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“How do you make that out, Mr Brown?” asked Gardener.
“You upset him. He was all for cancelling the show, but it was me who persuaded him otherwise. I could see he wasn’t happy. But I’ll tell you this much,” – he pointed a finger in Gardener’s direction – “I will be placing a formal complaint about your behaviour here this evening.”
“We’re just doing our job,” said Reilly.
“You told me you were not on official business. As far as I’m concerned, you came here deliberately to upset him, for what reason I have no idea. What the hell has that man done to warrant you hounding him?”
“Where is he now?” asked Gardener.
“I have no idea, but wherever he is, I don’t suppose he’ll want to see you.”
“That’s irrelevant.” Gardener pushed past Martin Brown, but was unsure in which direction to go. He turned back again. “Where are the dressing rooms?”
“That way.”
“Don’t point,” said Gardener. “Show me!”
Martin Brown reluctantly did so, glancing back at the students who had paid good money for the show and were now lost as to what was going on.
At the end of the corridor, they found the door to Corndell’s dressing room open and empty. To the side, the door that led out on to the street was also open, the cold night air creeping in. Gardener stepped outside but he couldn’t see anyone.
Martin Brown was in the dressing room when he came back. “He must have gone. Are you satisfied?”
“Not really.” He turned to his partner. “Sean, let’s take your car.”
“Where are you going?” asked Martin Brown.
Gardener didn’t answer but simply left the building. When they reached his sergeant’s car and jumped in, Reilly turned and asked, “Horsforth?”
“I don’t think he could have got that far just yet. Drive around the streets. See if we can see anything of him. After all, the way he looks, he won’t be hard to spot, will he?”
* * *
Fifteen minutes of driving yielded nothing. Gardener was mystified. Corndell couldn’t possibly have disappeared so quickly, unless of course he’d managed to flag down a taxi immediately. Or had his own transport.
They eventually pulled up outside the house at Horsforth. Gardener jumped out of the car and in the background, through the trees, he noticed lights burning on the bottom floor. Then a bedroom light went on. “He must be here, Sean.”
Reilly stood close to the gate and the intercom. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and drew out a miniature digital voice recorder, and then pressed the button on the wall.
The intercom flicked into life with Corndell’s unmistakable voice. “I do not wish to talk to anyone.”
The intercom cut off and the bedroom light went out. Reilly pressed the intercom once more, but nothing happened.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Gardener was in the office for eight o’clock. The heating hadn’t yet kicked in, and the room was chilly. Reilly hadn’t arrived, and the overpowering silence was something he could do without. He crossed the room, switched on the small radio perched on the window ledge, and immediately re-tuned to Radio 2, listening briefly to a news broadcast about the economy. As he turned towards his desk, Maurice Roberts, the night shift duty sergeant, tapped on his door and entered. He was holding a clipboard.
“Morning, sir.”
“Morning,” replied Gardener, about to take a seat.
“A message came in for you last night, about nine o’clock.”
Gardener remained standing. “Who from?”
Roberts consulted his notes. “A man called Henry Fowkes.”
“Can’t say as I know him. What did he want?” Gardener’s emotions started to race. Although Roberts hadn’t said as much, his manner and his posture were associated with bad news. He wasn’t his normal cheerful self, and the expression in his eyes was not simple fatigue.
