IMPERFECTION

by Ray Clark

  “He didn’t?” questioned Gardener, curious.

  “Not in so many words, no. He were given a trial run in the West End, more or less as the show were starting. He were Michael Crawford’s understudy, and he only got that ’cause of his father, Wallace. Anyway, he was promising, knew almost everybody’s lines. Apparently he’s got a good memory, remembers facts and figures like there’s no tomorrow. He turned up to every performance, and in rehearsals he was brilliant. Problems started when he were faced with an audience.”

  “In what way?” Gardener asked.

  “He panics. He were given his chance in the main role one Saturday matinee. Crawford’s car had broken down and he wasn’t gonna make it until the evening performance, so they gave Corndell the green light. Apparently he were useless, fluffed his lines and wrecked half the scenery. The worst bit was when he was doing the scene in the graveyard on top of the big cross. He fell off and broke his leg.”

  Fettle slurped his tea and bit into a fig roll. “Anyway, it finished his career. But even if he hadn’t fallen off and broken his leg, he’d never have got another chance.”

  “And that was his one and only time playing the main part?”

  “As far as I know. After that, no one else in the West End touched him.”

  “Any idea what he did after that?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, well that’s something. He’s reliable, this friend of yours?”

  “Oh aye, he worked there for over thirty years.”

  Gardener took another sip of his tea. “Have you still got those film books?”

  “Aye.” Fettle left the table and reached into the cupboard. “What do you want to know?”

  Gardener produced Reilly’s notebook with the titles of the films in Corndell’s library. “Do you remember any of these?” He passed the list to Fettle.

  “I know those two. The Dark Eyes of London, that’s pretty old. It was written by Edgar Wallace. It’s about a bloke who runs a home for the blind, and he uses a giant to drown the insured victims.”

  “Another Lon Chaney film?”

  “No, that was Bela Lugosi. And so was that one, The Invisible Ghost. That’s about a bloke who murdered his wife and she comes back to haunt him, he keeps seeing her all over the place, before he goes mad.”

  “The Black Castle?” asked Gardener.

  “Not sure about that.” Fettle flicked through his copies of the Film Review before finally consulting the Halliwell’s Film Guide. “Here it is, an eighteenth-century knight avenges the death of two friends who have attended a hunting party at the castle of a sadistic Viennese count. I certainly haven’t seen that one.”

  “Are any of these real collector’s pieces?”

  “Doubt it. The Dark Eyes of London, maybe. Can’t say I’ve ever seen a copy of that.”

  Gardener sighed and sat back. None of the films that Fettle had talked about bore any similarity to the murders that had been committed, so it seemed unlikely that the killer was copying an obscure film in particular. “Who was in The Black Castle?”

  “Boris Karloff and Lon Chaney Junior.”

  “Karloff played Frankenstein, yes?”

  “Aye, in 1931.”

  “Apparently Corndell has a US copy of the film made in 1910 starring a bloke called Ogle.”

  “Fucking hell,” whistled Fettle. “That’d be worth a fortune.”

  “What about that one, Imperfection?”

  “Never heard of it.” After consulting all the books, Fettle drew a blank. “I can’t find any reference to a film of that name. Do you know owt about it?”

  “No, other than the fact that it’s in Corndell’s library.”

  “Well, it’s not one I know.”

  “What about banned films, anything spring to mind?”

  “There’s been plenty of ’em over the years. Freaks, in 1932. MGM made it but disowned it. A lot of people said it was tasteless. I think it was because they used real freaks. A bit like that other film The Sentinel, in ’76, they used proper freaks and that got banned.”

  “Do you know of a film that was banned by the local watch committee in Leeds in the late Seventies or early Eighties?”

  Fettle thought long and hard. Gardener could almost hear the cogs turning inside his head. “No.”

  Gardener started to wonder about the title of the film Imperfection, and how well it defined Corndell. He needed to find out more about it. Was that the title of the banned film they were looking for? What was it about? Why had it been banned? And if that was the film, what connection did it have with Corndell and how had he managed to obtain a copy?

