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Malcolm sat back in the chair. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, Stewart, and I have remembered something, way back.”
“Go on.”
“I’m trying to think. It’s such a long time ago, but I’m pretty sure that one film did have to be banned.”
“Why?” Briggs asked.
“I can’t remember,” said Malcolm.
“Was it pornographic?”
“I don’t think so, I’d have remembered that,” laughed Malcolm. “Harry Fletcher would know. He used to keep a diary, with him being a writer. If there were any films he particularly liked, he made a note of the closing credits. He also kept meticulous notes of the films where we had recommended cuts.”
“How well did you know Harry Fletcher?” asked Briggs.
“About as well as I knew the rest of them. We socialised quite often, went out for meals as a group and discussed the films.”
“Had you ever met him, or heard from him before the watch committee formed?”
“A couple of times, mostly at the cinema. I’d read a couple of his books.”
“Did you meet up with Harry Fletcher more than the others?” pursued Briggs.
“Not particularly.”
“What was he like?”
Malcolm paused. “When I think about it, typical writer. A bit strange.”
“In what way?” Briggs asked.
“What I mean by strange is, he was very quiet, a bit of a loner. You wouldn’t see him for weeks. There were occasions when he missed the watch committee meetings and then offered little explanation as to where he’d been. He’d just tell us he was working on a new book and had to meet deadlines. He was very inquisitive, obsessive. He was always asking questions without ever really telling you why.”
“What kind of questions?” Gardener asked.
“I really can’t remember, Stewart, it was too long ago. I suppose he’d ask us questions when he was writing a new book, to help with his research. He was a people watcher as well, but most writers are.”
“What were his books about?” asked Briggs.
“As far as I can remember, thrillers and murder mysteries. One of the two I read was similar to Agatha Christie, only not as good.” Malcolm took a sip of tea and then asked, “Why are you asking me all these questions about Fletcher?”
“We can’t find him,” said Briggs. “We’ve checked the electoral register and he’s not on that. We can’t find any bank records apart from a couple that were closed down years ago. We’ve even spoken to the people at the Playhouse, and the only address they had for him was a flat somewhere in Leeds. But he’s moved on since then.”
“He didn’t live in a flat when I knew him.”
“Where did he live?” asked Gardener.
Malcolm cupped his hands under his chin. “Burley in Wharfedale. I remember it well, he had a little cottage, set back from the main street. It had a conservatory and a small study where he used to write. I can’t quite remember the address, but I could take you there.”
“We need to check it out,” said Gardener. “What about a telephone number?”
“I might be able to help.” Malcolm stood up and left the room.
Briggs turned to Gardener. “He’s doing well. I can see it’s taken its toll, but he’s handling it great.”
“Yes,” replied Gardener. “I’m pleased, he’s been so down of late.”
“He must have a lot on his mind, Stewart. He knows as well as we do that the connection is most likely the watch committee, and if we find Harry Fletcher dead, then he’s next. But he hasn’t given us much to go on.”
