IMPERFECTION

by Ray Clark

  Gardener wanted out. He’d been here long enough. The smell had coated the insides of his nostrils.

  “There’s something else, boss,” said Reilly. “If Jack Harper’s dead and this was his daughter, that means your father is on the list as well.”

  “I know. I’ve thought of that already.”

  Another young constable appeared in the shop doorway. He waved to Gardener, but kept his eyes on the floor. “What is it?”

  “The press, sir, they’d like a comment.”

  “I’m sure they would. I suppose we’d better tell them something. If we don’t, they’ll only make it up.”

  Gardener walked out of the shop, stripped off his paper suit and deposited it in a bin. Briggs and Reilly followed. He spotted a team of Operational Support Officers heading in his direction.

  “I’d like you lot to split up and question every shopkeeper in the arcade. Find out what they know about Alan Cuthbertson and Janine Harper and the customers who come in here on a regular basis. I’d also like a couple of you out front on the streets today, question everyone you see. Find out if they were in the town last night. Did they see anyone they considered eccentric?”

  He turned to Briggs. Despite his loathing of the press, he knew he would have to use them.

  “I think we’d better ask the press to appeal for witnesses.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “What do you think, Sean?”

  “About Cuthbertson? I’ll know better when we’ve spoken to him, boss.”

  They were sitting in Gardener’s office ahead of the interview. As usual, Reilly was dressed in a brown leather bomber jacket and jeans. He emptied the contents of a coffee cup, and then threw it into the bin at the side of the desk.

  Gardener was sitting with his hands bridged and his chin resting on them. He’d been reading the scribbled notes submitted by the officers who had interviewed the other shopkeepers in the arcade. “The comments from his colleagues are not very favourable.”

  “Go on,” said Reilly.

  “The guy who runs the camera shop next door reckons he’s a loner, keeps odd hours, a little strange with his behaviour, rarely socialises. I have the impression he doesn’t like Cuthbertson.”

  “We both know there’s nothing wrong with that description, boss. He could be talking about you. But you’re no killer.”

  “How do you know?” laughed Gardener. He really appreciated the working relationship he had with the Irishman. Had it not been for Sean Reilly, he doubted very much he would have overcome the effect of Sarah’s death quite so readily. “It’s not that so much, Sean. Battersby reckons he’s quiet and subdued a lot of the time, as if he has things on his mind. Never discusses his private life, leaves the shop at all hours.”

  “Did he know why Janine Harper was working late at night on her own?” asked Reilly.

  “No. Battersby noticed the lights were on, but he had no idea who was there. He doubted it would be Cuthbertson. Something about his manner doesn’t add up, though,” said Gardener. “I appreciate the death of his assistant would have an effect, but I thought he was too preoccupied.”

  “Perhaps he did it, boss. Maybe the silent treatment was a good piece of acting while he thought up an alibi for where he was yesterday.”

  “Maybe. According to Battersby he left the shop around four o’clock.”

  “Okay, so there’s his opportunity. It must take a good three or four hours to apply make-up to the quality that this man needs. But we still need a motive, and he could have an alibi.”

  “Battersby left at six-thirty.”

  “Did he see Cuthbertson come back?”

  “No, and he didn’t see Janine Harper leaving either,” replied Gardener.

  “Did he say anything about their relationship?”

  Gardener rifled through the notes in front of him. “No, except that they were total opposites. At times, she could be quite lively. They did have their differences, which appears to have been the usual thing, young versus old. Fresh ideas coming up against aged resistance.”

  A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Colin Sharp’s head appeared around the side of the door. “He’s cleaned up and ready to talk now, sir.”

  “Thanks. We’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “There’s something else you ought to know.”

  “Go on,” said Gardener.

  “There’s a lot of marks on his body.”

  “What kind of marks?” Reilly asked.

  “Scratches, bites. Bruises.”

  “Has he now?” said Gardener. “Are they fresh?”

  “They’re recent, but I wouldn’t like to say when.”

  Gardener gathered up the notes and returned them to the folder. “Time to go and find out what they’re all about.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Is it the work of the same killer?”

  The question was from Johnny Stevens, an experienced journalist with The Yorkshire Post. Alan Briggs knew he had served his time on some of the worst cases in the county, the Yorkshire Ripper to name but one. He was a bloodhound, well paid. Delivered results. A meeting with the press was the last thing Alan Briggs wanted right now. The day started terribly with the discovery of Janine Harper’s body, and became worse when he was summoned to a meeting with his superior – who shouted loud enough to wake the dead. Now it hit an all-time low because Gardener was otherwise engaged.

  Not that Gardener would have cared. Offering him a press meeting was like serving up garlic bread to Dracula. As much as he admired Gardener’s dedication to the job and the reason for his hatred of the press, he would have much preferred to interview Alan Cuthbertson.

  “There are similarities between the two murders. We are taking into consideration the theatrical and geographical links.”

