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Briggs’ loud voice brought him out of his momentary stupor. “I don’t suppose anybody recognises that?”
“I do, sir,” said Colin Sharp, “it’s from the Phantom film.”
Gardener read the message again:
So far so
good, for a house with a curse on it.
Drawn on the wall underneath the message was an arrow, pointing to the cooking pot. Gardener dreaded to think what was inside. He turned to the three women. “Has anyone touched the pot?”
The strawberry blonde nodded. “I did.”
He realised the stress she was under, but he needed to know the answers to his questions. “What exactly did you do?”
She took her time in replying. “I lifted the lid.”
“Other than the pot, have you touched anything else?” he asked her.
She shook her head, as if to confirm she hadn’t.
“Can you tell me your exact movements from the time you came through the door?”
She was obviously very upset, and Gardener sensed she was perhaps closer to the man they called Henry Fowkes than the others. He waited patiently while she described her movements. She’d been the first to arrive. Let herself in, hung up her coat, and came straight through to the kitchen, where she’d remained, joined by the other two as they arrived.
Fitz came into the room. Gardener produced a pair of gloves. After slipping into them, he approached the cooking pot and lifted the lid. The strawberry blonde turned her head and let out a stifled sob. The pan was three quarters full with warm water – tinged pink. A severed head stared back at him. Gardener wondered if the blood had been drained prior to death – and where.
Because the water wasn’t boiling, the skin had not blistered, and the face would be recognisable to anyone who knew him. The eyes were open and the depth of shock disturbed Gardener; if they could speak, he was quite certain he would not want to hear what they had to say.
“Is this the head of Henry Fowkes?” he asked the strawberry blonde.
Although she didn’t answer, one of the others confirmed it.
“Has either of you been anywhere else in the house?”
They said they hadn’t.
“So, none of you have any idea where his body is?” Gardener asked.
Once again, they confirmed they did not.
Frank Thornton and Bob Anderson were also in the room. Gardener addressed them. “Can one of you take these ladies out of here and see if you can arrange for a strong drink? Meanwhile, call the station and have them send round a couple of female councillors.”
Gardener wasn’t very pleased that they had probably contaminated the crime scene, but there was little he could do about it now.
Briggs had moved a little closer. “What’s that in the bottom of the pan?”
Gardener followed his line of vision, and only then did he notice what Briggs was talking about. He glanced around the kitchen, found a pair of tongs and lifted out the object: a sealed test tube with a note inside.
Briggs turned away in frustration. “This bastard’s been busy.” He threw his arms in the air. “And I suppose no one saw him again. And even if they did, we’re not likely to know who the fuck he was this time.”
“We don’t know that, yet,” said Gardener, removing the stopper and the note from the tube.
The silence in the room became intolerable as each man patiently waited for Gardener to unfold what would more than likely be another puzzle, which would send them off to God knew where in order to find God knew what. Hopefully it would be the remainder of the corpse.
He read the message out aloud:
Here’s the man you’ve been looking for,
