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Martin Brown glanced at his watch again, seemingly more agitated.
“So, did he arrive by taxi, or didn’t he?” pressed Gardener.
“Just a minute.” He walked over and consulted another colleague. On his return, he had better news. “Yes, he did arrive by taxi; just after four o’clock.”
“From where? And do you know which taxi firm?” asked Gardener.
“Look, is this really necessary? I do have a show to present.”
“We wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t,” said Reilly.
“Aren’t you Laura’s husband?”
“Now that is an unnecessary question,” replied Reilly. “But for the record, yes. So, can you tell us where he was brought from?”
“No, I can’t. I assume, rightly or wrongly and quite frankly I don’t care, his home in Horsforth.”
“I’d like to go backstage and have a word with him,” said Gardener. That statement took Martin Brown one step closer to madness, or so his expression conveyed. “Are you kidding me? The man is about to go on stage and present a show. Have you any idea of the kind of pressure he will be under?”
“Not as much as me,” replied Gardener.
“I don’t think it would be wise.”
“I’m not really interested in your opinion, Mr Brown. And whether or not you like it, I am going behind that curtain and I am going to have a word with your client.”
“Are you here on official business?”
“In what capacity?” Gardener asked.
“Police capacity. Has Mr Corndell done anything wrong?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Then, I don’t see any reason why it can’t wait until after his show. And before you ask, I have to tell you his contract specifically states that no one will be granted interviews either before or after the show.”
“I don’t want an interview, I simply want to wish him all the best,” Gardener answered.
“Haven’t quite gone the correct way about it, then, have we? As I mentioned, his contract stated no interviews, no guests. He was very particular about the contract being followed to the letter.”
Gardener noticed the crowd growing restless. The background music changed again, to another heavily orchestrated piece he didn’t recognise. “Do you have that contract to hand?” he asked.
“It’s in my office.”
“I want a copy before I leave. And now, I’m going backstage for a quick word, after which, you can introduce him.” Gardener turned to his partner. “Sean, you stay here and see that Mr Brown is kept amused.”
Gardener tipped his hat and walked off. He entered the stage through the side curtain, suddenly caught off balance by the atmosphere.
The set was incredible, a mock cathedral with red velvet drapes and huge backdrops and images from horror films. In between the photos, the crumbling brickwork had arched windows and turrets, bearing the hallmark of a million spiders spinning their webs. And he could smell garlic.
But none of what he saw had prepared him for the centrepiece. In the middle of the stage stood a huge podium surrounded by strobe lights, which were currently being switched on and off one by one. A fog machine added to the effect. A number of stagehands were asking the person on the podium if everything was okay, and he knew from the replies that it could only be one person behind the breathtaking make-up.
Even Gardener – who was by no means a film buff – knew that Corndell had recreated the character Quasimodo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
The attention to detail was fascinating, hypnotic. His nose was shaped like a tetrahedron, a sort of four-sided triangular pyramid, with a mouth arched like a horseshoe. Corndell’s left eye was pushed upwards, and his eyebrow had bristles like those of a carrot. The right eye was buried behind a tumour. He had irregular teeth like the battlements of a fortress, and a horny lip over which the teeth protruded like a walrus tusk. His head was covered with red bristles, and between his shoulders he had a hell of a hump. How he had balanced it, Gardener had no idea. His legs were so strangely positioned that they only touched at the knees, as if they had been broken in order to achieve the effect.
He wore a dark grey three-quarter smock that must have been laid on a warehouse floor for the last ten years, and a tight pair of black leggings for which Gardener was sure Corndell had used padding. No one on earth could have legs like that. The whole effect was neatly finished with Corndell trussed up and held firm to the podium by chains that appeared to be real, but were surely not.
Suddenly, as if in slow motion, Corndell turned his head, spotting Gardener. Despite the intense amount of make-up, Gardener detected an expression of pure rage on Corndell’s face. His remaining eye widened and nearly popped out of its socket.
