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Reilly leaned forward and folded his arms across the top of the table. “For long weary months I have awaited this hour.”
“Pardon?” asked Cuthbertson. Turning to Gardener, he asked, “Is he all right?”
“Do you not recognise it? And you being a thespian, shame on you.”
“I never said I was a thespian. Look, is it me, or is it hot in here?” Cuthbertson loosened his shirt collar and ran his hands around his neck.
Gardener wondered why he’d done that. He’d seemed okay until Reilly had mentioned the quote. Why had that unbalanced him? He leaned forward. “The night passed – a night of vague horrors. Tortured dreams.”
“Look, what the hell are you two talking about? Is there something in the coffee? If I’m not under arrest, why am I still here?”
“I’ve told you already, you’re helping with our enquiries. We just wondered how well you knew your films, and whether or not you recognised the two quotes.”
“Oh, I see.” Cuthbertson folded his arms. “You think I did it, and now you’re using the quote on the wall next to Janine’s body. Trying to catch me out.” He leaned forward himself now, a smug smile crossing his features. “I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that, gentleman. I’ve already told you, I have nothing to hide.”
“I wouldn’t say that, judging by the state of your body,” said Reilly.
“What?”
“How did you come by the marks?” asked Gardener.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Take your shirt off,” demanded Reilly. “Maybe that will refresh your memory.”
“Look, okay, I admit to having one or two bruises, but they’re not what you think.”
“How do you know what we’re thinking?” asked Gardener.
“You two think I killed Janine, and the bruises on my body are proof. That’s what you’re thinking.”
“Wouldn’t you?” said Reilly. “On the night a young girl was butchered in your shop, you’d left at four o’clock and were not seen again until the next morning. But when you do make an appearance, you look like you’ve survived a terrorist attack.”
“It’s not as bad as you’re making out.”
“Show us,” said Reilly.
“Gentlemen...”
“Show us now!” Gardener demanded. Although Cuthbertson appeared unwilling, he did finally peel off his shirt.
Gardener grimaced. His back bore the marks of a cat of nine tails: long, stripe shaped cuts. Most of the bruising was purple, yellow in the middle. What Gardener couldn’t understand was why Cuthbertson had not shown any outward signs of discomfort. But having said that, the man had not sat back in his seat.
“So, where were you last night, and how did you get those?” asked Reilly.
Cuthbertson replaced his shirt and returned to his seat.
“Well?” persisted Reilly.
“It’s not what you think.”
“You keep trying to tell us what we’re thinking, instead of what’s going through your head,” pressed Gardener.
Cuthbertson rubbed his hands down his face and sighed heavily. “I never killed Janine Harper. She was my assistant, my friend.”
“Last night!” Reilly reminded him. “Where were you?”
“Ruffin Street,” he replied, quietly.
