IMPERFECTION

by Ray Clark

  “I’ve no idea, but I did hear him mention America once or twice. But he was a very private man, never said much about his personal life.”

  Gardener’s heart was beginning to sink slowly towards his shoes. “Did he say where in America?”

  “If he did, I never caught it.”

  “What’s America got to do with anything, Stewart?” asked Briggs.

  “Something Thornton and Anderson had found out. A number of years ago, Harry Fletcher left Leeds to go and work on Broadway. He came back a couple of years ago, but no one’s seen him since.”

  “Who’s Harry Fletcher?” asked Mary Phillips.

  “That’s what we’d like to know. Tell me, Mary, do you happen to know if Henry was his real name? I don’t suppose he was ever called by any other name, was he?”

  Mary’s expression darkened. “Now you mention it, yes. Only yesterday.”

  “Go on,” said Gardener, growing concerned when she had stopped.

  “Well, I found it a bit strange. We had a bloke come into the shelter a few weeks back. Started talking to Henry, and they were getting on right well. Anyway, yesterday Stan, that was his name, Stan. Anyway, he was in yesterday and he was in a right state with himself, and Henry asked me to make a bed up for him. He wanted Stan to stay the night.”

  “And did he?” asked Gardener.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t know?” asked Reilly.

  “Well, I’ve not checked his bed.” She rose to her feet.

  “It’s okay, Mary, love, you stay where you are,” said Briggs. “You tell us the room and I’ll check.” She did as she was asked and then sat back down.

  “Carry on, Mary,” prompted Gardener. “A strange incident.”

  “Oh, yes. When Stan was leaving, he called Henry by the name of Harry. I just thought it was a mistake, but maybe it wasn’t.” Tears welled in her eyes and she brought a handkerchief to her face.

  Briggs returned. “The bed hasn’t been slept in.”

  “I know this is hard for you, Mary, but we have to carry on. You said that Stan left, have you any idea where he went?”

  “No, he just said he had business to see to and that he would come back later.”

  “But you never saw him come back?”

  “No.”

  “How well did you know Stan?”

  “I didn’t. In fact, until yesterday, we’d never really spoken. I’d only nodded to him. He seemed pleasant enough.”

  “Any idea where he came from?”

  “No. He was a down and out, but I’ve no idea which places he went to, and Henry never said.”

  “Couldn’t give us a description, could you, love?” asked Reilly.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. He’d certainly stand out in a crowd. I’d say he was in his sixties, and he had odd eyes, they were different colours and one was lower than the other. He had an awful scar as well, just under the right eye. He’d not looked after his skin, poor love, but then who could? When you’re living rough, moisturiser’s not top of your list, is it? Lots of wrinkles, and it looked leathery. But for all that, he didn’t look hungry.”

  Gardener really didn’t like where the description was heading. “How did he dress?”

  “Well, there’s another funny thing. He reminded me and Henry of Sherlock Holmes. He had a deerstalker, and he used to smoke a pipe, well, not smoke it exactly, just stick it in his mouth as if he used to smoke and had given up.”

  She gave out another sob. “Do you know, I can’t believe anyone would do something so awful.” Her voice rose an octave. “He had his head cut off, and where’s the body, for God’s sake? Who would cut off a head and take the body?”

  Gardener hadn’t the heart to tell her what they’d found upstairs, but he figured she’d find out soon enough. “I appreciate you didn’t know Stan very well, but in the time you did see him, was there anything unusual about his behaviour?”

  “Again, not really. He was a nice enough chap, talkative. Had some funny ideas about the world and where it was heading; none too keen on insects, as I remember, or things that flew around: moths and butterflies. He was frightened of storms. We had one once, a right humdinger. I remember seeing him sitting at the table, his knuckles were as white as his face.”

  “At least that’s something,” said Gardener. “Anything else?”

  “To be honest, Mr Gardener, I didn’t really know him, and Henry didn’t talk about him that much, either.”

