Imperfection (DI Gardener 2)

“Pleased to hear it,” said Gardener, moving on. “Let’s go back to last Saturday. What time did you start work?”

“I was here early that day, I wanted to have a chat with Leonard White. Started work about eight in the morning.” Fettle finally finished his sandwich, and scooped up another from the lunchbox.

“Anyone else around at that time?”

“Cleaners.”

“No one else?” inquired Gardener.

“I don’t think so, box office staff, maybe.”

“Anything strange happened around here recently? You’ve not received any odd phone calls, threatening letters from anyone?”

“Well, if we had, I wouldn’t know about ’em. I don’t get involved in that side of it. It’s my job to greet the people who come through that door and down the stairs.” Fettle gestured with his eyes.

“So, you were here when Leonard White arrived?” asked Gardener.

“Aye, I was that.”

“Which was what time?”

“After his mysterious trunk had been delivered.”

Gardener’s senses went on full alert. “What trunk?”

“Bloody great big thing it were. Van were outside the roller shutter door at the back of the stage. Bloke had dropped the tailgate on the stage and slid the trunk out afore asking me to sign.”

“Any slogans on the van?” Reilly asked. “Any advertising?”

“There were nowt. It were just a white one.”

“What did the driver look like?”

“He was wearing a black cap. Had a cig in his mouth, but it wasn’t lit. He were quite big, around six foot I’d say, same build as your mate here. He wore a pair of dark brown overalls and he walked with a limp, ’cause I wondered how the bloody hell he’d managed to move the trunk, but it was in front of me almost afore I’d signed.”

“Did he say where he was from?” asked Gardener.

“No, in fact he didn’t say much, apart from, ‘sign here’.”

“Did he say where the trunk had come from, or who’d given him instructions to deliver it here?”

“No. The trunk was big and black, quite old, had Leonard White’s name on the side of it.”

“What happened after you’d signed?”

“He jumped back in the van and took off.”

“Did you notice the registration?” asked Reilly.

“No. I don’t normally take deliveries.” Fettle took a bite of his sandwich and a slurp of tea.

“Who does?”

“Stagehands, mostly.”

“So, how did you find out about the delivery?”

“Van pulled up outside here first.” Fettle pointed to the grimy, frosted window that formed part of his room. “Then the door at the top of the stairs opened, and someone shouted ‘delivery for Leonard White’, and that were it. He were back in the van and driving down the bottom afore I could say owt else.”