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“Like hell,” replied Fettle.
“So, what have you got for us, Mr Fettle?”
From further down the corridor, DC Sharp called to his superior officer. “Sir, we’re having trouble with this door. It’s locked.”
Reilly glanced over. “Whose dressing room is it?”
“Leonard White’s.”
“Go and find a spare key, somebody must have one!”
Fettle piped up again. “Well, do you want to know, or don’t you?”
“Know what?” asked Gardener.
“Christ, Gardener, how the hell did you make a copper if you can’t concentrate on the job in hand?”
“There is rather a lot going on at the moment.”
“I saw Leonard White walk out of the building. He left the theatre through the stage door.”
“When?”
“Just after half past seven. I’d been for a leak. I wondered what the hell were going on. Then I heard a lot of noise from the theatre. Only it can’t have been Leonard White, can it? He were dead by then, so it must have been your killer.” Fettle snorted. “Bloody perfect disguise, I can tell you.”
Gardener was about to ask another question when Sharp shouted “Jesus Christ!” as the dressing room door was opened.
Reilly immediately made his way to the room. “Boss, you’d better come and see.”
“There’s never a dull moment.” Gardener turned to Albert Fettle. “Stay here, I need to ask you some more questions.” He then brushed past Sharp into the already crammed small dressing room with Fitz, Reilly, and Alan Briggs.
At the back of the room stood a table. Above that, a mirror had been fix
ed to the wall. Perched on the table were eight one-pint glasses. Each one was mostly full with a substance resembling raw liver. The bottom section of each glass, however, was a clear serum.
“What’s going on?” asked Gardener.
“At a guess, I’d say we’ve found Leonard White’s blood,” replied Fitz.
Gardener stared at the glasses, horrified. “It doesn’t look like blood.”
“That’s because it’s clotted. It’s been in those jars quite a while. Like I said on the stage, I think the victim was killed yesterday. And that’s not all,” said Fitz. He pointed to the wall above the mirror.
The colour of the scrawl was slightly lighter than the congealed blood, but Gardener suspected that’s what had been used to write it:
For long weary months I have awaited this hour.
Chapter Six
Gardener was standing in the garage, staring at the stripped Bonneville motorcycle.
The place was a tip as usual, with spare parts all over. A variety of engine parts sat in a cardboard box, transmission parts in another. At least he hoped they were, and not mixed up. Two wheel rims leaned against one wall, ready for cleaning. Almost every other part of the bike was in a random location he was yet to recall. There were photocopied pages of the service manual tacked to every wall. He was pleased that he’d eventually sent the frame to Jeff Harrison – the enthusiast he’d met in Rawston – to have it professionally cleaned and protected.
His CD player was blaring out Holding Out For A Hero by Bonnie Tyler, the excessive drum rolls reverberating around the small enclosure, rattling the door and anything else that was loose. He could feel the beat on the floor under his feet.
He allowed himself a brief moment to think about Sarah and that fateful night in Leeds. She had been holding out for a hero – her husband – but he couldn’t find the necessary superpowers to save her. He hadn’t felt like a hero then, and he didn’t now.
The track changed to Cold As Ice by Foreigner, which led him into thinking about the case.
