IMPERFECTION

by Ray Clark

  “Looks like he’s had a game of darts,” added Reilly.

  “The blood in the pint glasses. Was it Leonard White’s?” asked Gardener.

  “I’ve taken samples for analysis. I think it’s safe to assume it was.” Fitz paused before continuing. “I can’t see where all this is leading. He’s drained the man’s blood, and then given it back to us. There are no broken bones. If you look at the hands, all the fingernails are intact, which suggests no sign of torture. There seems to be a sense of purpose to what he’s done, but it’s not obvious.”

  “A ritual?” asked Reilly.

  “That’s more your territory, Sean,” said Briggs. “You ever come across anything like this?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t think it’s a ritual,” added Gardener. “If he’d kept the blood, maybe.”

  “Was the blood drained while he was still alive?” asked Briggs. “I saw a film like that once.”

  “It’s possible,” said Fitz. “I know the film you’re thinking of, The Abominable Doctor Phibes with Vincent Price.”

  “Sounds about right,” said Briggs. “But that was just a film. Is it possible to do that in real life?”

  “Nothing surprises me with the criminal mind,” replied the pathologist. “You can do anything if you’re so determined.”

  “Interesting comment,” said Gardener to Briggs. “If the killer is a master of disguise, maybe the film world is somewhere we should start looking for clues.”

  Briggs was about to speak when Fitz interrupted. “There’s something on his chest,” he said, with a sense of urgency.

  Fitz had removed Leonard White’s evening jacket, revealing a starched white shirt. Allowing time for photographs, he then quickly took away the aged actor’s final item of clothing. He lowered the microphone ready for his report.

  “We have a message on his chest,” said Fitz, examining more closely. “It hasn’t been written on top of the skin, but burned into it, and very possibly while he was still alive if the blisters were anything to go by.”

  Gardener leaned forward, reading:

  Man cannot hide from his sin

  As the past will always reveal

  One has paid while others remain

  But be warned, a deal is a deal.

  Chapter Nine

  Briggs finally broke the silence.

  “I can’t work out whether he’s a psychopath or a genius. If you’re nuts, you don’t leave puzzles that have been very cleverly put together with an obvious meaning.”

  “The puzzles are inconsistent,” said Gardener, stepping back from White’s corpse. “The verse on the body is something he’s made up. The writing on the wall in the dressing room read more like a quote to me.”

  “From anything you recognise?” asked Briggs.

  “No,” replied Gardener. “But let’s be honest, it could be anything.”

  “What’s he trying to tell us?” Briggs asked.

  “The fact that he’s harboured a grudge for a long time?”

  “Maybe,” said Briggs. “And he’ll make us work to prove his point. The key to the investigation hinges on the clues he’s offering.”

  Each man stepped outside the room, leaving the pathologist to finish his job. The quicker he did that, the quicker they would have their report.

  “You see, that’s where he shows his intelligence,” said Reilly. “That verse on the old guy’s chest was something he created. He knows what he’s doing, and it’s been well planned. He knew who he wanted and where to find him. What he’s doing now is making us play his game. It’s cat and mouse. Are we clever enough to catch him?”

  “If he killed Leonard White the day before,” said Gardener, “he must have known about the tour and where he was staying. So, we need to find out where he was staying. After he’d killed him, he went to a lot of trouble to impersonate him and make a public spectacle of the whole thing, before quietly and confidently walking out of the theatre.”

  “How did he get him into the place and do what he did without being noticed?” asked Reilly.

  “I think it’s an inside job,” said Briggs. “Let’s face it, he managed to blend in, and he must have known his way around the theatre, particularly that one.”

  “Paul Price seems to think not,” replied Gardener.

  “Doesn’t matter what he thinks,” said Briggs. “He doesn’t want it to be an inside job because it looks bad on him and his theatre. What’s your opinion on Price? Is he capable of murder?”

  “Anyone’s capable of murder,” replied Gardener. “I think he’s hiding something. The only thing he was bothered about was upsetting the smooth running of the place. Never mind that some bloke’s just been killed on his stage in full view of everyone. But my gut instinct tells me he’s not involved.”

  “All the same, we’ll have him investigated,” said Briggs. “And the rest of them that run it. If word gets round, no one’ll work there.”

  “I’m not sure about that. I don’t think anyone is trying to bring the theatre into disrepute,” said Gardener. “I think it’s personal. Leonard White, and others according to the verse on his chest, has upset someone. That someone is out for revenge. Here’s one to think about. Leonard White was in his seventies. The others probably will be too, so how old is the guy we’re looking for? I can’t imagine someone that old being able to do everything he’s done single-handed.”

  “Well, from what we’ve seen, boss, he was able to blend in and get others to help him without them knowing. Even if he is as old as them, the real problem is still identifying him. If he’s a make-up specialist, where the hell do we start? For all we know, he could have crept back into the theatre last night and watched us. We might have even interviewed him.”

