IMPERFECTION

by Ray Clark

  “Did he say where he was from?”

  “I think the company was called Executive Cars.”

  “Did he give you a card?”

  “No. Now there’s the strange thing, you see. It wasn’t Leonard’s usual choice of limousine. Different company altogether.”

  Gardener noticed the first name terms, and the fact that Sparrow’s attitude had changed somewhat. “Who were the usual company?”

  “Star Limousines in Leeds.”

  “Did he offer an explanation for the change of companies?”

  “He most certainly did, Mr Gardener,” said Sparrow. “After I phoned his room, Leonard came down. He was quite confused at being picked up a day early. With no engagement on the Thursday night, all he wanted to do on Friday was relax in the hotel and go for short walks in the countryside. The driver told him that his wife had had a serious accident and the car had been laid on to take him all the way back to a hospital in the Lake District. Despite the driver being quite calm, there was an edge to his manner.” Sparrow paused, and then added, “Lovely fingernails, I have to say.”

  “Which hospital?”

  “I don’t believe it was mentioned.”

  “Did you notice the registration of the car?” asked Gardener.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t, but at that point I didn’t suspect anything.”

  “So, what happened next?”

  “Well, Leonard seemed quite concerned. He wanted to go back to his room to use the phone and to pack. The driver said there wasn’t enough time. The old man was beside himself with worry. I told him to keep calm, when I had the time I would pack his things and send them on. Leonard is a regular of ours, you see.”

  “And have you?” asked Reilly.

  “Not yet. Inspector Burke arrived first thing yesterday morning and told me not to disturb the room. And I had to leave it exactly as it was, after he’d left.”

  “So off they went, just like that, Leonard and the chauffeur?” questioned Reilly.

  “Yes. The driver said Leonard could use the phone in the car to check on his wife’s condition.”

  “Did you think to phone anyone?” asked Reilly. “The limo company, any of the hospitals? Leonard White’s agent?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t. I do have a hotel to run.”

  “So, you just let them go without asking for identification? Afterwards, you did no checking?” pushed Reilly. “If he was such a regular customer, I would have expected a little more courtesy towards him. Surprising, really.”

  “What is?” asked Sparrow.

  “The fact that you didn’t,” said Reilly. “You don’t seem to have missed much else, Mr Sparrow.”

  The receptionist didn’t answer, preferring instead to study his nails.

  “Let’s see the room,” said Gardener.

  “Of course.”

  The three of them left the bar and walked up a wide, sprawling staircase with a well-polished banister and a luxurious wool carpet. A door opened into a small square lobby, the entrance to three of the hotel rooms.

  Gardener took a pair of gloves from his jacket pocket and removed the scene tape. He opened the door. An entrance hall led to the bathroom on the right. The main room – beyond glass doors – was enormous, possibly the largest Gardener had ever seen for a hotel.

  “Jesus Christ!” said Reilly. Obviously the biggest he’d seen as well.

  It must have been forty feet long, and the window on the far side took up almost the entire section of wall, affording a panoramic view of the sprawling gardens and the breathtaking valley that lay beyond. He saw smoke from a steam train – probably the Keighley and Worth Valley Railway. Everything was to hand. A TV, DVD, stereo system. A bed that was even bigger than king size. A trouser press, tea and coffee facilities, everything you could want, and probably everything you were unlikely to need. And the room was spotless. Clean, nothing out of place.

  Gardener and Reilly immediately began checking wardrobes and drawers, which were all empty.

  “I don’t understand,” said Sparrow.

  “I do,” said Gardener.

  “No one has been in the room since Inspector Burke.”

  Gardener turned to stare at Sparrow. “There is no Inspector Burke.”

  “He was probably the feckin’ limo driver as well,” added Reilly.

  “Who was?” asked Sparrow, agitated.

  Gardener turned and stood in the centre of the room, before walking over and staring out of the window, across the valley.

  “What are we missing, Sean?”

  “A message?”

  “So, where is it?”

  “Would you gentlemen mind telling me what this is all about?” pleaded Sparrow.

  Gardener faced him. “You’ve been taken in, Mr Sparrow. Inspector Burke does not exist, neither does the limo driver or, for that matter, Executive Cars. It’s all been an elaborate set-up.” He turned to Reilly with an expression of bewilderment. “Where would you put the message, Sean, if you were him?”

  “I reckon he’s going to make it more of a challenge. He’ll leave puzzles, but we’ll have to dig for them.”

