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“I am.” She helped herself to another mouthful of pasta.
“Is it the university job?”
“Yes, but I can’t think why. I mean, when Martin rang me, he was ridiculously excited that he’d managed to book some obscure actor called William Henry Corndell for the uni. Like I said, I’ve never heard of him.”
“Have you checked him out?”
“I have. Can’t find any reference to him.” She had recently changed direction with her career. For many years she had been a freelance photographer. Examples of her work were framed around their two-storey house in Yeadon. More recently she had gone back to the second love of her life, entertainment journalism. Most magazines carried her reviews of the local and regional plays. Every three months she travelled down to London to keep her eye on what was up and coming and would eventually be touring.
“Wallace Henry Corndell, yes, but not William.”
“Who was Wallace?”
“A big film director back in the Sixties, worked for Ealing, turned out a string of comedies. Judging by the reports I’ve read, he was very good at his job.”
“Is Corndell a relative in the same line of business?” suggested Reilly.
“Perhaps, but not as successful, otherwise I would have heard of him. Anyway, mine is not to reason why. Martin absolutely raves over the man. Said he saw him down in London when Corndell was rehearsing for Phantom of the Opera.”
“Well, there you are then, he must have a talent.”
“But that’s just it, I can’t find a reference for that either. We all know Michael Crawford was the star of that show, and there have been various leading men since, but I’m sure that William Henry Corndell wasn’t one of them.”
Reilly finished his food, sat back in his chair. As Laura had already finished hers, he signalled the waiter once more for the dessert menu. “It must be costing the university a small fortune if they’re shipping him all the way from London for one night.”
“That’s just it, they’re not. Apparently he lives locally.”
“Where?”
“About five or six miles from us, in Horsforth.”
“Does he now? Well, I never knew that.”
“See! You men never pay attention.”
Chapter Nineteen
Gardener glanced at the clock: 7:30.
He was feeling guilty for spending the last two hours at home, leading something close to a normal life. Before leaving the station he’d phoned ahead, and Malcolm had made an early dinner of chargrilled chicken breasts and salad, with granary baguettes. All three ate together before Malcolm had taken off for a night at the small private cinema in Headingley. Gardener hoped it would lift Malcolm’s spirits.
He cleared the pots, took a shower, and thought some more about the case. Most of the team had spent the day trawling through the huge pile of witness statements, consulting HOLMES. A number of cases came to light regarding blood being drained, but none of them bore any of the hallmarks of the Leonard White murder.
Despite being frustrating, it was also challenging. There was nothing Gardener loved more. The main things on his mind were the watch committee and the puzzles, the connection being Harry Fletcher. Gardener could not figure out why Fletcher would wait until now if there had been a conflict within the group. In spite of the fact that he kept fading in and out of life over the last twenty years, he had always been local. Why not take his revenge before now?
In the kitchen, Gardener placed a cup of herbal tea on the tray before him, and a can of Coke for Chris, as well as a number of chocolate bars. Gardener picked up the tray, and headed for the garage. The connecting door was open. Gardener pushed it wider with one foot, comforted by the scene before him. Chris was dressed in an oil-stained boiler suit that was at least two sizes too big. The smell of oil and petrol suffused the air. Nuts and bolts clanked as they landed in glass jars. Gardener smiled. His job was very demanding. If all he could grab was a couple of hours now and again, he’d settle for that.
Chris glanced at his father before immediately clearing a place to put the tray. “Thanks, Dad.” He grabbed his Coke and a chocolate bar.
As Gardener took stock, he couldn’t believe how clean and tidy the place was. Within a couple of hours, Chris had put everything in boxes, which he’d carefully labelled and placed in some sort of order. Nuts, bolts, screws and washers of all descriptions had been segregated into different glass jars, and the garage was beginning to feel mor
e like home than a workshop, especially as Spook was stretched out on a cushion on one of the shelves, casually washing herself, totally unconcerned at what was happening around her.
“You’ve done a terrific job, Chris.”
“I’ve been at it for a couple of days.”
“How come?”
