IMPERFECTION

by Ray Clark

  Gardener did remember. His application for the police force had been accepted, but his start date was delayed so as he could help his father to recuperate. “Can you remember why the ground gave way?”

  “From what I heard, the house had a series of tunnels running underneath it.”

  “Anything confirmed about the tunnels, why they were there?” asked Briggs.

  “I’ve no idea,” said Malcolm. “Harry Fletcher came to see me in hospital. He had his book with him and he told me about a film they’d had to ban. Apparently, it was the most horrific thing they had ever seen.”

  “Can you remember anything else about it?” asked Briggs.

  “No. It was such a long time ago. But I’m sure the records will be kept somewhere.”

  “Even from thirty years ago?” asked Briggs.

  “It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.”

  “Makes sense,” said Gardener, “if the director had his film banned. But surely it wouldn’t have caused that much trouble. Wouldn’t he have simply edited it?”

  “I don’t think he did,” said Malcolm. “There was more to it than that. I’m sure Harry said there was bad blood.”

  “Maybe we’re on to something, Stewart,” said Briggs. “See if you can trace the records, and while we’re at it, let’s tighten up our search for Fletcher. If he still has the diary, that may be one reason why we can’t find him. It might hold the biggest clue we have.”

  “Let me trace the records,” offered Malcolm. “I’d have a better idea where to look than you. Besides, my name may still carry a little bit of weight.”

  “If you’re sure?” asked Gardener.

  “I’d like to do it. Who knows, it may help to catch the lunatic before he does any more damage.” Malcolm rose from the table and left the kitchen in search of a notebook and pen.

  “Are you okay with that, sir?”

  “If we could spare someone to shadow him, it might serve two purposes.”

  “Protect him, and at the same time, lead us to the killer.”

  “Works on TV, doesn’t it?”

  Gardener laughed.

  Malcolm returned to the kitchen. “There’s someone outside waiting to see you.”

  “Me?” said Gardener. “Who is it?”

  “You’d best go and see.”

  Gardener was puzzled. He wasn’t expecting anyone. However, he was delighted to find that Jeff Harrison had finally returned with his Bonneville chassis frame.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Martin Brown had tried to call Corndell three times already, and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock. Each call had remained unanswered. In fact, he’d been unable to reach Corndell since his first. He was concerned, and had been since the return of the contract, which had been promptly signed, sealed, and delivered the day after he’d sent it. Corndell had made clear his conditions. Under no circumstances should any of his demands be disobeyed, or he would refuse to perform.

  Martin sighed and sat back in his seat, perusing the paperwork. He studied the contract, hoping to Christ the university could maintain the standards required.

  In the hall, a bunch of noisy students had gathered outside his door. He returned his attention to Corndell’s first demand – the election of a supervisor to oversee the whole project from the beginning. The man would arrive on March 31st and set up the stage. Martin hadn’t yet seen him, but to be honest he’d hardly had a chance to leave the office.

  Corndell’s man would handpick his own crew to help with whatever construction was required. Once the stage and the sound system had been designed to Corndell’s satisfaction, the hall had to be closed and locked, and no one allowed access except Corndell’s supervisor; only he would be present to greet Corndell when he arrived around noon on the day of performance.

  Anyone found whistling on the set will be fired; particularly if the tune was Three Blind Mice. No live flowers should be present, or delivered beforehand. No interviews would be granted either before or after the performance. The first customer to buy a ticket and enter the hall should not be a woman.

  Corndell had also requested that the dressing room walls be painted with pastel colours and furnished with a dressing table, a mirror, adequate lighting, and a comfortable stool. A meal consisting of a green, crisp salad, accompanied by Chinese green tea, should be delivered to the room no later than four o’clock. Corndell would dine alone.

  The biggest surprise – and only bonus – was that Corndell had agreed to put on the show for free.

  Martin couldn’t work that one out. But then again, he couldn’t really work any of it out. He sighed loudly, wondering if anyone in the world would even see Corndell, including himself. He still couldn’t help feeling that the person who said he was Corndell wasn’t, that it was some two-bit actor masquerading as a more superior one. He threw the signed contract back on the desk and left his office, in search of said supervisor.

  * * *

  When Martin entered the theatre hall, he was taken aback. The gothic stage set was magnificent, with red velvet drapes and impressive backdrops containing huge still-frame photographs from very early Universal horror films. There was no doubt that one of them was the Notre Dame Cathedral. A round platform – similar to the one where The Hunchback had been tied and whipped in the village square – had been erected centre stage. In Martin’s opinion, there were heavy overtones of Lon Chaney.

  Four strobe lights were equally positioned around the base of the podium, and the fog machines were currently being tested. Between all the photos, the design of the crumbling brickwork with its arched windows and gothic turrets impressed Martin. All of them had been coated with cobweb spray and enhanced by carefully concealed lighting.

  A mixture of smells assaulted Martin’s nostrils, some of which he could place: mint, and possibly avocado, which reminded Martin of a shampoo his wife had recently bought. There were others, but he had no idea what. The effect was sensational. The students were going to love it. Perhaps Corndell really did know what he was doing. Judging by the set, the show would be nothing short of spectacular.