  Gardener glanced beyond his partner. “Step to your left, will you, Sean?”

  As he did so, Gardener stared at the TV. He kneeled down, noticing that the DVD power light was still lit. He switched on the TV, and pressed the play button on the DVD. The machine came to life and the screen was filled with their first image of the man they were searching for.

  “That’s Inspector Burke!” shouted Sparrow. The officer was exactly as Sparrow had described.

  Gardener studied the background behind the actor, but there was nothing he recognised. The room was nondescript.

  Burke spoke. Whether the voice was his own or dubbed was anyone’s guess, but the message was loud and clear.

  “Now you’ve allowed the dust to settle, best pay a visit to Albert Fettle.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Later in the day, Gardener and Reilly entered the theatre through a stage door located in a small side street off New Briggate. The steps leading down took them to the room where Albert Fettle kept himself hidden for most of the day. The silence in the building was haunting. Every sound they made created a resonant echo.

  Gardener glanced around Fettle’s makeshift home. The decor had been neglected. The walls were covered with a heavily smoke-stained flowered wallpaper, which had been out of fashion for so long it was almost in again. A table stood in the middle of the room, covered with magazines relating to the entertainment world, and an empty butter container that now doubled as a lunchbox. Other than that, there were two cupboards: on top of one were tea making facilities; at the side of the other, a wastepaper basket.

  “Now then,” said Fettle, from an area that neither detective could initially pinpoint. He materialised from a dark corner, a partially eaten sandwich in one hand, and a mug of tea in the other. His rotund belly was still adding pressure to the brown braces. His bald head currently had a black mark running right down the centre, and today’s attire was a checked black and red lumberjack shirt with the same brown pleated trousers and black brogues.

  “Not much for me to do round here these days, apart from the odd spot of cleaning.”

  And the odd spot was all it seemed to be, thought Gardener. “Won’t be for much longer now, Mr Fettle.”

  “Caught him, have you?”

  “We’re still making inquiries.”

  “You haven’t, then. You’ll never catch him if he’s that good with a brush and paste.”

  “Perhaps you should have a go,” said Reilly.

  “Just stating facts, son. Anyway, don’t stand out there, get yourselves in here and have a pot of tea, I could do with a fresh one now. I dare say you’ve come to ask a few questions, see if I can remember owt?”

  “You could say that. How are things here at the moment?”

  “Bloody awful!” he replied, switching on the kettle and digging out a couple of clean mugs from the cup
board, without actually finding out whether or not they wanted a drink. “Like I said, there’s nowt to do.”

  “Should give you plenty of time to remember things, then,” said Reilly. “Mine’s two sugars.”

  “You’ve a sharp tongue, for a leprechaun.”

  Gardener and Reilly chuckled.

  “How long have you worked here?” Gardener asked.

  “A good forty years,” he replied.

  With the kettle having come to the boil, Fettle poured the tea and brought it across to them. He then brought over the tray containing milk and sugar.

  “Help yourselves, lads.”

  “How would you describe the atmosphere?”

  “Good, or else I wouldn’t have stayed. I’ve enjoyed myself, I’ve no intention of retiring, and Mr Price is happy to keep me as long I want to be here.”

  “How do you get on with him?”

  “Fine. He can be a bit temperamental, but can’t we all? So long as we do our job we have no problems from him.”

  At last, thought Gardener: two people who agreed with each other. But it didn’t help the investigation. “So, you’ve known him as long as anyone else. How would you describe him?”

  “How do you mean?” asked Fettle.

  “What’s he like to work for? What is he like outside work? The usual stuff.”

  “He’s not a murderer, if that’s what you’re hinting at. He’s a good bloke. Pays us wages on time, doesn’t grumble if you have a day off sick. He often pops down to see how I’m doing. No, if you’re looking for a scapegoat, Gardener, he’s not your man.”

  “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.”

  “So, by the time you arrived on the stage, everything had more or less been done?”

  “Aye, I signed and he took off.”

  “Was the tailgate still down, or had he lifted it back up?”

  “Back up.”

  “Did you inspect the trunk, open it up to see what was inside?”

  “No, but it were locked anyway, bloody great padlock.”

  “Was it heavy? Did you try to move it?”

  “No, just left it.”

  Gardener had wondered how the killer had managed to smuggle Leonard White’s body into the theatre. It was pretty obvious now. “How soon after did Leonard White arrive?”

  “A couple of hours, maybe.”