  Gardener sighed inwardly. For someone who could cause so much damage, information was pretty thin on the ground. “Can you think of any strange things happening over the past week or so?”

  Mary Phillips paused and then said, “Nothing that I know of.” And then she cried into her handkerchief again.

  Gardener thought it best to terminate the interview. She was stressed enough as it was. “Okay, Mary. You’ve been a great help. I’ll leave you a card. If you remember anything, no matter how trivial you think it is, ring me. Day or night, I’ll get the message.”

  Mary took the card and he told her she was allowed to leave. Before she actually left the room, Gardener called over. “Miss Phillips?”

  Mary turned. “Yes?”

  “Just one more question if you don’t mind. I know you’ve worked with Henry for two years, and you’ve said he was a private man. But, can I ask, did you spend any time alone with him? In his quarters, or anywhere else for that matter?”

  “What are you suggesting, Mr Gardener?”

  “Nothing. I simply want to ascertain how well you got on. At some point, I’m going to have to go over his room and collect all his personal belongings. I’d like you to try to remember and make an inventory. I need to know if there’s anything missing, anything personal.”

  As quick as a flash her eyes widened. “Do you think there is?”

  “I really don’t know. I wondered if you knew him well enough to do that for us.” Gardener smiled.

  Mary Phillips paused before answering. “I’ll try, Mr Gardener.”

  After she had closed the door, Briggs glanced at Gardener. “What was all that about?”

  “Just a hunch,” said Gardener.

  He turned his back and paced the room. “So, there we are. Once again, we’ve been given a perfect description of someone who doesn’t exist. Someone who doesn’t look like that every day.”

  A knock on the door interrupted Gardener’s chain of thought. He answered, and Steve Fenton passed over the note they’d found upstairs. Gardener read it and then passed it to Briggs:

  Three dead, and I bet you’re vexed.

  I’m sure by now you’ll know who’s next.

  But how will you stop what you can’t see?

  Let’s face it Gardener, you’ll never catch me.

  A penetrating silence had enveloped the room, allowing Gardener his personal thoughts.

  He turned, resting his back against the door, struggling to come to terms with everything. The killer’s intelligence took him well beyond the norm. He was quite right in what he was saying, how could he catch a man he couldn’t see? Any eyewitness reports were useless, which was why the killer had been allowed to come and go as he pleased. It didn’t matter if he was seen or not, no one could possibly identify him. So, who was it?

  There were two possibilities, but no way of proving either. Cuthbertson could well be their man. He had the ability to disguise himself, and regularly applied make-up over at Madame Two-swords. His only saving graces were his alibis, and the fact that he was genuinely shocked by the death of his assistant Janine Harper.

  Which left William Henry Corndell, a man they knew little or nothing about: a mystery man. And Gardener was willing to bet he could disguise himself a whole lot better than Cuthbertson ever could. However, he was a suspect without a motive; he had no alibi they could confirm, aside from last night. If anyone could give him an alibi for last night, it was Gardener himself. Where did that leave him?

  Technically speaking, th
e note was incorrect: it said three dead, but there were in fact now four. So, who was he and how did he tie in to everything? Were the murders still tied to the watch committee? Did that mean there was a fifth member that no one had so far talked about? There couldn’t be, his father would have known.

  And what of his father’s safety? There was no question now that his father would be next, that the murders were revenge for something that happened years ago with the committee and, quite clearly, had to involve the banned film. The one that no one could remember – the one that had no traceable records. Did the killer have anything to do with that? Was he so computer literate that he could hack into the necessary archives and wipe clean any information that could lead them to his door?

  Gardener turned to Briggs. “The more I think about it, sir, the more convinced I am that William Henry Corndell has something to do with it. I know it’s not much, but I’ve never come across anyone who can create a disguise like the man we’re looking for. And if you’d seen Corndell last night, you’d realise it puts him well in the frame.”