  Martin suddenly jumped as the haunting sound of Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells reverberated through the sound system. Although he couldn’t see the speakers, they had a sound quality to die for. He wondered if the music had been chosen for the show. He couldn’t see how it fitted in.

  Martin breathed a sigh of relief when, at last, he saw someone on the stage, who Martin hoped was Corndell’s electorate.

  The music stopped before the man made his approach. Martin was surprised by his appearance. The man was seventy if he was a day. He wore a grey boiler suit and carried a small bag of tools in his left hand. He had a flat cap and a pair of pince-nez perched over the bridge of his nose, and a thick grey moustache. His eyes were a little watery, and so black and so deep they resembled two olives on a bed of cream. Martin struggled to believe that the old man was Corndell’s supervisor.

  “Can I help you, son?” asked the old man, with a Bow bells accent. His voice was a choking rasp, as if he smoked sixty cigarettes a day.

  “I was looking for William Henry Corndell, I don’t suppose he’s here?” asked Martin.

  “Cor blimey, mate, you ain’t asking much, are you? He’s a very busy man, our William.”

  “You know him, then?” questioned Martin.

  The old man jumped back and nearly dropped the bag of tools. “Know him? Well, of course I know him. What do you think I am, a doughnut?”

  Martin was beginning to wonder. No one still talked like that down in London, did they? Not unless they lived in Albert Square. “Are you his stage supervisor?”

  “I am.” The old man jumped down off the stage – pretty sprightly for his age – and extended his right hand. “Jake Bollard.”

  Martin was about to shake when he noticed the old guy wearing surgeon’s gloves. But that wasn’t what stopped him. It was the name.

  “Pardon?”

  “Bollard, Jake Bollard.”
>
  He did shake, so as not to cause offence. “Nice to meet you, Mr Bollard.” Martin struggled to remain straight faced. What kind of a name was Jake Bollard?

  “And you are?”

  “Martin Brown, I’m in charge of entertainment. I wanted to see how things were going, and if the team were looking after you.”

  “Champion, mate.” Bollard turned and admired his handiwork.

  “Where are they?”

  “Gone for a tea break. They’ve worked like ten men. I thought they deserved it.”

  “Fair enough. It’s looking good.” Martin didn’t know what else to say.

  “It has to. He’s a bit of a stickler, is old William.” Bollard turned and let out a rasping laugh, slapping Martin on the shoulder. “He’ll bloody well have me if he hears me calling him old.”

  Martin laughed as well, despite not finding the comment – or the slap – very funny. “Where is he, then?”

  Bollard’s expression switched as quickly as his manner. “Don’t you read contracts, son? You won’t see him today.”

  “Why not?” Martin asked.

  “He’s never in the theatre the day before. Never has been, it’s one of his little quirks.”

  “I see. How long have you worked for him?”

  “As long as he’s been doing it,” replied Bollard, dropping the bag of tools and sitting on the edge of the stage.

  “He’s reliable, then?” asked Martin. “It’s just that I find it a little strange that he isn’t here overlooking everything, a man of his calibre.”

  “He doesn’t need to be, does he? That’s why I’m here. I know exactly what he wants and where he wants it. Things have to be done in a certain order, and William will not enter the building until they have.”

  Martin was becoming more concerned. “What kind of things?”

  Bollard stood up and waved Martin towards him. “Come with me, son.”

  Martin accepted a helping hand on to the stage. The smell caught his nostrils first, and as he glanced upwards, he saw the garlic bulbs. They were mostly hanging by threads, but from the floor you couldn’t see them.

  “What are those for?” asked Martin.

  “To keep the spirits at bay,” replied Bollard. His wild-eyed expression conveyed his belief in the statement he had made.

  “Spirits?”

  “Oh, yes, my son.” Before Martin knew what was happening, Bollard had climbed up on to the podium and positioned himself as if he was going to do the show. His arms were open and his gaze high. Tubular Bells regurgitated its way around the sound system again. Quite how, Martin had no idea; he hadn’t seen anyone operate anything.

  “You see,” shouted Bollard, glancing back down towards Martin. “There are those that believe the nature of William’s plays invoke spirits from beyond. He uses well-known quotes from some of the old masters, which have the power to summon.”

  Martin stepped back as Bollard’s voice suddenly boomed out through the sound system. He must have had a hidden microphone:

  O’ winged serpent, I summon thee to me

  Come forth through the clouds for all to see.

  The music reached a crescendo, the density of the fog deepened, and Martin started to cough, but Bollard continued unabated, his timing perfect.

  Seek out the sinners and toll the bell

  Boil them alive in the fires of Hell.

  The stage grew silent, but not before a huge crashing sound. The strobe lights were extinguished, the smoke machines stopped, and the darkness became so total that Martin started to wonder what had really happened, and which side of the dividing line between good and evil he was now on.

  “Mr Bollard?” said Martin. “I really think you ought to climb down, it’s not safe for a man of your age.”

  The lights came back on and Bollard was directly in front of Martin, startling him. “What do you mean, my age?”

