IMPERFECTION Read online

  IMPERFECTION

  A devious murderer confounds detectives in this gripping mystery

  THE DI GARDENER CRIME FICTION SERIES

  BOOK 2

  RAY CLARK

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2019

  © Ray Clark

  Polite note to the reader

  This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.

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  We hope you enjoy the book.

  IMPERFECTION is the second book in a series of four murder mysteries by Ray Clark. It can be enjoyed as a standalone or alongside the others. Full details about the other books can be found at the end of this one.

  Imperfection. 1. Being imperfect. 2. A fault, a blemish.

  Man, by the very fact of being man, by possessing consciousness, is, in comparison with the ass or the crab, a diseased animal. Consciousness is a disease.

  Miguel de Unamuno

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Epilogue

  More fiction in this series

  FREE BOOKS IN YOUR INBOX

  Chapter One

  Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener ran across New Briggate before mounting the steps leading to the Grand Theatre two at a time. At the top he banged on the glass doors with his right hand whilst displaying his warrant card with his left.

  They were quickly opened by a man as tall and gangly as a stork, whose eyes were so intense that Gardener thought he was staring into a double-barrelled shotgun.

  “DI Gardener.”

  “Good grief, that was quick! I only rang a few minutes ago.” The man extended his neck past the entrance and asked where Gardener’s car was.

  Gardener glanced behind him. Two constables pulled up and parked in the loading bay. The town centre was pretty quiet: too late for shoppers, too early for the club crowd, and the theatregoers were already inside.

  Gardener waved them up the steps, and all three men entered the building. “Can you close and lock the door, please?” the SIO ordered the man holding it. “And then tell me who you are?”

  “Paul Price, theatre manager. Where are the others?”

  “On their way.” Gardener glanced around the foyer. Members of staff huddled desperately together, some on the ground floor, others on the stairs leading to the circles. The room went quiet as soon as he entered, all eyes turning toward him.

  Gardener addressed the young constables, pointing to one of them. “I’d like you to stay here and guard the entrance.” To the other, he said, “You walk all the way around the outside of the building, take a note of all the exits, including the windows.”

  “How did you get here so quickly?” asked Price.

  The manager had already developed a habit of interrupting Gardener, something he didn’t appreciate. He was annoyed enough.

  “Let’s stick to what’s important, Mr Price. I need to see the crime scene. It has to be secured, and I can’t do that standing here.”

  Price turned tail and did as he was told, but his expression told Gardener that he was used to giving orders, not taking them.

  Gardener was escorted down a long, narrow corridor with cream-coloured walls that smelled of disinfectant and polish. On his right were the dressing rooms; each door was closed. On his left, a notice board displayed information about performance times, future productions, safety regulations, and very probably everything else anyone needed to know about the theatre. To the right of the board was a set of double wooden doors leading to the stage. Behind them, Gardener could hear the frenzy of panicked voices.

  As he entered, he was greeted with a mixture of smells: antique leather, make-up, sweat. On his left was a man with a pale complexion standing next to a mixing desk. From his right, a powerful breeze blew into his face. A huge roller shutter door at the back of the building was open. He wasn’t pleased.

  “Close that,” Gardener told Price.

  He then surveyed the scene before him. The safety curtain had been lowered. Stage left was an old two-seater leather settee with a narrow rug placed in front of it. On top of the table next to it was a decanter of wine with glasses. Two small tables elsewhere on the stage had brassware and candlesticks, all of which had been neatly coated with cobweb spray.

  Gardener glanced at the backdrop: an oak-panelled library, displaying shelves crammed with a selection of leather-bound, dusty tomes. Hung at strategic intervals, posters advertised films in which tonight’s guest actor, Leonard White, had had starring roles. A log-effect fire created a comforting ambience. The whole thing reminded him of the old Universal horror films of Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi.

  Especially the corpse at the end of the rope.

  Chapter Two

  “Has anyone touched the body so far?” Gardener asked Price.

  “No.”

  “So, no one’s checked to see if he’s dead?”

  “Looks pretty dead to me,” said Price.

  Gardener had to agree with him. “How long has he been there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Gardener removed his shoes, left them by the stage doors. From an inside pocket he produced a pair of gloves and paper slippers. Pulling them on, he walked over to the body and checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one. The corpse was dressed in a black evening suit, white shirt, black bow tie, and black waistcoat. His complexion was ghostly white, anaemic; not that Gardener expected a picture of health.