  “Last time we spoke, I mentioned a director by the name of Rupert Julian. You said he was dead.”

  “Aye, he is,” replied Fettle.

  “Did he have a son?”

  Fettle finished his tea and another biscuit. “I’ve no idea. I’ve never heard one mentioned, but I’m not as well up on directors as I am the films. You could soon find out.”

  Reilly and Price entered the room. Paul Price had a copy of a letter, which he passed to Gardener. “I thought I recognised the name Corndell. He sent me a letter a few months back.”

  Gardener took it but didn’t read it. “What about?”

  “He wrote and asked if he could have a tour of the place, quite some time ago now.”

  “Why?”

  “He said he was an author and he was writing something new which he wanted to set in the Grand Theatre. Asked if I would mind showing him round so as he could get the feel for the place.”

  Gardener glanced at Reilly. “Why would he do that? According to him he’s spent his life in theatres up and down the country, writes regularly for Broadway.”

  Price continued. “He mentioned his success in America. I asked him if he had a website, but he said he didn’t. I was hoping to do a little checking myself. He also said he wrote his material under different names.”

  “Can you remember any of them?”

  “I’m sorry, no.”

  “Yet you still met him and showed him round?” questioned Gardener.

  “Oh yes. I didn’t mind. I had some free time on my hands. The only thing I stipulated was that he should write nothing that would bring the theatre into disrepute. I also asked him of the success he’d had in America and he mentioned one or two titles, which I later wrote down on the back.”

  Gardener turned the paper over and studied the titles. He didn’t recognise either. He then passed the paper to Fettle. He was about to ask Price another question when Fettle jumped out of his chair.

  “Hey, I know that one, and it’s not one of his.”

  “Which one?” Gardener asked.

  “Blood’s Thicker Than Water.”

  “Who wrote it?” asked Gardener.

  “Yon lad as worked for Playhouse.”

  “Harry Fletcher?”

  “Aye, that’s him. He wrote Blood’s Thicker Than Water. I remember reading about it somewhere.”

  “Any idea what it’s about?” asked Gardener.

  “Not really, no. Summat about a feud between two brothers, which goes on for years until one of ’em’s dying. I just remember reading a review, and it were taking the States by storm.”

  “That’s one of them,” said Paul Price. “That’s one of the names he said he used. Harry Fletcher. I remember it now.”

  Another nail in Corndell’s coffin: he said he didn’t know Harry Fletcher.

  Gardener’s mobile chimed. He fished it out of his pocket and answered. After listening to the caller, he glanced at Reilly. “We’ll be there in five minutes. That was Fitz. Apparently, he’s found something unusual connected to Janine Harper’s death. He wants us over there now.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  “Who found him?” Gardener asked the officer guarding the door.

  “The prospective new owners, over there.”

  The couple’s appearance spoke of wealth: camel hair coats, jewellery, the finest Italian leather shoe
s. The woman was blonde, slim, mid-forties with a long, deeply lined face. The man was stocky, perhaps early fifties with a good head of hair, tightly curled and grey. He was smoking a cigar. His wife cast glances about as if she’d rather be anywhere than a shopping arcade in Leeds that harboured a dead body, particularly one they were going to buy. And from her expression, the purchase was not her idea.

  Gardener and Reilly suited up and entered. The interior of the shop was still gloomy, and despite the cleaning service having done their best, they had been unable to eradicate the smell of death, more the legacy of Janine Harper than the fresh body.

  Alan Cuthbertson was laid on the floor behind the counter. He had been no oil painting in life, but death had decided he would be remembered with an expression that welcomed his fate.

  “What time?” Gardener asked.

  “About ten minutes before I phoned you.”

  “Who else have you told?”

  “I phoned the station and they said someone was on their way. They told me to phone you.”

