IMPERFECTION

by Ray Clark

  “Is he good?”

  Gardener nodded. “He’s the real brains behind this restoration. I’ve spent a long time tinkering with bikes because I love it, but I’m not in his league.”

  “I thought he was a gardener,” said Chris.

  “He was, but that’s what he did for a living. His passion on the weekend was his motorbikes. I know he used to love his job, but there was a time when he totally refused to work weekends. He spent it with his family and his bikes.”

  “Did he have many?”

  “Not really, no. I can only remember him having about six in life, and never usually more than one at a time. He almost gave up after he nearly got arrested.”

  “Granddad did?”

  “Yes. God, that was funny.”

  “What happened?”

  “He had a Triumph Speed Twin. It was his pride and joy. It was the business. I think it was a bloke called Edward Turner who was responsible for it. It had everything a bike could want.

  “I can’t remember what year your granddad was, but he looked after it better than he looked after me, I think. Always polishing it; stripped and rebuilt it every year. It looked like it had just come out of the showroom every time you saw it. Anyway, this one time, he’d finished his annual strip and rebuild, polished it like a new pin, and took it out for a test drive. Police stopped him near Rothwell. They’d had a report that one had been stolen from a showroom in Leeds. The description matched your granddad’s.”

  Gardener chuckled as he remembered. “He had no identification on him whatsoever. The police impounded the bike and took him in. Me and your gran had to go down there with all the documents and sort the whole mess out. It took us an hour to get him out of there, and when we all got home, bike included, there was a letter waiting for us to say he’d forgotten to pay the television licence and if he didn’t, he was going to get a visit from the police.”

  The pair of them erupted into raucous laughter, startling Spook, who glared at them as if they had completely lost their minds.

  Chapter Twenty

  Janine Harper’s mood was nuclear. She couldn’t believe that old bastard, Cuthbertson. He’d tricked her into doing the final stocktake for the auditors on her own. It won’t take long, he’d said, and it is an emergency. A couple of hours and you’ll be done, and you can still go out and enjoy yourself afterwards. He had to be fucking joking, the mood she was in.

  She’d suspected all day that he’d been leading up to something. He’d been too nice: offering her a longer lunch than normal, making afternoon tea, and buying the cakes! He was normally as tight as a duck’s arse. The only way to force a warm drink out of him was to stick your fingers down his throat.

  And then came the crunch phone call, a little after four o’clock. His sister had been taken ill, rushed into a hospital somewhere – although where, he’d failed to mention. Janine didn’t think he had a sister; she’d thought his only family was a test tube.

  She checked her watch: it was a little after nine-thirty. She should have been with her friends now. The four of them had made plans to go out for drinks, and then on to the Italian on New Briggate. They didn’t treat themselves very often. The uncertainty over Brexit had tightened their pockets.

  Janine sighed loudly. She really couldn’t believe she was doing it. Well, she would show Cuthbertson. Boy, would he receive a major shock when he opened the door tomorrow morning. Give him a fucking heart attack if she had her way.

  She put the clipboard down and picked up her mobile phone, calling her friend Angie. No one answered. She called Sarah next, but her phone was switched off. They were obviously having a good time. She threw the mobile down on the shelf. It bounced onto the floor, where the battery disconnected and the phone slid under the Dexion shelving.

  “Fucking wonderful,” cried Janine. “Could things be any worse?”

  In the haunting silence that followed, she suspected that perhaps things could, because the door to the shop had actually opened.

  Who the hell could that be? Surely to God it wasn’t a punter who thought it was late night opening. Or worse, a gang of drunken idiots. It could be anybody; maybe a tramp, they wandered all over Leeds, day and night. Perhaps he had popped in to keep warm. She’d never shift him. He might be plastered on meths. He could do anything to her. And there was no one around, because no one else worked so late. All the other shopkeepers had gone home by now, and none of them lived above the premises.