  Glancing beyond the body, Gardener noticed a scenery board with an open door frame. Two more people had arrived. He peered up at the ceiling to search the rafters and saw the beam with the rope attached to it, but
nothing more. He glanced over at the roller shutter door that had now been closed by Paul Price, doubting very much the killer was still on the premises.

  He scrutinised the whole area, then turned and shouted to the crowd. “I want everyone to stay exactly where they are. Do not wander around, and do not come on to the stage.”

  Walking back to meet Price, he produced his mobile and called Steve Fenton, the Crime Scene Manager, explaining that he wanted him to run an ESLA. He also needed Scenes of Crime as quickly as possible.

  Price piped up. “Excuse me, this is my theatre. What’s an ESLA?”

  Gardener faced him. “You’re wrong, Mr Price. It’s a crime scene, so now it’s my theatre. And you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Don’t patronise me. I do watch the crime shows on the TV.”

  Gardener smiled. “Very well. ESLA is the Electro Static Lifting Apparatus. It looks like a sheet of tin foil. Once we’ve rolled it over the stage, we’ll attach wires to either end where a machine will then pass a charge through it. That will lift all the dust exactly as it’s laid out on the floor. We can then take it away for examination, which will give us very precise details of foot marks, which can then be compared against any suspect’s shoes we might recover at a later date.”

  Price glanced at his own feet and then to Gardener. Judging by his expression, Gardener thought the theatre manager’s heart had stopped. “Well, I’ve never seen that on Midsommer.”

  “My point exactly,” replied Gardener. “Now, can we get back to business? What happened?”

  “When?”

  Gardener wasn’t sure whether or not his temper was shorter than usual, or if everyone he’d met so far was stupid. “Can you take me through what happened from the beginning of the show?”

  “Oh,” replied Price. “Well, not much. The place was full, the lights dimmed, and then a voice came over the PA system–”

  “Live or recorded?” interrupted Gardener.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Live or recorded,” he repeated.

  “I’m really not sure. I suppose it sounded live, now I come to think of it.”

  “Did you recognise the voice?”

  “No, but it could have been any one of my staff.”

  “And it might not have been. Was it in the script?”

  “I never saw the script. I have no idea what was planned.”

  “Was the show being recorded?”

  “No.”

  “Where were you when it happened?” asked Gardener.

  “Sitting with your father,” replied Price. “The first box in the dress circle to the left of the stage.”

  Gardener suddenly remembered his father’s presence. The reason he had made it to the theatre so quickly was because he was sitting in a coffee bar around the corner, intending to pick his father up after the show. “How is he?”

  “Shocked, like the rest of us.”

  Gardener wanted to see his father, Malcolm, but at the moment his professional capacity wouldn’t allow that. “Carry on.”

  “Well, after the voice – before the curtain was raised – we saw fog creeping out from underneath. The curtain rose, but Leonard White was nowhere to be seen.”

  “Where should he have been?” asked Gardener.

  “On the settee I assume, but as I’ve said, I never saw the script. Suddenly, there were a couple of explosions and lots of lighting before a voice screamed out something I didn’t catch... and then the body simply dropped... and just sort of dangled there.”

  “Did you come on stage immediately?”

  “I think so.”

  “Think isn’t good enough, I need to know,” replied Gardener.

  “Well... not straight away. I left my box and came down the stairs and telephoned the police first.”

  “So, when you entered the stage, did you see anyone?”

  “Only my stage manager, Steve Rogers.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I think he went in the direction of the roller shutter door.”

  “Was it open?”

  “Yes.”

  As if to back up Price’s story, a door to the side of the steel shutter opened and a man wearing jeans and a plain black T-shirt came through it.

  “Are you Steve Rogers?” asked Gardener.

  “Yes.”

  “Stay there, please. Where have you been?”

  “I stepped outside for a bit of fresh air.” He glanced at the corpse. “It’s not every day you see one of those.”

  “Did you see what happened?”

  “Not really,” replied Rogers.

  Not really. What did that mean?

  Gardener heard voices on the other side of the safety curtain. Judging by their impatient comments, he would have to say something.

  “Can you get me a microphone?” he asked Price. “When I’ve finished talking to the audience, I’d like a word with your stage manager.”

