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“Which one?” Gardener asked.
“Horsforth.”
Gardener leaned forward on his desk. “We had a witness who said that Leonard White had entered the station in Leeds. No one has a record of him buying a ticket. No one saw him leave, and no one knew where he went to.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Do you think there’s a tunnel under the station in Leeds which goes to Horsforth as well?”
“Still looking into that one, but I did find out about one of those nature walks that goes from Leeds station and eventually finishes up there. Which would be a hell of a walk to do at night. We’re appealing for witnesses.”
“Okay. It may not be much of a lead, but it’s something. Let’s see if Briggs will put a couple of the junior officers on to it. In the meantime, you and I should go and see Corndell again, see if we can have a better look around the house.”
“I’m all for that,” replied Reilly.
A knock on the door diverted Gardener’s attention. Steve Fenton opened it and walked in, immediately helping himself to a biscuit. Before the door closed, Frank Thornton and Bob Anderson entered as well, each carrying a folder in one hand and a coffee in the other. They, too, helped themselves to biscuits.
“What the feck’s going on here, then, open biscuit day?” Reilly exclaimed.
“Give it a rest, Reilly. You probably pinched them anyway,” said Thornton.
“That’s hardly the point now, is it?”
“Depends whose office you raided,” said Anderson.
“Yours.”
Gardener was amused by the banter of his colleagues, the first since the investigation had started, as far as he could remember. “Okay, Steve, what do you have for us on the prints?”
Fenton reached out for another biscuit, but Reilly was quicker and held them close to his chest. “Information first, son.”
Fenton turned to Gardener. “Nothing, sir. Yours are on there. And Corndell’s, I assume, because his are not on file.”
“Okay, it was worth a try. Give him a biscuit, Sean.”
“Feck off! That’s no good to us.”
“Frank? Bob? What have you got?”
“There’s a lot of information about Chaney, but I don’t suppose any of it’s new,” said Thornton. “I’ve copied some stuff and put it in the folder. Basically, it’s a rags to riches story about a bloke who was born to deaf and dumb parents. His ability to act came from miming for his parents. He went to Hollywood, but it was quite a few years before he made it big.”
Thornton seemed embarrassed by the fact that he’d found very little.
“He did make a film called The Scarlet Car, but I think the killer has used it purely as a red herring. It was filmed in 1917, and information is a bit bloody thin on the ground. I think the film rhymed with what he wanted to say, and the only reason was to point us in Chaney’s direction.”
“Despite being an icon, very little was known about Chaney,” said Anderson. “Apparently, it’s believed he once gave an interview and the only thing he said was, ‘My whole career has been devoted to keeping people from knowing me’, and with that he got up and left.”
“You’re joking,” said Gardener.
“Apparently not. He was very secretive. As I said, there was no bigger film star, but very little was known about him.”
“A bit like our friend Willy,” said Reilly.
“At least Chaney had a traceable career,” replied Gardener. “Anything on Harry Fletcher?”
“I spoke to a bloke who used to work with him at the Playhouse. Apparently, he left there and went to work in one of the Broadway theatres in New York. Anyway, he didn’t stay too long, and the last time the man saw him was a couple of years ago. He was back living in Leeds but didn’t say where, and he was quite excited about a new project, but didn’t say what.”
“What is it with these thespian types?” said Gardener. “They’re always shrouded in bloody mystery. Keep trying. He must be somewhere. If you’ve found one person who knows and remembers him, there may be others. We need to find them.”