  “Did he ask about the trunk, or did you tell him?”

  Fettle chewed another bit of his sandwich and swallowed before answering. “I told him. Nice pot of tea, this.” He took another mouthful.

  Gardener noticed Reilly was halfway down his cup. He tasted his own – wasn’t bad.

  “Did White seem surprised?” Reilly asked.

  “No, just pleased that it were here.”

  “Did you offer to go backstage and help him with it?”

  “Aye, as a matter of fact, I did. But he said it were okay, he wouldn’t need it straight away, but he’d give me a shout when he needed some help.”

  “Did his voice sound like Leonard White?”

  “Can’t say as I noticed. I think so.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Well, I carried on in here. A couple of hours had passed, and I went backstage to see if he needed that hand and it was all clear. There was no trunk and no Leonard White. I gave him a shout but no one answered. I went back to his dressing room and knocked on the door, but he never answered that either.”

  “Did you check anywhere else?”

  “Only to see if he was with Mr Price, and he wasn’t. But it’s not unusual for actors and actresses to take a break. Sometimes they go outside for a smoke, or a walk. They don’t always leave out the stage door.”

  “Was he alone when he arrived?”

  “Aye, he was.”

  “Did he seem okay to you? Not out of breath, or looking worried about anything?”

  “No, he were fine. Didn’t say much, which I thought were unusual, ’cause I’ve met him afore and I knew him to be a bit of a talker. And I’ll tell you what else were unusual, shall I? I thought the trunk was a bit too much for a man who’d had hip replacement, which is why I went to offer my help. Not that I’d be much use to him anyway, ’cause I’m getting on a bit now. I am still younger than him, though.”

  “So, you have no idea what happened to the trunk?”

  “Come to think of it, no. It were too big to just hide in a corner, but I never saw it anywhere afterwards.”

  Gardener glanced at Reilly, who in turn nodded. “Where is it?”

  Reilly glanced at Fettle. “Could it still be here?”

  “Probably. No one came to pick it up.”

  “Any idea where?” Gardener asked Fettle.

  Fettle chewed on his sandwich, gulped more tea. “Could be anywhere.”

  “Where do you store the props and the scenery you’re not using?” asked Gardener.

  “We have a couple of different rooms.”

  “The sort of place that someone would only know if they had worked here?” pressed Gardener.

  “I suppose so. As I’ve said. I’ve been here forty years. Whoever this bloke was, I didn’t r
ecognise him.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t, would you?” said Reilly. “He was disguised.”

  “But no one’s that good. I don’t care how good you are, you can’t imitate someone so perfectly. You’d have to slip up somewhere.”

  “I think you’ll find you’re wrong,” said Gardener. “We might all be in for a surprise with this one. Can you show us the rooms?”

  “If you think it’ll help.”

  The detectives followed Fettle into the labyrinth of the theatre. For a man with a limp, he could walk at a fair pace. The two storage rooms he showed them were located either side of the stage, down a flight of steps. Though the rooms were full of dust-encrusted furniture, neither one contained the trunk they wanted.

  “Are there any more?” asked Gardener.

  Fettle stood and thought. “Well there is, but they’re way down in the basements. I don’t think anyone’s been down there in ages.”

  “I’ll bet you’re wrong about that as well,” replied Reilly.

  Each man trooped down to the very bottom of the theatre. It was cold, and Gardener could see his own breath. The first room they came across was at the end of a corridor. There were no physical signs that it had been used recently.

  Fettle pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and tried a few before selecting the correct one. The door opened with a loud crack, and a dank smell penetrated their nostrils. The room was small, and other than posters from previous productions, there was nothing of any interest.

  Fettle locked the door and took them back down one corridor and into another. He reached the door, produced the keys, and tried all of them. He stood back and scratched his head, puzzled. “Surely one of the keys has to be here.”

  “Maybe it’s not locked,” said Reilly. He used a pair of gloves and tried the handle.

  To Fettle’s amazement, but not Gardener’s, the door opened. Standing in the middle of the room was the big black trunk. Leonard White’s name was stencilled on the side – no padlock.

  Gardener also produced gloves from his pocket as he moved to the chest, and lifted the lid. Inside the trunk was a long coil of rope. On the inside of the lid a piece of paper had been attached. Judging by the texture, it was a little thicker than normal paper, and had an elaborately designed scroll top and bottom. The outer edges of the paper were blue, but the scroll was beige and flecked with brown spots, the finish resembling a cup of cappuccino.