  Janine’s nerves tingled. She thought she had locked the shop. Her legs grew heavier, and the space inside her head started to close in. Palpitations were squeezing her chest, and she honestly thought she was going to stop breathing. Oh Jesus, what was she going to do?

  She glanced around for a possible weapon. The shop was full of dangerous things she could use. Liquids or powders she could throw into someone’s face. She’d open a bottle of acetone. Chuck that in his face, and his eyes would end up in his arse. She’d teach him to mess with her. Janine slowly reached for the bottle.

  Wait a minute. What was she thinking of? Who else could it be at nine-thirty on a Friday evening? It was very obviously Cuthbertson, coming back to see if she was doing the job properly. Checking up on her.

  Maybe his story had been genuine. Perhaps he did have a sister who had been taken ill. He had been to see her, and on his way home had felt guilty enough to see if Janine was still here and needed a hand. Well, whether he had or not, she would give him a piece of her mind. By the time she was finished, he would be in the bed next to his sister.

  Janine marched straight through into the shop. She nearly puked when her eyes focused and fed the message to her brain.

  “Oh... my... fucking... God.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It was Wednesday morning in the centre of Leeds, and Alan Cuthbertson was enjoying yet another early spring day. Despite being a little overcast, the temperature was quite high. He was strolling to work, observing the masses doing the same.

  The amount of people walking and eating never failed to amaze him. Everywhere he turned, someone had food in their hands; he passed a bunch of youths, cigarette in one hand, McDonald’s in the other, who – judging by their appearance – had been out all night. A middle-aged couple on the other side of the road were trying to have a conversation whilst devouring a sandwich. Don’t these people ever rise early and sort out their own breakfasts? Are they really that lazy? Staying in bed till the last minute before rolling out and into a suit and straight out of the door. It wouldn’t have happened in his day.

  Cuthbertson turned into the arcade, toward the shop. He almost collided with a tramp, one of many in the city centre asking for handouts, leading you to believe they weren’t eating. And what happened when you gave them the money? Straight down the off licence.

  “Could you spare some change, mate?”

  “No!” shouted Cuthbert son. “Piss off and get a job like I have.”

  The tramp turned on him. A wave of fear surged through Cuthbertson’s aged body. He’d heard how nasty they could be. He wished he hadn’t said it now. Apart from the two of them, the arcade was empty.

  “It could be you one day, son. You could be homeless, just like me.”

  Cuthbertson chose to ignore him, scurrying away to his shop.

  At the entrance, he reached into his pocket for the keys. He tried the correct one, but it wouldn’t turn the lock. Strange. Surely Janine had locked up last night? Then again, the mood she’d been in… she could be a right little madam when she wanted. He tried the Yale key. When that didn’t work, he reached and turned the handle and pushed open the door.

  He would have to have words with her. She was becoming very lackadaisical of late. Forgetting to lock up was the last straw. And he wasn’t happy with the way she addressed customers. He would definitely nip it in the bud.

  The shop was unnaturally dark as he entered. He pinched his nose, wondering what in God’s name the smell was. He reached out, switched on the light, turne
d a little too fast. He lost his footing and hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. He was still on the ground when he glanced upwards.

  The sight that greeted him saved him from falling again when he fainted.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  An ambulance with flashing blue lights parked in front of the arcade. Alongside that were three more squad cars and a van with dark tinted windows. Uniformed constables were standing in front of scene tape. Gardener and Reilly jumped out of their car, flashed warrant cards, walked down to the shop. At either end of the arcade, morning shoppers gathered, craning their necks to see what had happened.

  The entrance to the shop was sealed with reflective scene tape. Inside, Gardener heard the voices of both Fitz and Briggs. Sitting outside on a chair, wrapped in a blanket, was a man. Gardener estimated his age around sixty. The small amount of grey hair he had left on the sides of his head above his ears was close-cropped. The man wore round, wire-rimmed spectacles. He had a bulbous nose, and his lips were thick and protruding. His complexion was the colour of flour. His teeth were chattering so hard, Gardener didn’t think he would have any left in another hour.

