IMPERFECTION

by Ray Clark

  “None of which proves he’s mad,” retorted Briggs.

  “Maybe you’re right. When all is said and done, he did provide what I think will be a valuable clue.”

  “Go on,” said Briggs.

  “He suspected the quotes came from the silent film era, the Golden Age of Hollywood, as he calls it. When films were silent, with no synchronized sound, they used title cards to communicate what was being said. He feels these quotes are written in the same style as those cards.”

  “Did he recognise them?”

  “He said he didn’t.”

  “But you think otherwise?” Briggs asked.

  Gardener nodded. “We went to see Fettle afterwards, the old guy who looks after The Grand in Leeds. He told us about Lon Chaney, an actor in the silent films who was a master of disguise. He played the part of Inspector Burke of Scotland Yard, and the part of the vampire here.” Gardener held up the artist impression. “In a film entitled, London After Midnight.”

  “I remember him,” said Briggs. “He also made that film about the Hunchback.”

  “And The Phantom of the Opera. Fettle also mentioned a film called A Blind Bargain, another of Chaney’s, about a mad scientist. Both that one and London are what you call ‘lost films’. Corndell told us he collects lost films, and that his favourite was A Blind Bargain, and he provided us with a lot of information about make-up. What bothers me most is a conversation he was having on his mobile phone when we arrived, supposedly with Hollywood. He was discussing the choice of director for his work. He wasn’t happy about it, and said he would make changes if they didn’t like his script.”

  “The problem is?” asked Briggs.

  “When I asked Fettle to verify the directors Corndell mentioned, Fettle said both of them had been dead for years.”

  The silence that followed was claustrophobic. Gardener sensed the clocks ticking and the wheels turning. Had they found their man? He faced Trevor Thorpe, the profiler. “Trevor, any thoughts?”

  Thorpe was dressed as they’d seen him previously, in a tweed jacket and brown cords. Once again, he left his chair and glanced at the ceiling as he walked.

  “Well, Mr Gardener, a very interesting character. Someone I would perhaps like to meet. Did he appear very confident when challenged?”

  Reilly nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “What was his house like? Clean and tidy?”

  “Yes,” replied Gardener.

  Thorpe returned to his chair and sat down, exactly as he had last time, legs straddling the chair and arms across the back. “Did he have a display of curtains in the house?”

  “As far as I remember,” replied Gardener, confused.

  “Did you check the knots in the cords?”

  “No, why?” asked Reilly.

  “Just curious,” replied Thorpe. “Our man likes to tie knots, does he not? And the colour red was prominent, you say?”

  “A little more than usual, yes,” replied Reilly.

  “And he appeared... confident, you say?” Thorpe asked, spreading his arms out in front of him.

  “Most of the time,” replied Gardener.

  Thorpe stood up and stared Gardener in the eye. “They’re all coincidences, Mr Gardener. We need to find out more. Is he married? Was he married? I think the man we’re looking for is not a loner.”

  He turned to stare at Reilly. “Security conscious... I doubt very much he will be. He’s spent so long being repressed, that he now wants to be free! He will not lock himself away. He’ll be out most nights, mixing and mingling, because he craves company. He wants to express those locked-in emotions. He wants to feel wanted! Loved!”

  He sat back down on his chair. “No, Mr Gardener, I don’t think Corndell is your man. You’re seeing what you want to see because it fits in with what you think. You need to widen your thought patterns.” Thorpe said nothing else, and when it was obvious he’d finished, Briggs took over.

  “Okay, how do you want to proceed, Stewart?”

  Gardener turned to face the team. “Colin, I’d still like William Henry Corndell checked out. See what you can find. Where did he live in London, and what was he up to? Find out everything you can about him after he moved here. Check his credit and his bills. Fettle has a contact who worked for Her Majesty’s Theatre for years. According to Corndell, he played the part of the Phantom before Michael Crawford, so Fettle’s checking that for us.