  “But that’s the problem, isn’t it, Stewart? Last night. He has an alibi, you saw him at the theatre.”

  “He wasn’t there all night. We know that for a fact.”

  “Didn’t you turn up and find him at home?” asked Briggs.

  “We turned up at his house,” replied Reilly. “Doesn’t mean he was there.”

  “I thought you spoke to him on the intercom,” persisted Briggs.

  “Not really,” said Gardener. “He said he didn’t want to talk to anyone and refused to answer any further calls. We need to talk to him again, even search the property if we have to.”

  “On what grounds?” Briggs asked.

  “On a number of grounds,” replied Gardener. “His home is littered with references to the film world, the Golden Era as he puts it. He has a cinema in the house. The day we called to see him he was talking on a mobile phone, when there are no records of him having one. To say that he’s a great actor seems to be a serious overstatement. If he’s so in touch with Hollywood, why is it that he’s only taken one phone call to his landline in the last fifteen years? Why is it I can’t find any reference to any of his material?”

  “None of these things make him a killer. An eccentric, maybe, but not a killer,” retorted Briggs.

  “So, why keep all the rooms in your house locked if you’re the only one that lives there?” Reilly asked. “What is he hiding?”

  Gardener continued, “Last night was all the proof I needed. He lives in the past. We know for a fact that we’re looking for someone who has an obsession with the old film star Lon Chaney. Last night’s performance was a homage to Chaney.”

  “What about the other film, the one the watch committee banned? Can we tie him to that?” asked Briggs.

  “Not at the moment. We don’t even know what it is,” replied Gardener. “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. And last time we spoke to him, his conversation on the mobile referred to two Hollywood directors, both of whom have been dead for years. Sir, we really do have to interview this man a second time. However circumstantial it all looks, we need to speak to him again.”

  Briggs sighed and glanced at the note he held in his hand. “You do realise I’m in an awkward position, Stewart.”

  “In what way?” Gardener asked.

  “Whoever the killer is, whether it be Corndell or someone else, he’s made it personal. You and I both know that your father is next and last on the list. Which means, I might have to remove you from the case.”

  Gardener raised his hands to the ceiling. “Why does this always happen to me?”

  Chapter Forty-one

  Gardener and Reilly were on their way to see Corndell. If Gardener kept out of Briggs’ way, then the DCI couldn’t order him off the case. At the moment, that was unthinkable: there were too many unanswered questions for his liking, and he and Reilly had worked the case from the start, so he wasn’t going to give it up easily. He wanted to see Corndell again, flush him out.

  Despite having no concrete evidence, a lot of negative points were stacking up against him.

  He was a master of disguise. He appeared incredibly intelligent. He supposedly wrote scripts. Couldn’t he therefore be the author of the verses and puzzles? Corndell lived in an old-fashioned world and had an obsession with Lon Chaney. The man they wanted fitted that description as well.

  Whether it was Corndell or not, there was the added pressure of his father’s involvement to consider, not to mention his personal protection. Maybe it would be better if Briggs did remove him from the case, then he could shadow his father day and night.

  There was still a lot of ground to cover. He needed to speak to so many people: Fitz, to see if any of the current cases matched previous murders; Fettle, to see if he could enhance their knowledge of Corndell any further than the bottom rung of the ladder; Colin Sharp, had he uncovered anything from Corndell’s past that would satisfy their desire for an arrest?

  Reilly brought the car to a halt outside the gates. Gardener jumped out and pressed the intercom. He glanced at the cloudless blue sky and wondered why they were having such reasonable weather for the beginning of April. Maybe global warming was to blame.

  After a healthy wait, a terse voice replied to the intrusion. “Yes?”

  “Mr Corndell? DI Gardener and DS Reilly, we’d like to talk to you.”

  “I told you last night that I didn’t want to speak to anyone, and my views have not changed.”