  The rest of his team was dotted around the arcade. Most of them were talking to what he suspected were the other shopkeepers. A constable in front of the shop handed the two officers their white contamination suits. Gardener dressed. He was about to enter when Briggs stepped out.

  “Bit nasty in there, Stewart.” He nodded towards the man on the chair. “That’s Alan Cuthbertson.”

  “Did he find the body?” asked Gardener.

  “Afraid so.”

  “Not touched anything, has he?”

  “I doubt it. He hasn’t spoken since I got here. In fact, I don’t think he’s spoken since he found her.”

  “Who found him, then?” asked Reilly.

  “Bloke next door in the camera shop. Name’s Battersby. He heard an almighty crash and came running to see what was up. Cuthbertson had passed out. Battersby left him to it while he rang us.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Back in his own shop.”

  “Anybody questioned him?”

  “Just doing it. You’d better take a look, Stewart. I’ve told Scenes of Crime to hang fire until you’ve been in. I’m warning you now, it’s much worse than the last one.”

  “How do you know it’s the same killer?”

  “There’s a quote on the wall,” said Briggs.

  “And it’s worse than the last one?” questioned Reilly.

  “Well, you two go and have a look, I’m having a fag.”

  “I thought you’d given up,” said Gardener.

  “When you’ve seen what’s in there, you might join me.” Briggs nodded to Cuthbertson again. “No wonder that poor bastard’s lost his marbles.”

  Gardener pushed past Briggs. Reilly followed.

  Inside the shop, Gardener pinched his nose. The coppery odour of blood was ever present, along with the putrid aroma of urine and excrement. The room wasn’t particularly big, but an awful lot had been crammed into the space for display purposes, such as tailor’s dummies dressed in various costumes with a variety of different hairstyles. Two of the walls had shelves with latex masks and wigs, and a whole range of chemicals and powders for stage use. The only bare wall in the shop was to the left of the counter. That wall contained the message.

  Which was partially hidden by the body.

  The girl was naked, hanging upside down. Her legs were open, held that way by two ropes attached to ceiling beams, knotted tightly around her ankles, which – Gardener realised – bore no chafing. As his gaze wandered further down her colourless body, he didn’t notice any signs of sexual abuse, but he knew a closer inspection may reveal otherwise.

  Her arms had also been tied and held outwards by ropes, intricately wound around the mannequins, connected to the counter at one side, and the window ledge at the other. Her throat had been slit, allowing the blood to drain into a large bucket beneath her head. Had she been dead at that point? He’d figured she must have been, otherwise there would be blood spatter. That was something Fitz would eventually be able to tell him. The pathologist was standing quietly behind him, arranging the tools he would need.

  “Notice something, Sean?”

  “He’s getting more adventurous,” said Reilly. “But I’m noticing a lot of things. Which one are you thinking of?”

  “The wall behind her has no blood spatter. Why?”

  “He’s done her somewhere else?”

  “Possible. But how could you get a body into the arcade and into the shop without anyone seeing you?”

  “He managed it in the theatre.”

  The SIO glanced around the shop in disgust.

  Steve Fenton nodded. “I’ll be outside. Give us a shout when you need me.”

  Gardener blew out a sigh, nodded at Fitz. “Okay.” He stopped Steve Fenton leaving the shop. “Any sign of her clothes?”

  “Not so far.”

  Gardener turned his attention to the quote:

  The night passed – a night of vague horrors

  – tortured dreams.

  What the hell was that supposed to mean? And where had it come from? Another film?

  In spite of the fact that he knew beyond any doubt she was dead, he still had to check. He felt for a pulse. No one questioned him. It was the duty of every officer – where possible – to preserve or save life. Briggs came back into the shop, muttering about the mess and the bastard who’d created it.

  “Does she have a name?” asked Gardener.

  “Janine Harper. Bloke next door identified her. She’s worked here for years. He thinks she’s about twenty-five. He’s not sure where she lives.”

  “Any idea what time it happened, Fitz?”

