removed the photo and the newspaper clipping. The photo was of Laura. The clipping was the damning review she had written about Corndell’s performance at the university theatre. So, it was pretty obvious that he had Laura in there. And during the time that Gardener had spent with Fettle, Corndell had probably taken his father. So, God knows what he was going to walk into.
Glancing at the dashboard clock, it was six-fifteen. He knew that he shouldn’t walk in there alone, but calling for backup could waste vital time. Nevertheless, he owed Sean that much.
Reaching into his jacket pocket revealed he did not have his mobile. In that instinctive moment of panic he tried every pocket he had, before reaching into the glove compartment, even though he knew it wouldn’t be there.
A picture suddenly came to mind: he had thrown the phone on to an armchair before he’d gone to see who was at the door. He obviously hadn’t retrieved it. So now he had no choice but to walk blindly into the situation alone – seeing as public phone boxes were a thing of the past.
Annoyed with himself, Gardener stepped out of the car and locked the door. He saw little point in scurrying over to the warehouse. Knowing what he knew about Corndell and how security conscious he was, there would most definitely be CCTV watching his every move.
He confidently strolled to the building and opened the side door next to a roller shutter door. It was unlocked.
As he thought, he was expected.
* * *
The first thing he noticed about the inside of the warehouse was the clinical silence. Standing still, he could hear absolutely nothing. That made things worse, because he would almost certainly telegraph his moves.
Glancing around, he saw what he presumed was the missing limo, and the large white truck parked in front of a corridor with rooms either side. As he crept forward and glanced in, the first office had a computer terminal and monitor, which was on stand-by. There was also a variety of other electrical equipment including, as he’d suspected, CCTV. As the screens revealed, it was also linked to Corndell’s house.
Opposite that office was another. Standing on a tripod was a movie camera. The room had plain, bland walls, with a chair in front of one of them. There was no carpet. Gardener suspected it was the room where Corndell had donned his Inspector Burke make-up, filming the small clue he had left them.
Further down the corridor Gardener sensed a strong odour of leather before he came to the last two rooms. On the left, a small kitchen; on the right, a complete replica of the room in Corndell’s house, featuring mannequins and mirrors and benches. A number of shelves were crammed with tubes and bottles of make-up.
Gardener walked inside and inspected the costumes. The Hunchback from the night at the theatre was there, complete with blood spatter patterns. The vampire costume Chaney wore in London After Midnight was also present, and it too had blood spatter. It was obvious now how Corndell had managed to do all he had without being caught. The warehouse was his centre of operations, not his house.
Outside the room he glanced to his right. A curtain blocked entry into the main warehouse. He waved it aside and stepped through, into another world. The view was magnificent, one to make Hollywood sit up and take notice.
Straight ahead was a French street scene reminiscent of yesteryear. The ground was covered in a fine layer of dust. Two circular pavements around ten feet in diameter had been constructed on either side, each with old-fashioned gas lamps. The street continued toward a brick pavement, where he noticed more traditional lamps. A swirling mist hung around the lamps.
Gardener’s heart raced when he suddenly realised that hanging from those traditional lamps were a number of bodies. All were perfectly still, as if they had been in the building some time. Despite that, he ran forward to test the pulse of the first. As soon as he grabbed the wrist, it came away in his hand and Gardener breathed a sigh of relief as he realized they were mannequins. He checked two more with the same result.
Turning to study the remainder of the area, he realised that the warehouse roof had been raised in order to accommodate the showpiece, a huge gothic building that had been backlit very carefully in order to create an eerie ambience, particularly as the façade had been constructed with cylindrical columns and arches. A series of steps led up to a number of doors, each with a wire grille front save one. A glass dome sat on the roof of the building, and on each corner were a number of angels glancing in different directions.
Before he had any further chance to think about what to do, a spotlight lit up one of the arches. Approximately twenty feet high, standing in one of them was Corndell, as far as Gardener could ascertain. “At last, Mr Gardener.”
The voice confirmed it all. He suspected a hidden microphone. Even at that distance it was crisp and concise. Gardener walked slowly forward as Corndell launched into his running commentary.
“The Paris Opera House is one of the most beautiful buildings in the world, Mr Gardener. It contains levels beyond levels of cellars, fountains, chandeliers – the history of which is very dark and very interesting. It even has its own ghost!”
It’s talking to me, thought Gardener, with little idea what he was going to do, or in fact what he was going to say once he was up close. All he did know was that he was at an extreme disadvantage from the positions they were in.
Corndell continued unabated. “Part of the mystique of the opera house, Mr Gardener, is the levels that it inhabits underground. There are chorus rooms, green rooms, ballrooms, set rooms, cellars for props, closets, dressing rooms, and many more kinds of rooms making up the building. The underground levels contain all sorts of gruesome objects from various operas that have been produced. Of course, my replica is nowhere near as prolific, but it does contain a nasty surprise for you.”
