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“You knew Leonard White?” asked Gardener.
“Yes, I did. Not that I worked with him, but he actually starred in one of my father’s films many years ago, just as he was starting out.”
“Which one?” Reilly asked.
“Tales From A Village Pub, 1957. It was a compendium of short stories. I saw him on and off over the years after that.”
“But you hadn’t seen him recently?” asked Gardener.
“No. But I must say, I rather wanted to go and see him at the Grand Theatre the night he was killed. He was only there for the one night, and I would have loved to have heard him talk, perhaps even had the chance to talk to him myself.”
“Where were you that night?” asked Reilly.
“I was here, at home.”
“Alone?” questioned Reilly.
Corndell knew that one was coming. “I’m always on my own, Mr Reilly. I am in constant demand with my work and I rarely, if ever, get the chance to leave the house these days.”
“Didn’t you buy the house from Leonard White?” asked Gardener.
“My father did, many years ago.”
“How well did you know him?”
“My father?” Corndell grinned. “Sorry... just my little joke. Well, I wouldn’t say I knew him all that well. I have seen most, if not all, of the films he made at Hammer. You have to remember, we travelled in different circles. When my father bought this house I was still in London, and remained there until after he’d retired. It was quite sad, really, because he never had the chance to appreciate it. He died four months after buying it. I came up to Leeds after his death, and stayed to look after my mother.”
“Is your mother still alive?” asked Gardener.
“I’m afraid not, she died of cancer many years ago.” Corndell finished his tea and continued with another question. “If he’s that good with his disguise, how will you catch him? You won’t know what he looks like.”
“Very true,” replied Gardener. “That’s something else we wanted to ask you about, make-up techniques.”
“That’s an art in itself, Mr Gardener.”
“Are you involved much with make-up?”
“Very little. Over the years of course, with my theatre work, I have applied my own. As I said, my life is scriptwriting these days.”
“Not completely,” said Reilly.
“Sorry?”
“It’s not all writing, is it, Mr Corndell?” retorted Gardener. “I believe you’ve recently accepted a live performance at the University of Leeds.”
“You’re very well informed.”
“It pays to be,” replied Gardener.
“It’s true, then?” asked Reilly.
“Yes, it is. The gentleman who books the entertainment called me a few days previously. May I ask how you kne
w?”
“My wife’s a theatre critic. She’ll be there. I’m sure she’ll give you a good review.”
“She won’t need to, Mr Reilly, my work speaks for itself.”
