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“Now you’ve allowed the dust to settle, best pay a visit to Albert Fettle.”
Chapter Fifteen
Later in the day, Gardener and Reilly entered the theatre through a stage door located in a small side street off New Briggate. The steps leading down took them to the room where Albert Fettle kept himself hidden for most of the day. The silence in the building was haunting. Every sound they made created a resonant echo.
Gardener glanced around Fettle’s makeshift home. The decor had been neglected. The walls were covered with a heavily smoke-stained flowered wallpaper, which had been out of fashion for so long it was almost in again. A table stood in the middle of the room, covered with magazines relating to the entertainment world, and an empty butter container that now doubled as a lunchbox. Other than that, there were two cupboards: on top of one were tea making facilities; at the side of the other, a wastepaper basket.
“Now then,” said Fettle, from an area that neither detective could initially pinpoint. He materialised from a dark corner, a partially eaten sandwich in one hand, and a mug of tea in the other. His rotund belly was still adding pressure to the brown braces. His bald head currently had a black mark running right down the centre, and today’s attire was a checked black and red lumberjack shirt with the same brown pleated trousers and black brogues.
“Not much for me to do round here these days, apart from the odd spot of cleaning.”
And the odd spot was all it seemed to be, thought Gardener. “Won’t be for much longer now, Mr Fettle.”
“Caught him, have you?”
“We’re still making inquiries.”
“You haven’t, then. You’ll never catch him if he’s that good with a brush and paste.”
“Perhaps you should have a go,” said Reilly.
“Just stating facts, son. Anyway, don’t stand out there, get yourselves in here and have a pot of tea, I could do with a fresh one now. I dare say you’ve come to ask a few questions, see if I can remember owt?”
“You could say that. How are things here at the moment?”
“Bloody awful!” he replied, switching on the kettle and digging out a couple of clean mugs from the cup
board, without actually finding out whether or not they wanted a drink. “Like I said, there’s nowt to do.”
“Should give you plenty of time to remember things, then,” said Reilly. “Mine’s two sugars.”
“You’ve a sharp tongue, for a leprechaun.”
Gardener and Reilly chuckled.
“How long have you worked here?” Gardener asked.
“A good forty years,” he replied.
With the kettle having come to the boil, Fettle poured the tea and brought it across to them. He then brought over the tray containing milk and sugar.
“Help yourselves, lads.”
“How would you describe the atmosphere?”
“Good, or else I wouldn’t have stayed. I’ve enjoyed myself, I’ve no intention of retiring, and Mr Price is happy to keep me as long I want to be here.”
“How do you get on with him?”
“Fine. He can be a bit temperamental, but can’t we all? So long as we do our job we have no problems from him.”
At last, thought Gardener: two people who agreed with each other. But it didn’t help the investigation. “So, you’ve known him as long as anyone else. How would you describe him?”
“How do you mean?” asked Fettle.
“What’s he like to work for? What is he like outside work? The usual stuff.”
“He’s not a murderer, if that’s what you’re hinting at. He’s a good bloke. Pays us wages on time, doesn’t grumble if you have a day off sick. He often pops down to see how I’m doing. No, if you’re looking for a scapegoat, Gardener, he’s not your man.”