  Gardener turned his attention to the matter in hand. The shop had been stripped bare. Everything that had been on display on the night of Janine Harper’s demise had been removed for forensic testing. Once the police had finished with it, Alan Cuthbertson had told them to burn it. Gardener had wondered about Cuthbertson’s state of mind during that time period, his personal feelings at having seen his life’s work tainted – if not destroyed – by the actions of a lunatic. The idea of returning to a building responsible for so much trauma was obviously too much. An empty pill bottle stood on the counter, as did the half-finished bottle of whiskey, and what he surmised was a suicide note.

  “I wonder what made him do it?” asked Reilly.

  “I hope it wasn’t us,” replied Gardener.

  “We didn’t do anything wrong, boss. We were doing our job.”

  Gardener glanced at his partner. “Maybe he didn’t see it like that.”

  Briggs arrived, suited and booted, and then made his way into the shop, glancing behind the counter. “What have we got?”

  “Suicide,” replied Gardener.

  “Anyone read the note?”

  “Not yet.”

  Briggs tore open the envelope. With a confused expression he glanced at Gardener. “It’s addressed to you, Stewart.” He handed over the letter and studied the corpse.

  “Why has he written a letter to you?” Reilly asked.

  “I’ve no idea.”

  Gardener read it:

  Dear Mr Gardener,

  I appreciate you had a job to do and I want you to know that in no way do I hold you responsible for my suicide. It is fair to say that I have lost everything: the business I had spent years building, my assistant, who meant more to me than you’ll ever know, and the lifestyle I tried so hard to keep secret, becoming public knowledge. There are two things you need to know: Firstly, I am not your killer and have no idea who is. Secondly, proof which backs up the first statement, I could never have killed my own daughter. Janine was my flesh and blood, born from an illicit affair. Though why the secret had been kept after Jack Harper’s death I shall never know.

  Gardener sighed and passed the letter over to Briggs. He read it. “Do you think she knew?” he asked.

  “I’ve no idea,” replied Gardener.

  “I still can’t understand why he’d write a letter to you,” said Briggs.

  “Maybe he didn’t,” suggested Reilly.

  “Meaning what?” asked Briggs.

  “I’ll grant you it’s not the killer’s style, but maybe he staged all of this and then wrote the note to throw us of the scent.”

  “If that’s the case, how did he know Janine Harper was Alan Cuthbertson’s daughter?” asked Briggs.

  “He knew enough about Janine Harper to kill her for the reasons he did,” added Reilly.

  “I appreciate your point, Sean,” said Gardener, “but Alan Cuthbertson wasn’t a member of the watch committee, and that’s what this seems to be about. The watch committee and the banned film.”

  “Unless it isn’t,” said Briggs. “Do you know anything about this banned film yet?”

  “I think I’m on to something, but nothing concrete.”

  “Then how do you know the murders are connected to a banned film?” asked Briggs. “I’m sorry, Stewart, but we’re no nearer to solving the case now than we were at the beginning. So for all we know, Alan Cuthbertson’s death might well be tied into it. For God’s sake, this bloke moves around like a fucking spectre. No one ever sees him, and he’s managed to commit the most brutal killings, and have time to write notes.”

  “It still looks like suicide to me, nothing more,” said Gardener.

  “Maybe Fitz can tell us,” replied Briggs. “Which reminds me, where the bloody hell is he?”

  Before Gardener had time to answer, his mobile rang.

  Briggs and Reilly turned their attention to the corpse while he took the call.

  “We’re on our way,” said Gardener. “That was Fitz. Apparently he’s found something unusual connected to Janine Harper’s death. He wants us over there now.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  Fitz threw a folder on to his desk and ran his hands down his tired face. His expression was a mixture of fatigue and elation at having possibly found a piece of the puzzle. “Would you gentlemen like coffee?”

  Gardener and Reilly nodded, and Fitz turned around from his desk. He reached for the percolator, a new addition to his office, and a much needed one from what Gardener could see.

  “Smells good,” said Reilly.