  “Thornton, Anderson, you two check out Lon Chaney. Find out every film he’s been in and what they’re about. I also want you to see if you can locate anything on a film called The Scarlet Car.”

  Gardener pointed to the copy on the board. “Look at the last two lines. He’s telling us he’s about to kill another in Leeds. What does he mean by ‘down and out’? Is it an area none of us frequent? A seedy part perhaps? That puts Alan Cuthbertson back in the picture. He regularly visits places of ill repute. Or does he mean something entirely different? A tramp maybe?”

  Gardener thought back to Derek Summers and the Christmas murders. At the time he met someone called Bob Crisp, a disbarred lawyer who’d turned tramp and lived underground in fear of his life. Since that investigation had been closed, he hadn’t seen the man. But he’d had no reason to. A pet hate of Gardener’s was anything unclean. He shuddered as he thought of the time he’d been beaten senseless because he’d dressed like a tramp, only to regain consciousness in the company of the man he had been searching for. But at the same time, he also realised what a friend Bob Crisp had turned out to be. Question is, where is he now?

  “I want the rest of you to continue trying to find Harry Fletcher, chase up the leads we already have. Explore new avenues.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The following morning, Gardener showed Alan Briggs through to the kitchen. Malcolm was sitting at the table drinking his second cup of tea. The meeting was meant to be informal. Despite Briggs’s reservations, Gardener thought it best if they spoke to his father at home and with him present.

  “Now then, Malcolm,” said Briggs. “How are you keeping?”

  “I’m fine, Alan. You?”

  “Can’t complain. Is there any more tea in that pot, Stewart?”

  “Coming up, sir.”

  Briggs pulled out a chair and sat opposite Malcolm. “I’m only here to ask you a few questions about Leonard White and the watch committee, if you don’t mind? It’s a sensitive issue, and by rights Stewart shouldn’t be with us, but he thought you might feel a bit better if he was.”

  Gardener placed a cup of tea in front of Briggs and took a seat at the table. He noticed the strain in his father’s eyes, the drawn expression on his face. Since White’s death, he hadn’t been sleeping well. The fact that Jack Harper’s daughter had also been killed had brought the whole issue closer to home.

  “What can you tell us about the watch committee?” asked Briggs.

  “There isn’t much to tell, Alan. We used to vet the films when they came to Leeds. We had the power to censor what we felt was unacceptable.”

  “And did you?”

  “In a few cases.”

  “Any in particular you can remember?”

  “Not off the top of my head. I remember we considered a couple that were soft porn gone a little too far. We suggested cuts and the directors agreed.”

  “So, you had to get the directors’ permission?”

  “Not really, no. We just thought it polite to involve them.”

  “Did the directors approve without opposition?”

  “Mostly. They knew we had the power to ban the film, if they didn’t,” replied Malcolm, sipping his tea.

  “Where did you do all this, Dad?”

  “The Town Hall in the early days. Then, as time moved on, so did we.” Malcolm paused. “I think we moved over to a warehouse, near the Playhouse.”

  “Can you remember where?”

  “Not the exact address, but it was at the back of the Playhouse.”

  Gardener nodded. “I know where you mea
n, don’t think it’s in use now.”

  Briggs resumed his questioning. “You knew Leonard White pretty well, didn’t you?”

  “There were people who knew him better.”

  “The day he was murdered at The Grand, you went to see him. Is there anything you can think of now that was unusual about his behaviour?”

  “Only the tea. I told Stewart he was legendary for halting productions because he wanted a regular supply of tea. When a tray of tea came for us both at The Grand, he never touched a drop.”

  “Did he pass you yours?”

  “No.”

  “Did he move the tray?”

  “Not that I can recall. In fact, to be honest, he was applying the finishing touches of his make–up, but he was wearing those surgical gloves.”

  “Finishing touches? What time were you with him?” asked Briggs.

  “About two o’clock, as I remember.”