  The man behind the mixing desk, a few feet from Gardener, handed the mic over as he approached the curtain. He stepped around it and walked to the middle of the stage. A hush fell over the crowd. He stood in the centre, unsure what to say, realising that although every one of these people was a possible witness, they were also suspects.

  From the stage the theatre was different, particularly as the house lights were on. It was cavernous, and as he gazed upwards, much higher and more daunting than he had ever noticed before. He couldn’t imagine what it took to tread the boards night after night, performing in front of others. He glanced toward the box where he understood his father to be sitting, and nodded.

  He focused himself, then addressed the restless crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener.” He flashed his warrant card, aware that no one could actually tell whether or not it was genuine. “I realise how inconvenient all this is going to be, but I have to ask that every one of you remain in your seats until you are told otherwise. I’m afraid there will be no show tonight as planned. I’m sure that most of you will have guessed what you’ve seen is real. It was, and the whole building is now a crime scene. In due course, each and every one of you will be asked your name and a few other details. So, please do not try to leave the theatre before we have spoken to you.”

  He couldn’t help but notice the concerned expressions; whether it was for themselves or the death of the actor he wasn’t sure, but knowing the depth of human nature he could guess.

  As he turned to leave, the people seated in the front row tried to question him. He ignored them and returned backstage, thankful of the approaching sirens.

  He glanced at Paul Price. “Can you confirm for me that the dead man is Leonard White?”

  Price simply nodded.

  Chapter Three

  Back on stage, Gardener switched off the microphone and handed it back to the sound technician. He found Steve Rogers where he’d left him, near the roller shutter door. The fact that it was open when he’d arrived had really bothered him. If the murderer had used it as a means of escape, he could be anywhere by now.

  “What time did you start work?”

  Rogers glanced at his watch. “About two o’clock this afternoon.”

  “I know we’re in a theatre and people come and go, but have you seen anyone suspicious lurking around the place, anyone who is not connected to the production?”

  Steve Rogers shrugged his shoulders. “No one I can think of. I mean, it’s only a one-man show, we don’t need much in the way of staff.”

  “When was the last time you saw Leonard White?”

  “The dead man, you mean?”

  “Is there anyone else called Leonard White around here?”

  “No, sorry... er... when I came in, just after two.”

  “Where was he?” asked Gardener.

  “In his dressing room.”

  “And?” pressed Gardener.

  “I was on my way to see Mr Price, but I knocked on his door and introduced myself. He had his back to me, facing his mirror
.” The stage manager stopped as if that was the end of the sentence. Like a wind-up toy, he suddenly started again. “He, er, just nodded and said something, but I didn’t catch what it was.”

  The technician was provoking Gardener. It wasn’t that he was slow, but he didn’t seem to realise how important his information may be. Even more annoying was his habit of protruding his bottom lip and blowing upwards to clear a lock of hair which kept falling across one eye; the option of having his hair cut had obviously escaped his attention.

  “Did you see him after that?”

  “No. I passed by his dressing room at around four, but the door was closed.”

  Gardener thought back. That was when his father must have been there. He recollected his father mentioning Leonard White’s mood: the actor had seemed subdued, not his usual self, but nothing further had been said.

  “Do you know Leonard White?” asked Gardener.

  “Not really.”

  There was that phrase again. You either knew the man, or you didn’t.

  Gardener and Steve Rogers were disturbed by the arrival of his partner DS Sean Reilly, the Home Office pathologist Dr George Fitzgerald, DCI Alan Briggs, and a team of SOCOs. A number of constables remained by the stage doors, craning their necks to see what had happened. All his team had already donned their protective paper suits so as not to contaminate the scene.

  Gardener quickly took Briggs through what he’d found. The DCI listened without interfering. A sharp rapping on the roller shutter door attracted their attention.

  “I imagine that’s Steve Fenton with the ESLA gear,” said Gardener.

  Briggs shouted over to Steve Rogers, “You, open the door and let him in.”

  The DCI, a physical bear of a man originating from Liverpool, had held the position for a little over a year, having taken it shortly after the death of Gardener’s wife. In the early days, neither he nor Gardener had seen eye to eye. Time had settled their differences, though, and both officers now held a great deal of respect for each other.

  Briggs had a huge barrel chest. Little could be seen of his face due to his thick black beard and moustache. A few inches shorter than Gardener, he carried his authority well. In Gardener’s opinion, Briggs’ only failing was his short temper; during those outbursts he spoke extremely fast, never fluffed his words, and grew in confidence with each one spoken.