Reilly stood up. “The list that Scenes of Crime found ties in with what the boss and I have in mind. We have a lead on Corndell, and we’re going to see him this afternoon.”
Briggs was quick to notice a confused expression on Gardener’s face. “Does your partner know about it, Reilly?”
“Of course he does. William Henry Corndell is his name.”
“And where does he fit in?”
“He’s an actor. Lives in a big house near Horsforth.”
“What makes you think he has anything to do with it?”
“I’m not saying he has, but something Laura said tells me he might be able to help, if nothing else. Apparently, there’s a bloke out at the university who books all the entertainment. He reckons this William Henry Corndell is the best there is. Worked the stage in the West End, films as well. Anyway, he’s playing a one-man show at the uni, and Laura’s covering it. And if you want another reason, Steve Fenton’s just given it to us with the list they found in the shop.”
“Fair enough, it’s a lead.”
Gardener asked a question of the CSM, Steve Fenton. “Any luck with that piece of film starring the infamous Inspector Burke?”
“Yes and no. The tech lads have finished with it. They tell me it’s not an old piece of film. It was made to look that way with modern technology. It was filmed recently, but that’s all they can tell us.”
“What brand of disc?”
“TDK.”
“Can you get anything from the batch number?” Gardener figured he was searching for a needle in a haystack, but he had to try.
“Not the kind of info you wanted. I spoke to TDK this afternoon. The only thing they can tell us from the batch number is that it was manufactured about fifteen years ago, and not necessarily in the UK.”
Gardener sighed, disappointed. “What about the tape you took from the theatre?”
“Same with that, it was also TDK,” said Fenton. “But no one uses cassette tapes so they wouldn’t speculate at all on that one. We’re pretty sure the words shouted are ‘look out’, but no idea if it’s been recorded live or comes from a film.”
Gardener updated the ANACAPA chart, even though there was little new evidence.
Briggs addressed them all. “I think it’s time to introduce you to the new man in the corner. I’ve noticed the looks you’re all giving him.” The man stood up and offered a smile.
“Trevor Thorpe,” said Briggs. “The profiler.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
As the officer in charge, Gardener walked over and shook hands with Thorpe, introducing himself and using the opportunity for a quick but close inspection. He was slightly shorter than Gardener and similar in weight. His rugged exterior conveyed a tough life. The left eye was a little bigger than the right, and he was quite clearly blind in it. A scar on his forehead ran down past the eyebrow, below the eye. His brown hair was closely cropped with flecks of grey running through it. The texture of his face resembled a piece of old leather. Thorpe was dressed in a well-worn tweed jacket and a pair of brown corduroys, and brown casual slip-on shoes.
Gardener returned to his seat. As he did so, he asked the question, “So, Mr Thorpe, I’m sure DCI Briggs has briefed you about everything that’s happened. Do you have anything to add to what you’ve seen so far?”
“Can I thank you all first for, er, inviting me?” Thorpe walked around the room with his hands behind his back, like a schoolmaster. When he spoke it was very slowly, while he stared at the ceiling.
“There was a lot of, er, work accomplished here, a lot of articulate planning. Couple it with the clues, and you can see straight away that this man is very intelligent. He cares about what he does. It’s an art form. He plans everything down to the last detail. He has medical knowledge.”
Gardener thought Thorpe sounded like a politician. “Why, in your opinion, is he doing it?”
Thorpe went back to his seat and sat, his legs astride, resting his arms on the back, choosing to face his audience, rather than the ceiling. “Because he can.” He lifted one hand matter-of-factly. “I think he likes playing sadistic games. He’ll have played them all his life. When he was younger it would have been animals, children younger than himself. In fact, anything that was defenceless.”
Gardener was beginning to feel irritated by the man’s demeanour. Perhaps that was his manner. He had to accept that the man was here of his own free will. He was not being paid. Maybe Gardener simply didn’t like what he saw.
Thorpe stood up, started to pace, staring at the ceiling again. Gardener felt like he was being lectured.
“Murder usually stems from a deadly fantasy, a need to exert power over the victim, to inflict pain and fear, which can then be played for real. He almost certainly has a grudge, and he is exerting his power. I think you’ll find that’s because he was repressed when he was younger. He had a domineering mother who allowed him no freedom. No chance to express his emotions.
“And that is what we are seeing here. He’s, er, no different to most serial killers. Because they kill so casually, without emotion, they’re almost impossible to catch. Just as difficult to understand. As far as he’s concerned, killing is an art form, no different to eating a meal.” He returned to his seat and pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and mopped his brow.