  “And you didn’t find it strange that he was applying the finishing touches of his make-up at two o’clock in the afternoon, when he wasn’t due on stage until seven-thirty in the evening?”

  The expression on Malcolm’s face changed. “Now you mention it, it did seem a little odd, but I didn’t think anything about it at the time.”

  “What about his voice? Can you remember if it sounded any different?” asked Briggs.

  “It was a little higher. But voices change.”

  “The colour of his eyes?”

  “Can’t say as I noticed,” said Malcolm. “But you have to remember it was a good twenty plus years since I’d seen him, and I had no reason to believe it was someone else.”

  “Fair point,” said Briggs.

  Gardener interrupted. “Dad, can you think of anything that brought the committee into disrepute? Were there any arguments about anything in particular? Were any of the members ever threatened?”

  Malcolm sat back in the chair. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, Stewart, and I have remembered something, way back.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m trying to think. It’s such a long time ago, but I’m pretty sure that one film did have to be banned.”

  “Why?” Briggs asked.

  “I can’t remember,” said Malcolm.

  “Was it pornographic?”

  “I don’t think so, I’d have remembered that,” laughed Malcolm. “Harry Fletcher would know. He used to keep a diary, with him being a writer. If there were any films he particularly liked, he made a note of the closing credits. He also kept meticulous notes of the films where we had recommended cuts.”

  “How well did you know Harry Fletcher?” asked Briggs.

  “About as well as I knew the rest of them. We socialised quite often, went out for meals as a group and discussed the films.”

  “Had you ever met him, or heard from him before the watch committee formed?”

  “A couple of times, mostly at the cinema. I’d read a couple of his books.”

  “Did you meet up with Harry Fletcher more than the others?” pursued Briggs.

  “Not particularly.”

  “What was he like?”

  Malcolm paused. “When I think about it, typical writer. A bit strange.”

  “In what way?” Briggs asked.

  “What I mean by strange is, he was very quiet, a bit of a loner. You wouldn’t see him for weeks. There were occasions when he missed the watch committee meetings and then offered little explanation as to where he’d been. He’d just tell us he was working on a new book and had to meet deadlines. He was very inquisitive, obsessive. He was always asking questions without ever really telling you why.”

  “What kind of questions?” Gardener asked.

  “I really can’t remember, Stewart, it was too long ago. I suppose he’d ask us questions when he was writing a new book, to help with his research. He was a people watcher as well, but most writers are.”

  “What were his books about?” asked Briggs.

  “As far as I can remember, thrillers and murder mysteries. One of the two I read was similar to Agatha Christie, only not as good.” Malcolm took a sip of tea and then asked, “Why are you asking me all these questions about Fletcher?”

  “We can’t find him,” said Briggs. “We’ve checked the electoral register and he’s not on that. We can’t find any bank records apart from a couple that were closed down years ago. We’ve even spoken to the people at the Playhouse, and the only address they had for him was a flat somewhere in Leeds. But he’s moved on since then.”

  “He didn’t live in a flat when I knew him.”

  “Where did he live?” asked Gardener.

  Malcolm cupped his hands under his chin. “Burley in Wharfedale. I remember it well, he had a little cottage, set back from the main street. It had a conservatory and a small study where he used to write. I can’t quite remember the address, but I could take you there.”

  “We need to check it out,” said Gardener. “What about a telephone number?”

  “I might be able to help.” Malcolm stood up and left the room.

  Briggs turned to Gardener. “He’s doing well. I can see it’s taken its toll, but he’s handling it great.”

  “Yes,” replied Gardener. “I’m pleased, he’s been so down of late.”

  “He must have a lot on his mind, Stewart. He knows as well as we do that the connection is most likely the watch committee, and if we find Harry Fletcher dead, then he’s next. But he hasn’t given us much to go on.”

  “I’m sure if we give him enough time, he’ll remember more. He’s brilliant with films.”

