Imperfection (DI Gardener 2)

“Say again,” said Reilly.

Cuthbertson brought his head up a little fast, his manner aggressive. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? I said, Ruffin Street.”

“I thought you did.”

Gardener tried to picture the area. He knew where the street was, but he wasn’t quite sure what Cuthbertson was trying to say. “What’s on Ruffin Street, Mr Cuthbertson?”

“I’d have thought you’d know, being a policeman.”

“I’m aware that it’s an area of ill repute, but I don’t frequent the place myself. So, you’ll have to do a little better than that. We need your alibi.”

“I ... I was...” He stopped talking, licked his lips.

Gardener waited.

“I was at Madame Two-swords. Happy now?”

Gardener turned to Reilly. “Where the hell is Madame Tussauds in Ruffin Street?”

Reilly’s smile widened. “Trust me, boss, you wouldn’t want to know. But I’ll tell you this and I’ll tell you no more, it’s not a waxwork museum.”

“What is it?”

“Madame Two-swords, and the spelling is two as in the number, and swords as in the sharp bladed implements that knights used to use, is a house of ill repute for people who like to be fulfilled sexually in a very strange way.”

Gardener glanced at Cuthbertson, who was staring at the floor. He passed over a pen and paper. “Write the number down. We’ll check. Were you there the night Leonard White was murdered?”

“Yes, I was.”

Gardener couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What? Do you go for that kind of punishment every night?”

“No.”

“How often?”

“I’m there most nights, but not for anything physical. A lot of them like to dress up and wear make-up. I can supply all their needs. Sometimes I help them put it on.”

Gardener shook his head.

Cuthbertson continued. “But I can promise you, I never murdered Janine, and I didn’t do Leonard White, either.”

Gardener realised there was little more he could ask Cuthbertson at the moment until he could confirm his alibis. He informed the man he was free to go for the time being.

Chapter Twenty-six

“We need to nail this bloke, and fast! Otherwise we’re all going down.” Briggs was agitated. The incident room was full, but you could have heard a fly fart in the next world. “I’ve had the press and the Commissioner on my back, and neither of them are in the mood for negative answers.”

“It isn’t our fault,” said Reilly, glancing at the stranger sitting quietly in the corner of the room.

“Well, everybody seems to think it is,” retorted Briggs. “We’re paid to protect the public, and we’re failing. We’ve had two murders on our patch, and the press have already made the connection. In fact, they know as much as we do because we can’t do our jobs properly.”

Briggs threw his folder on the desk and studied the photographs on the easel. “So, can anyone tell me anything new?”

Sharp inched forward. “I’ve spoken to the taxi driver who picked up Leonard White on the night he was killed. Or should I say, the man impersonating Leonard White.”

“And what did he have to say?” asked Briggs.

“Very little. He wasn’t called in advance, he simply happened to be driving by the theatre at the time and was flagged down.”