  Fitz sighed, removing a thermometer from her rectum. “Judging by the results, I’d say he started last night, reasonably late, so as not to be disturbed.” The pathologist leaned forward and pointed. “Look at the bruising to the face. I think she resisted him. He probably punched her a few times, eventually overpowered her, and then most likely drugged her to be able to get her into that position.”

  “Why was she in the shop late at night by herself?” Gardener asked. “It wasn’t her business.”

  “Ask him,” said Briggs, pointing outside.

  “I intend to, if he ever decides to speak.” Gardener didn’t say anything else, but walked around the counter and through to the back of the shop. Reilly followed. “There are signs of a struggle,” suggested Gardener. His partner nodded.

  A small number of bottles and boxes were scattered around the floor. The SIO glanced closely at the shelving and then down at the floor. “The nearest one’s been moved, probably by force.”

  “Maybe she ran into here to try and escape.”

  “Where to?”

  Reilly had no answer. “He obviously followed her.”

  “There’s still no trace of blood spatter. So, she couldn’t have been killed in here.”

  “That suggests she was still alive when he came into the shop,” offered Reilly.

  “So, what the hell did he do with her?”

  “More to the point, where?” added Reilly.

  Gardener turned back into the main shop, and read the quote. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He stood contemplating. “I suppose it blows the theory of the watch committee.” He nodded towards Janine Harper. “She certainly wasn’t on it.”

  “Maybe not,” said Reilly. “But her father might have been.”

  “Her father?”

  “Val White gave us the names of the committee members. If my memory’s right, there was a bloke called Jack Harper. If there’s a connection, it doesn’t blow your theory entirely.”

  Gardener glanced at the floor. “If that’s the case, we definitely need to find Harry Fletcher now.”

  “What about him out there, Cuthbertson?” said Reilly. “Do you reckon he’s capable of murder?”

  “Could be,” said Brig
gs.

  “I’m not so sure,” replied Fitz. “His shock looks pretty genuine to me. I realise you can’t rule him out, but he’s a bloody good actor if it is him.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re looking for, an actor?” said Gardener. “Someone with the ability to disguise himself, someone who has the means?”

  “What’s his motive?” asked Briggs.

  “Let’s find out.” Gardener walked over to the front door. He spoke to the constable. “Clean him up and take him back to the station for questioning.” He turned back and addressed Fitz. “Meanwhile, can you sort out the post-mortem as soon as possible? I’m particularly interested in the fact that there’s no blood spatter, but there are indications of a struggle in the back room. He must have killed her in the shop. Question is, what’s he used in order to stop her heartbeat? You know as well as I do if he’d done that while she was still alive, this place would be one God awful mess.”

  Fitz nodded. “Okay, we’ll remove the body and let the SOCOs do their job.”

  Gardener shouted for Steve Fenton. “You know the drill. Sweep for prints. I’d like another ESLA. Be careful with the ropes. The knots look different to the last one.”

  He turned to Briggs. “I’ll have to speak to the team. We’ll need to find out where she lives, and speak to her parents.”

  “And anyone else that’s close, if they haven’t already been on the phone to report her missing,” Briggs replied.

  “I assume she’s not married, there’s no wedding band, nor a line to suggest there was one,” said Gardener. “We need a written report of his information next door. And all the CCTV evidence we can lay our hands on.”

  “What a mess,” said Briggs. “The shit’s going to hit the fan with this one.”

  “Can you put a call into the FSS?”

  Briggs nodded. “How the hell does he manage to do all this without someone seeing him?”

  “He doesn’t,” said Gardener.

  “Come again?” said Briggs.

  “Plenty of people see him. He isn’t worried about people seeing him because nobody knows what he really looks like. Take a look at that crowd out there.” Gardener pointed through the window. “He could be in that lot, somewhere. The front row, maybe. We’d have no idea, because we don’t know him. He knows that – he’s playing on it. He can commit atrocities like this every day. He knows we’re never going to catch him.”