  “How did you do that?” Martin glanced around. Nothing on the stage was out of place, and whatever had caused the crash must have come from the sound system.

  “It’s in my blood, my son. Been doing it all my life, so don’t you worry about me.” Bollard reached down into his bag of tools and brought out a small bottle. He opened the top and took a quick swig of the not quite clear liquid.

  “I don’t think you should be drinking when you’re in charge of such expensive equipment, Mr Bollard.”

  “Drinking!” said Bollard. “Drinking. What do you think this is?”

  “Well, I’m not sure, but it looks like alcohol.”

  “Give over, son. Try it.” He passed the bottle over.

  Martin sniffed. Whatever it was immediately coated the inside of his nostrils, and he sneezed violently. His eyes stung, and he could hardly see for the excessive water.

  “Jesus Christ! What is that?”

  “Garlic vinegar, mate. Me and William, see, we swear by it. Protection, my old son. The protective qualities of garlic were valued during the plague epidemics in the seventeenth century. Thieves who plundered the homes of the sick drank this to safeguard them from infection. Sure you don’t want a drink?” He offered the bottle again.

  “No, thank you, Mr Bollard. I’d really like to make tomorrow night’s performance.”

  Bollard put the top back on and placed it in the bag of tools. “Yes, I know what you mean. Anyway, I’ve loads to do, so if you don’t mind, I’ll let you get back to your work.” He walked away without saying another word.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Gardener was sitting in the office, reflecting. He had spent most of the previous day with his father, trying to trace any records the local watch committee may have left behind; and a banned film would surely leave a stain. They were still operating, but out of a government office in the centre of Leeds with private screenings at various places. None of the current members recognised Malcolm, although one of them remembered hearing his name mentioned more than once.

  After a lengthy conversation, they had discovered that no records older than ten years were available. They were also told that they might have better luck with one of the local historians, or maybe the film museum in Bradford.

  Having driven over there, Gardener had treated his father to a pub lunch and, afterwards, had tried the museum. All records had been stored on discs and could be accessed by computer but they, too, proved fruitless. There was no mention of a banned film, despite Malcolm’s persistence that it had caused a stir at the time.

  What little time they had left before people were starting to wind down for the evening was spent trying to trace Harry Fletcher. Two people had remembered him, though they had no idea of his whereabouts now; one of them, however, had seen him recently. He simply couldn’t remember where. Frustrated and tired, they drove home.

  Gardener had spent the evening trawling the internet in an effort to shed further light on the banned film. Malcolm had no details and no title, so he’d given up a little after ten o’clock.

  He had downloaded a short history of Lon Chaney and a bibliography, but neither of them proved useful. One site had contained an appraisal of Chaney by none other than William Henry Corndell. But try as he might, no further information about Corndell himself was forthcoming. The only connection for the quotes at the scenes of the murders came back to what Colin Sharp had told them: they came from the film Phantom of the Opera. Nothing in the film’s storyline gave any indication of what they were dealing with.

  Gardener was left with questions and no answers. Why was there no reference to Corndell in the West End musical Phantom? Or Hollywood? More importantly, who really was the man who lived in a world full of dead people but thought they were still alive? Maybe he would find out when he joined Laura and Sean for Corndell’s university performance tonight.

  Sean Reilly came into the office and placed a coffee and a cup of tea on the desk; he was carrying a packet of Bourbon creams in his mouth, which he also dropped on to the desk.

  “Is that from the machine?” asked Gardener.


  “It’s free,” replied Reilly.

  “But it’s from the machine,” insisted Gardener.

  Reilly passed over the biscuits. “Have one of those, it’ll take the taste away.”

  “It’s not the taste I’m worried about, it’s the after-effects. Colin Sharp claimed this stuff has turned his water green.”

  “He’s only saying that to get attention. He thinks we might actually treat him as an equal.”

  Gardener laughed, taking a biscuit. “So, how did you get on yesterday?”

  “Some pretty interesting stuff,” said Reilly. “Initially, the planning department knew nothing about any tunnels under the house or the grounds. But one of their senior guys who’s been there years had a story to tell. Apparently, the house had originally been built in 1840 by a man called Jacob Wilson, a pretty wealthy industrialist by all accounts, into everything. Anyway, he owned a mine, and he had the house built near it. One of the problems he had was transporting the coal, so he devised a network of tunnels under the ground which led to the railway station.”

  “Which one?” Gardener asked.

  “Horsforth.”

  Gardener leaned forward on his desk. “We had a witness who said that Leonard White had entered the station in Leeds. No one has a record of him buying a ticket. No one saw him leave, and no one knew where he went to.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “Do you think there’s a tunnel under the station in Leeds which goes to Horsforth as well?”

  “Still looking into that one, but I did find out about one of those nature walks that goes from Leeds station and eventually finishes up there. Which would be a hell of a walk to do at night. We’re appealing for witnesses.”

  “Okay. It may not be much of a lead, but it’s something. Let’s see if Briggs will put a couple of the junior officers on to it. In the meantime, you and I should go and see Corndell again, see if we can have a better look around the house.”

  “I’m all for that,” replied Reilly.