  “Okay,” said Briggs. “We’ll change the subject, and then come back to it.”

  Malcolm returned to the room with a phone number. Gardener left the table and rang it. The line was dead, so he called the station, asking them to follow it up and supply an address. Then he sat back down. “No luck. I’ve asked the station to check it out.”

  “Stewart was just saying how much you enjoy films, Malcolm. Do you go and see many?”

  “I love films, Alan. Always have. I go a couple of times a week. Chris joins me at least once.”

  “What sort of films?”

  “All sorts of films. What I like about films is that they take you away from reality, show you someone else’s problems for a couple of hours.” Malcolm chuckled. “And they usually have happy endings. I love the black-and-whites mostly. They didn’t rely on special effects, just bloody good stories. They knew how to make them, then.”

  “Are you into horror?” asked Briggs.

  “I’ve seen a few,” replied Malcolm.

  “Remember an actor called Lon Chaney?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  Gardener was especially grateful to Alan Briggs for the way he was handling the interview.

  “What was so good about Chaney, Malcolm?”

  “He was the best, pure magic to watch. They called him ‘The Man of a Thousand Faces’.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Make-up expert. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t do. He did it all himself, and he used to carry a little black bag around. I did hear that the make-up case is in the Natural History Museum in Los Angeles. But the thing is, nobody knew how he did things. He used to endure such pain and torment just to get the part right. He wore a seventy-pound hump for The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and for The Phantom of the Opera he was said to have pushed discs up under his cheekbones to create the effect.”

  Briggs’ expression grew distasteful. “Going a bit far, isn’t it?”

  “That was Chaney for you,” replied Malcolm. “He was a perfectionist. That’s probably why he was the highest paid actor in Hollywood.”

  Briggs then slid the quotes towards Malcolm. “Do you recognise these?”

  Malcolm studied them, but shook his head. “No, but if you don’t mind I’ll write them down and check it out. Do you think they’re from Chaney’s films?”

  “Possibly,” replied Gardener.

  “Even if they
are, Son, and even if the killer is an expert with make-up just like Chaney was, it still doesn’t tell you why he’s doing it, or who he is.”

  “True,” offered Briggs. “But if we know that’s where he’s heading, we may find something in Chaney’s past that will give us a clue. Was Fletcher ever into that kind of thing? You know, make-up and acting?”

  “No. Not in the time that I knew him. He was a bookworm. Why? You don’t think he’s your man, do you?”

  “That’s why we need to find him, Malcolm. If he isn’t the killer, he could be the next victim. If he is...” Briggs left the sentence unfinished, leaving Gardener aware of the implications. He knew his father well enough to know that he, too, would have worked out the answer. “Have you heard of a director called Wallace Henry Corndell?” Briggs asked.

  “Yes. That’s who Leonard White sold his house to.”

  “What about William Henry Corndell?”

  Malcolm paused before answering. “There’s no director of that name.”

  “Not a director, Dad, an actor,” said Gardener.

  “I don’t recognise him as an actor, either. What’s he been in?”

  “Mostly theatre work,” replied Gardener. “But I get the feeling he’s living off his dad’s reputation, and I can’t find reference to anything he’s been in. He reckons he was in Phantom in the West End before Michael Crawford.”

  “I thought Crawford was the first,” replied Malcolm.

  “So did I.”

  “And you suspect he’s lying? Do you think he’s the killer?”

  “Well if he is, it’ll take some proving,” replied Gardener. “We have very little evidence against him.”

  Malcolm snapped his fingers loudly. “That film that was banned by the watch committee. I know why I can’t remember much about it, I wasn’t there.”

  “Why?” asked Gardener, suddenly feeling awkward, as if he should know the answer himself.

  “I was in hospital, don’t you remember? I was landscaping for Leonard White at the time, the property in Horsforth, Corndell’s huge place. I landscaped the grounds for him when the drains gave way and collapsed. I fell in and broke both my legs.”