  “So, what have you got for us?” asked Gardener.

  Fitz sat back in his chair. “Janine Harper. You remember that she had a lethal cocktail of ephedrine in her system. I suggested that the killer may have perfected the technique.”

  Both men nodded, sipping their coffee.

  “I’ve found some new evidence. I consulted Mathew Stapleton about it. He’s one of the country’s leading toxicologists up in Edinburgh. When I spoke to him, he was in London. The method unsettled him for a week. He’d heard of a similar case. He used the computers at the University College Hospital. Surprisingly enough there were no records, nothing in the archives, nothing on paper. Having said that, the paper files only date back to the Eighties. Anything further back had been stored electronically.”

  “Had the files been erased?” said Gardener.

  “They think so, but they’re still checking. You see, all other records of suspicious deaths around that time were still on file.”

  “Murder isn’t the only technique he’s perfected,” said Gardener.

  “Mathew spoke to his father. Turns out that one of his colleagues had performed the autopsy on the lady in question.” Fitz opened his folder, removed the notes. “Her name was Elizabeth Cranshaw. She was sixty-one years of age and worked as a nanny for a well-to-do family who lived in Weybridge in Surrey.”

  Gardener’s heart sunk a little when he thought of how far back the incident may have occurred.

  Fitz continued. “It was the next morning before the old lady had been found dead in her room, still sitting in her favourite chair with her novel resting on her lap. According to the report she looked quite peaceful, despite what she must have gone through.”

  “So, we’re not talking exactly the same MO here?” asked Gardener.

  “She hadn’t been hung and brutalised, if that’s what you mean,” replied Fitz.

  “So, the link is the ephedrine?”

  Fitz nodded. “Elizabeth Cranshaw had suffered from asthma all her life. The results of the autopsy discovered sherry in her system, believed to be her favourite tipple while she was reading. Mixed in with the alcohol was a pretty hefty dosage of nuts that had been ground into a fine powder. A massive heart attack caused her death. In fact, the report confirms that her heart had been so overworked that it had literally exploded.”

  “Was the family she worked for interviewed?” asked Gardener.


  “Yes, they were cleared. Apparently, Elizabeth Cranshaw had been to London on a shopping expedition. She’d been out of the house all day. The parents, who were normally at work, had remained home for the day to supervise their son. When the nanny returned, they went back to the studio.”

  “Studio?” Gardener asked.

  “Pinewood, in Buckinghamshire. The boy’s father was a film director.”

  Gardener’s heart sank. In his confusion, his earlier calculation suggested that the killer should be in his sixties, which suspended belief. However, the other option was equally unthinkable. Could he possibly have started something so gruesome at such an early age?

  “Who was the boy?”

  “William Henry Corndell.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  Colin Sharp had returned from London during the early hours of the morning. It was early afternoon before he’d found his way to Gardener’s house for a meeting. Malcolm had gone to the cinema to see an old-fashioned black and white double bill that was right up his street. Gardener had asked his father to take a mobile with him, despite knowing he was under surveillance.

  Gardener placed coffees on the table, sat down and cleared a space at the table. The files had all been neatly laid out.

  Sharp took a sip of his drink. “That tastes good. You don’t know what a relief it is to be back.”

  “Not keen on the Big Smoke, then?” asked Reilly.

  “They do things differently down there. I’m not saying it’s right or wrong, it’s just different.”

  “What do you have for us?” Gardener asked.

  “He’s definitely an oddball, but there’s nothing concrete here. Having said that, what I’ve found out might be enough to hold him for a while.”

  “Go on,” said Gardener. He had a gut feeling that it was going to be one of those cases. William Henry Corndell was probably guilty, but lucky enough to walk free because what little evidence they did have wouldn’t stand up in court.

  “Nothing odd about his early life unless you count the fact that he didn’t go to school.”

  “He must have been educated somewhere,” replied Gardener. “From what we’ve seen, he’s intelligent.”