  “We’ll have to go through White’s past with a fine-tooth comb, and that won’t be easy,” said Briggs. “He’s been around a long time, spent a lot of his life in different parts of the country. His wife will be able to help us there. She rang me just before I went in to see Fitz to say she was at The Queen’s Hotel.”

  “Sean and I are going to talk to my dad,” said Gardener. “He and White were friends, have been for quite a number of years. He’s also a big film buff, never away from the cinema. Maybe he’ll remember something that will help.”

  “That’s interesting,” replied Briggs. “If that quote on the dressing room wall is from a film, your dad might recognise it.”

  “Bit of a long shot there, sir,” said Reilly.

  “I don’t doubt it, but every now and again the long shot pays off.”

  “We’ll certainly give it a go. But it’s been a hell of a shock to him. I don’t want to put him under too much pressure.”

  “Okay. Well, if you need any help, if you’re uncomfortable, you only have to ask.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Right,” said Briggs. “You go and speak to your dad and then get to The Queen’s to see Val White. I’ll get one of the lads to organise the incident room, and the rest of them on the statements.”

  Chapter Ten

  Gardener had made two coffees and one herbal tea while Reilly sat with Malcolm at the kitchen table. The room was long and wide, and had fully fitted Scandinavian pine units running its entire length with concealed strip lighting. The walls and the floor were tiled to match the units.

  For Gardener, the kitchen was a room with pleasant reminders of Sarah. Everywhere he glanced he saw something on which he could reflect: several small clay-figure animals she had made herself; an oil painting of her parents’ cottage – her first and last attempt; a wall clock in the shape of a tulip, reminding him of their romantic weekend in Amsterdam. He placed the coffees on the table, sitting opposite his father.

  “Look, Dad, I appreciate there’s never a good time, and I know it’s been a terrible shock, but we have to talk to you about Leonard White.”

  The expression on Malcolm’s face softened. “Of course. I’m sorry about yesterday, Son.”

  “You don’t
have to apologise. What happened at the theatre was pretty horrific by anyone’s standards. If it wasn’t for the fact that we have an investigation to run, I’d respect your privacy to grieve a little longer.”

  “Thank you. You can ask me anything you want, but I don’t know how much use I’ll be.”

  “You’d be surprised how many people say that, Malcolm,” said Reilly.

  “How well did you know him, Dad?”

  “Perhaps not as well as you might think. We didn’t meet properly until the mid-Seventies. Pretty much after his days at Hammer Studios.”

  “And you’d never met before then?”

  “No. I’d seen his films. You know me, Stewart, I’ve always loved films. Deep down, I’d have given anything to be an actor.”

  Gardener didn’t need reminding of his dad’s love of the cinema. He had managed to take Chris once a week for as long as he could remember. “So, when and why did your paths cross?” he asked.

  Malcolm pursed his lips. “I think it would be late ’76. He formed part of the local watch committee.”

  “What’s a watch committee, Malcolm?” asked Reilly.

  “Every town has one, or used to, anyway. When you make a film, after its final edit, you send it to the British Board of Film Classification. They issue a certificate. Once it’s distributed, the local watch committee for the area then vets the film. They have the power to make further cuts, and even issue another certificate. Well, that’s what we did, watched the films and either approved or disapproved.”

  “How many made up the committee?” asked Gardener.

  “Four.”

  “Can you remember the other two?”

  Malcolm thought long and hard. “Sorry, Stewart, it’s a long time ago.”

  “I realise that, Dad, but you’ll have to try to remember. It’s a possible link. A long shot, maybe, but we have to investigate everything.”

  Malcolm took another sip of coffee. “I’m pretty sure one of them died a few years ago, in a car crash. I will try, Stewart, it’s just, with everything that’s happened...”

  “It’s okay, Dad, take your time.” Gardener changed topics. “What about his wife, did you ever meet her?”

  “Occasionally, social functions, town hall duty, that sort of thing. Val, I think her name was.”

  “How did she strike you?”

  “Full of her own importance, didn’t seem to care about anyone but herself. I always got the impression that she thought she was above us all. To be honest, I don’t think she had two farthings to rub together when she met Leonard. I never thought it would work. They were like chalk and cheese. I think she married him for his money, I certainly can’t think of another reason. She always made me feel uncomfortable.”

  “But you wouldn’t take her for a murderer?” asked Reilly.

  “No... well... you never really know, do you? I can’t say I liked her, but I wouldn’t speak ill.”

  Gardener thought his father had handled the question well. “Where did they live?”

  “Horsforth. Big house, it had a name but I can’t remember it, something Manor, I’m not sure what.”

  “Can you think of anything that happened during those years? Anything scandalous, a serious incident that someone might want to brush under the carpet?” asked Gardener.

  “Stewart, Leonard White was as straight as a die. He worked for Hammer Studios for years, alongside all the big names like Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee. He told me himself that he’d wanted to leave Hammer for a long time. He’d been concerned about their policies. They went through a period of making vampire films, full of nudity and lesbianism. He wanted out.” Malcolm took a mouthful of coffee and asked, “Why the question about a scandal?”