  “Oh come on, Briggs.”

  “Hey!” The DCI raised his hand, stopped the reporter there. “Mister Briggs to you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Okay, Mr Briggs,” Stevens repeated the name with distaste. “Who has he killed this time?”

  “You know very well I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Is it a child?” shouted another reporter.

  “No, it is not a child.”

  “Has he killed another thespian, Mr Briggs?”

  Briggs took his time in answering because he knew what would come next. But he couldn’t hold out forever. “No.”

  Johnny Stevens was on his feet again. “The public have a right to know what’s going on, Mr Briggs. We have a duty to tell them, and you have one to tell us.”

  “I agree that the public have a right to know, son, and as soon as we have something concrete to tell them, we will. But this meeting is about utilising the newspapers to appeal for witnesses. We want the public of Leeds to keep their eyes open, report anything unusual.”

  Another reporter jumped down his throat. The questions were coming thick and fast. “Do you have any leads?”

  “We have discovered one or two points worthy of further investigation.” Briggs was pleased with himself for that one.

  “Have you identified the man?”

  “We are at present interviewing someone.” Briggs held up his hand. “But let me make it absolutely clear, he is only helping us with our inquiries, he is not a suspect.”

  Another reporter stood up. He was about to throw a question when Briggs himself rose from his chair.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to stop you there, gentlemen. We do have a very important investigation on our hands. Thank you for your time.”

  Briggs left the room, closed the door behind him, relieved that it was over. He was still furious that they were no further on; two murders within a week, both in the same part of town. There were similarities, neither of which had turned up any evidence. The next meeting in the incident room would be one to remember.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Gardener studied Alan Cuthbertson.

  The expression of fear on the shop owner’s
face had Gardener concerned. Was he frightened about the situation he was in; felt he was being fitted up for something he hadn’t done? Or was it guilt because he had committed murder, and the police had figured him out a lot sooner than he’d anticipated?

  They had taken his clothes and supplied him with a plain black T-shirt, dark blue jogging bottoms, and black plimsoles – standard issue custody clothing. Cuthbertson’s pallor was deathly white. He constantly twitched. He also rubbed his hands together a lot whilst inspecting his fingernails every few seconds.

  “Am I under arrest?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” replied Gardener. “You’re helping with our enquiries.”

  “Do I need a solicitor?”

  “Do you think you need one?”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong!” he shouted.

  “Bit of a shock for you, seeing that” said Reilly.

  “Shock!” repeated Cuthbertson. “I was bloody traumatised. It’s not every day you open your shop and find your assistant hanging upside down with her insides in a bucket.”

  “Not so shocked that you didn’t take everything in, by the sound of it,” said Reilly.

  Cuthbertson fixed Reilly with a stare. “What are you suggesting?”

  “How would you describe your relationship?” asked Gardener.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” retorted Cuthbertson. His eyes were like slits and his expression had hardened. “I’ve heard about you lot and your strong-arm tactics. Well, you won’t get me to admit to something I haven’t done.”

  “We don’t want you to. But we would like an answer to the question I’ve just asked.”

  “Oh, God.” He placed his arms on the desk and supported his head with his hands. “What a bloody mess.”

  Gardener didn’t feel the need to repeat the question. He chose instead to simply stare at the suspect.

  Cuthbertson sighed. “My relationship.” He lifted his head and rubbed his hands together. “Well. It was pretty much like any other. She was a good worker. Usually on time, never really took time off sick.”

  “Had she caused you any problems recently?” asked Gardener.

  “I think she’s had something on her mind. Last couple of days she’d been late, and her attitude with customers wasn’t what I would have expected of her. More than once I had to smile and make an apology.”

  “Did she say what it was?”

  “No, but she was certainly withdrawn. I did ask of course, but she just blamed it on women’s problems. Maybe it was boyfriend trouble.”

  “Do you know the boyfriend?” asked Reilly.

  “Yes, met him a couple of times. He’d picked her up from the shop. He seemed all right, but then don’t they all when you only see them for a couple of minutes?”

  “Do you know anything else about him? His name? Where he lives? His job?”

  “Carl Simpson, lives over Esholt way; don’t know where exactly. Plays in a band, as far as I know. He’s a drummer, likes to make a bit of noise. Not the sort of band I’d want to see, nor you two by the look of you.”

  “Were there any other problems?” asked Gardener.

  “Nothing she let on about.”

  “So, you worked well together?”

  “Yes, I just said so, didn’t I?”

  “How long had she worked for you?”

  “About five years. The shop had been growing steadily busier, and I advertised for an assistant. She was the best of the bunch.”

  “Did she ever talk about her home life? About her relationship with her parents?” asked Gardener.

  “A little. She had a younger sister who was still at college. Her father’s dead. Her mother takes in ironing.”

  News of her father’s death struck a raw nerve with Gardener. Was it Jack Harper of the watch committee? If it was, then they needed to find Fletcher for all sorts of reasons. “Did you know her father?”