  Another little point that irked Gardener: Corndell’s perfect alibi for last night’s murder was none other than himself. How could he have murdered Harry Fletcher? “I don’t care what you want! I want to speak to you.”

  Their conversation continued over the intercom. “Mr Gardener, you’re not listening to me. This is police harassment, and if you continue I shall be forced to call my solicitor.”

  “Maybe he should use his mobile,” suggested Reilly.

  “It’s you who’s not listening,” replied Gardener. “Now we can do this the easy way or the hard way, it’s entirely up to you. The easy way is to let me in and answer my questions. The hard way is for me to go away and return with a warrant, arrest you on suspicion of murder, and then turn your entire house upside down. Am I making myself clear?”

  During the time he spent waiting for the reply, Gardener wondered if Corndell really had decided upon the second option.

  Eventually, the intercom buzzed and the gates opened. Both detectives jumped into the car and cruised slowly down the drive. The door opened as they came to a stop. Gardener stepped inside to find Corndell still in his dressing gown. Underneath the gown he wore a pair of blue and white striped pyjamas, decorated with Winnie The Pooh logos. He knew better than to ask.

  “Do you realise what time it is?” asked Corndell, pointing his mobile phone at them.

  “Of course I do. I’ve been up since five o’clock this morning.”

  “I’m not surprised,” replied Corndell, closing the door after Reilly had entered. “I do hope you’ve come to apologise for last night.” Corndell held his head high and his nose in the air as he glanced down at the pair of them. He placed the mobile in the pocket of his dressing gown.

  “I have nothing to apologise for.”

  “How dare you?” he shouted, jumping back, clenching and unclenching his hands. “You people have persecuted me–”

  “I wouldn’t say persecuted!” replied Gardener, cutting him short. He did not want the situation escalating beyond his control. He was here for a reason, and he was going to make sure they stuck to the point. With his temper close to boiling point, he chose his words carefully.

  “We’re investigating crimes of a very serious nature. We will conduct ourselves in a manner to which we see fit. Now if you have a problem with that, then you contact the police complaints commission, but quite frankly your case will not hold water.”

  “I do apologise, Mr Gardener,” Corndell replied, hi
s face softening immediately, childlike, “and please forgive my lack of manners. If you would like to come through to the conservatory, I shall make fresh tea for us all.”

  Gardener suspected he was being manipulated because of the sudden change in Corndell’s manner. He told Reilly to join Corndell whilst the tea was made, not to let him out of his sight. Gardener stayed in the conservatory. Eventually, both returned.

  “Now then, gentlemen, I’ll pour the tea and you feel free to ask me anything you like.”

  All three sat down and Gardener removed his hat. “Where were you last night?”

  “You know very well where I was,” replied Corndell, sliding their tea across the table.

  “After the show.”

  “You turned up here wanting to speak to me, but I wouldn’t let you in.”

  “I know where I was. I’m asking you where you were. Answer the question.”

  “Of course. I was here, Mr Gardener, where else would I be? Has something happened?” Corndell banged the teapot on the table and stood up. “Has someone else been murdered, and you want me for a scapegoat?”

  “Such a vivid imagination, Willie boy,” said Reilly. “No wonder you write scripts.”

  Gardener ignored Corndell’s question. “Perhaps your CCTV will show us what time you arrived back at the house, Mr Corndell?”

  “It would if it was working.”

  “Oh, well now, isn’t that convenient?” said Reilly. “Your closed-circuit TV system is on the blink the night you need to prove your innocence.”

  Corndell took a sip of his tea. “I beg to differ, Mr Reilly. It is you who has something to prove, not me.”

  Another condescending reply that made Gardener’s skin crawl. As far as he was concerned, the man had guilt written all over his face, but what they lacked was concrete evidence. And at the rate they were going, they would never find it. “What’s wrong with your CCTV?” he asked.

  “That’s a silly question, Mr Gardener. If I knew that, I wouldn’t have called them out.”