  “What we’ve learned so far points to revenge. Leonard White appears to have been killed because of something that happened in his past. Now that could be anything at any time, it’s a big playing field out there. I just thought, if you knew something, however insignificant you might think it is, it could help.”

  “What about his wife, any scandal involving her?” Reilly asked.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know her well enough.”

  Gardener wondered how his father was really coping with the kind of pressure they were putting him under. He felt guilty. He didn’t like what they were doing, but they had a job to do. At least they were conducting the interview in the comfort of their own home and not the station, with tape recorders.

  “The thing is, Malcolm, someone’s playing games with us,” said Reilly.

  “Why? What’s he doing?”

  “We shouldn’t be telling you this, Dad, but when we managed to get into Leonard’s dressing room the other night, there was a message on the wall. I think it’s a quote, but I don’t know where from.”

  “What did it say?” asked Malcolm.

  Reilly took out his notebook. “‘For long weary months I have awaited this hour’.”

  “Certainly sounds like a quote,” said Malcolm.

  “Do you recognise it?” pressed Gardener.

  “No. Could be anything.”

  “We were also left a verse, a puzzle perhaps. He’s taunting us, leading us to believe there’ll be more.” Gardener paused. “Let’s go back to something you said yesterday afternoon. After I picked you up from the theatre, you were pretty quiet. You said that Leonard White wasn’t himself. He seemed worried about what his wife was going to think. Did he elaborate? What was it that would concern his wife?”

  Gardener studied the once solid features of his father he had come to depend on. He was seventy-five years old, but his normal healthy complexion carried a haunted, defeated expression. The lines in his face were deeper, the eyes darker, lifeless. “I don’t know, son.”

  “Can you remember the exact words he used?”

  “Not the exact words, no. He kept saying Val wasn’t going to like it. She wouldn’t forgive him. I had no idea what he was talking about, and he wouldn’t tell me. He was obviously in some sort of trouble, but I don’t know why. Maybe it was something he couldn’t forgive himself for. Therefore, she wouldn’t forgive him.”

  “And you didn’t pick up on anything in the conversation?” asked Reilly.

  “No,” replied Malcolm. “I mean, at his age, I didn’t think it was another woman. I couldn’t imagine him having money problems, so I couldn’t think what else it could be.”

  “You don’t think someone was blackmailing him?”

  “It’s possible, but if they were, he wasn’t letting on. Maybe that was it,” said Malcolm.

  “But he never gave you an inkling? Not one bit of evidence about how much trouble he was in?”

  “No, nothing. He didn’t really say very much. As I told you, he was quiet, subdued, not himself.” Malcolm waved his finger in the air. “I’ll tell you what was strange. When I got there, Leonard ordered tea for us both. When it arrived, he never touched his, just left it on the tray. He never touched a drop.”

  “What’s so unusual about that?” asked Reilly.

  “He was legendary for halting productions just so as he could have his cup of tea. It was like a ritual.”

  Gardener and Reilly stared at each other.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Gardener sighed. “Did you ever consider, at any point, that you were talking to someone else other than your friend?”

  Malcolm lowered his cup to the table. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Are you certain you were talking to Leonard White?”

  “Of course I was. Who else could it have been?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know.”

  Malcolm’s grave expression disturbed Gardener. “Are you trying to tell me that someone was impersonating Leonard White and I couldn’t tell?”

  Gardener took his time answering, unsure how his father would take the news. “It looks that way, Dad.”

  “Surely to God no one could be that good, Son.”

  “T
hat’s what we thought. But we’ve had it confirmed that Leonard White had been dead somewhere in the region of twelve to twenty-four hours when he hit that stage. I’m sorry, Dad, really I am.”

  Malcolm left the table without saying anything else.

  Chapter Eleven

  The room at The Queen’s was large and airy, well-lit with adequate heating. The beige carpet matched the drapes and the bed linen. The antique furniture added an air of elegance.

  With her bleached blond hair tied up, too much face paint, and an excess of fine jewellery – none of which complimented her leopard skin top – Val White was exactly what Gardener had been led to believe: common, and unsuited to the luxury that life, or more to the point her late husband, had provided for her. His only complimentary thought was that she carried her age well.

  As soon as Gardener and Reilly displayed warrant cards, she had called for room service. When the refreshments arrived, she told them to help themselves – and do the honour of pouring her a cup of tea – while she continued to smoke a cigarette through an eight-inch filter-tipped holder. She never once asked them anything about her late husband.

  Gardener was surprised. The woman must have been as hard as granite. His heart went out to the aged actor. It was sad for someone to have achieved his level of status, for it all to go unrecognised by the one person he’d chosen to share his life with. She didn’t, and probably hadn’t, reciprocated the emotion when he’d been alive. Eager to press on and satisfy his curiosity, Gardener opened the conversation.

  “Would you like to tell us about your late husband please, Mrs White?”

  “Not much to tell really, cock.”

  “I doubt that. He was a fine actor, travelled extensively, and led such a full life, probably seen more than most people could even dream about. There must be something to say.”