  “No. He died before Janine came to work for me.”

  “She ever mention his name?”

  “I can’t remember. Look, where the hell are you going with all this? It’s not helping find the killer, is it?” asked Cuthbertson.

  “We have to build a picture of what Janine was like,” said Gardener. “You’ve already told us she wasn’t herself of late. We need to know why. Was it family problems? Boyfriend trouble? Had someone threatened her? Did she have money problems? Any debt? Do you know anything about her social life?”

  “I’m her employer. The kind of questions you’re asking me should be directed at her mother. She knows her better than I do.”

  “In that case,” said Reilly, “let’s talk about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Tell us something about yourself?”

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  “I wish I had a pound for every time I’d heard that, don’t you, boss? I’ll tell you what, we’ll make this easy for you. We’ll ask questions, you answer. How long have you had your business?”

  “Thirty years. I haven’t been in the arcade for thirty years because it wasn’t there then. I started off in a little village, Burley in Wharfedale back in the Eighties. That’s where I live, you see.”

  “Business was good then?”

  “Not to start with. But I’ve always been interested in theatre and stage, and I had a lucky break thirty years ago. I won twenty-five thousand pounds on the football pools. It was a lot of money back then. So, I decided to pack in work and open the shop.”

  “I see,” said Gardener. “So, because you’d won all that money, it didn’t really matter whether or not the business got off to a slow start, you had enough capital to see you through.”

  “That’s about the size of it. Look, can I get a drink or something?”

  Gardener left the table. Outside the interview room door, he asked for two coffees – fresh ones, not the crap from the machine, and a bottle of water. He came back to the table and sat down. “Okay, so you had the shop at Burley. When did you decide to move to Leeds?”

  “Ten years ago. Business was expanding and I was beginning to attract lucrative custom from London. A lot of my business is mail order.”

  “I’m pleased you mentioned that. We would like to see records, everything you’ve sold, both over the counter and mail order for at least the last five years.”

  “That isn’t a problem. Anyway, I moved into Leeds, on Briggate. Five years ago, I decided to take one of the arcade shops because it was considered a more prime position. And I took Janine on.”

  A uniformed officer returned with the drinks. He left them on the table and walked out. “What about your customers? How well do you know them?”

  “I know a few, repeat business from people who are touring.”

  “What about new customers? Have you had any in the shop recently that you haven’t seen before?”

  “Quite a few.”

  “Any strange ones?” asked Reilly. “An eccentric? Someone who stands out a little more than usual?”

  “Can’t say that I’ve noticed. Most of the people who come in are pleasant. You get the odd few that think they’re above everyone else, people who think that just because they’re in a local production, they’re film stars.”

  “Anyone come to mind?”

  “Not off the top of my head, no.” He sipped his coffee.

  “I’d like a list of all your clients, Mr Cuthbertson. Names and addresses.”

  “I don’t know if I have the addresses of all of them.”

  “We’ll settle for everyone that you do have,” replied Gardener. “Now, let’s come back to something you said earlier. You’d always been interested in theatre and stage. Films as well?”

  “Yes, films as well.”

  “What’s your favourite?” asked Gardener.

  “Pardon?”

  “Your favourite film, what is it?”

  “I... er... I’m not sure. Something black and white I imagine, an Ealing comedy.”

  “Why?”

 
; “What do you mean, why?”

  “Simple enough question, Mr Cuthbertson. Why do you like films from that era, Ealing comedies in particular?”

  “Because they knew how to make films then. Good, wholesome films with people who could act. Not just the comedies, but the kitchen-sink drama as well. Films that dealt with real people in real situations. Not the garbage you get now, science fiction, horror, sex. There’s enough horror in the real world without having TV and cinema ram it down your throat. You only have to look at my shop to see that. And here you are accusing me when I haven’t done anything.”

  “No one is accusing you. If anything, we’re trying to eliminate you from our enquiries, and the only way we can do that is to be very thorough. Wouldn’t you agree?” asked Gardener.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Wouldn’t want to go to prison for something you haven’t done, would you, now?” said Reilly. “Especially for a crime like this. You know what they do to people in prison who have killed women?”

  “Look, if you’re trying to frighten me...”

  “We’re not,” replied Gardener. “We’re trying to find out why a young girl has been butchered on your premises, and there are times when our job is not very nice, but we still have to do it. If you’re innocent, you have nothing to worry about. Now, can we please get back to the matter in hand?”

  Cuthbertson took another sip of coffee.

  “Ealing comedies,” said Reilly.

  A silence descended upon the room. When it was obvious that Reilly wasn’t going to elaborate, Cuthbertson spoke up. “What about them?”

  “Does the name Wallace Henry Corndell mean anything to you?”

  Cuthbertson took his time before answering. “No, should it?”

  “William, maybe?”

  “No. I’ve never heard of him, either.”

  “What about Inspector Burke?” Gardener asked.