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“No, we don’t think that,” replied Gardener. “But unless we can eliminate you from the list of suspects...”
“Why the hell would I murder him?” demanded Val White.
“He was worth a fortune,” said Reilly.
“And it were all mine, alive or dead.” Val White stubbed out one cigarette and then immediately lit another.
“But we don’t know that, do we? For all we know, you arranged to have him murdered because he wasn’t prepared to leave you all his money. You made it plain that you didn’t get on.”
Gardener noticed her mood switch very quickly. “That’s as maybe, but I’m not a murderer. I was at home in Kendal, all night.”
“All night?” asked Gardener.
“Yes.”
“But not alone?” questioned Reilly.
“No. I was with a man called Anthony Thompson, if you must know. He’s been my lover for at least ten years.” Val White smiled. “Well, seeing as you want to know everything, your perfect Mr White wasn’t very good in that department.”
Chapter Twelve
It was late. Gardener was tired and hungry and keen to start the incident room meeting.
The whole team was there, not to mention a number of local PCs for support. They’d all pulled together and done an excellent job preparing the incident room. The bulletin board was littered with crime scene photographs. A table in front of the board contained items of evidence in clear sealed bags. Briggs opened the meeting.
“Right, let’s have some order. I know it’s been a long day and we’re all tired, but we have quite a few things to talk about. Stewart will take over, he’ll tell you what little we know and what actions need addressing.”
Gardener stood up. Dispensing with formalities, he went straight in. “Leonard White’s death is a bit of a mystery. We think he was alive and well on Friday. He was not due on stage at the Grand Theatre until Saturday, but we suspect he was picked up early from his hotel and taken somewhere secluded, given a sedative, and his blood drained. The next time anyone saw the actor, he was dangling from a rope in front of his audience, despite already being dead. In his dressing room, we found eight glass jars of what looked like raw liver. Although Fitz is still waiting for the results, there’s no reason to think it wasn’t White’s blood.”
Gardener paused to take a sip of water. “Sean and I interviewed his wife Val this morning. She gave us almost nothing to go on. By all accounts, Leonard White was the conscientious type who went to work, did his job, came home, put his money in the bank, and enjoyed what he did without creating enemies... or so she says.
“She can’t think of anyone who would want to kill him. She knows of nothing in his past to suggest otherwise. Checking his career will be a big job because he’s travelled all over the UK, if not the world. We need to ferret out his friends, if he had any locally. Check his bank accounts, insurance policies, see if anyone stood to gain anything from his death aside from her. What Val White knows may be open to question because her husband spent so much time away from home.
“Include her in the search. I want to know where she goes, what she does, who she sees. Despite the fact that Sean and I don’t like her, neither of us suspects she actually murdered him; or for that matter, had him murdered.”
Thinking about the interview, Gardener was unhappy. He wasn’t sure who or what to believe. The fact that she disliked her husband was obvious. Why was another matter. Whilst she was probably innocent – having said everything he had was hers, dead or alive – she was still a suspect, though he had no doubt her alibi would check out. She had given no indi
cation of bad business deals, people crossed or enemies made, but something in the man’s past must have triggered that attack.
Malcolm had painted a different picture, and he was quick to realise that it could affect his father and the remaining members of the watch committee, should that eventually prove to be the connection.
“Before we spoke to her this morning, I had a rough idea where the couple had lived when they were here but little in the way of details. Val White thinks the house was called Ashington Manor. Might have a different name now. It’s out on the Horsforth Road towards Rawdon, big grey house set back from the road. Someone please check that out. Find out when White bought it, who from, and how it was paid for. And who lives there now.”
Gardener updated the ANACAPA chart as he went along. The whiteboard was full of straight lines and arrows pointing all over the place; it resembled a map of the London Underground already.
“So, there we have it. Just because his wife doesn’t know about any misdemeanours, or claims not to know, someone does. One thing we have picked up is that he formed part of a watch committee between 1976 and 1979, a group of people who vet films and decide on the certificate before they’re shown locally. It’s an area worth concentrating on. My father, Malcolm Gardener, was on that committee. The only other surviving member apart from him is someone called Harry Fletcher, at the time, a local writer. He shouldn’t be too hard to find. Look close, dig deep. I can’t help wondering if there was an incident connecting the watch committee.”
“Has your dad said anything, Stewart?” asked Briggs.
“Nothing that helps us with the investigation. It’s all been a bit of a shock.”
“And he can’t remember anything involving the watch committee?”
“No. He couldn’t even remember the names of the other two. But, as I said, I don’t think he’s on top form.”
“Okay, so let someone else take a statement from him when he’s calmed down a little. One of our lovely WPCs, maybe? I’m sure he’d like that.”
Gardener nodded and continued. “Val White gave us another lead. Her husband always stayed at a hotel called The Manor House in Skipton. Sean and I will be going there tomorrow. I’d be surprised if we didn’t have a few leads to follow after that.”
