IMPERFECTION Read online

  The SIO glanced around the room. “Does anyone have any questions?”

  “You seem to have ruled Val White out,” said Thornton. “She obviously has an alibi.”

  “Yes,” said Gardener.

  “And her lover will no doubt back it up,” said Reilly.

  There were a few nods and glances, but no one offered anything further on that score.

  “Is there any particular reason for hanging the man after he was dead?” asked DC Sharp.

  “None that I know,” replied Gardener. “Other than to cause a stir or make an impact of some sort. I want someone to take the rope and find out everything you can. Is there anything special about it? What was it made from? What type of a knot is it?”

  “Do you think there’s any real relevance to the rope and the knot?” asked Bob Anderson, Thornton’s partner.

  “Could be,” replied Gardener. “We can’t rule out anything. I think we’re going to have a lot of problems with this one. The killer’s obviously very intelligent, and from the knowledge we’ve so far gathered, we think he’s an expert in the art of disguise. He fooled my father, who had been a friend of Leonard White for a number of years. He fooled the theatre staff, because he somehow managed not only to get himself into the building, but also the corpse of the aged actor. So, it seems he’s someone who knows the background, has very probably worked in theatre, perhaps even The Grand. Maybe he’s worked with Leonard White himself.”

  Gardener turned to Steve Fenton, the Crime Scene Manager. “Steve, it says in your report you found traces of aluminium powder in the dressing room. Any idea what it is?”

  Steve Fenton’s physical features were similar to his superior officer’s: short black hair, slim build. Gardener had long since become accustomed to Fenton’s eyes, which differed in colour from day to day. At first, the contact lenses had confused him.

  “Yeah, we found hairs on the table in front of the mirror. It was used in olden day theatre apparently, to whiten or grey the hair. From what I’ve found out, it’s bloody hard to wash out, and if you got it on your face, it would darken the make-up and still wouldn’t wash out.”

  “Another reason to support our man’s theatre background,” said Gardener. “If he’s using material from the olden days, is he as old as Leonard White? If so, how could he manage to do all he’s done by himself? Does he have an accomplice?”

  Briggs stood up. “Anyone picked anything up from the witness statements?” There was a buzz of conversation, but the general answer was negative. It was far too early. “I issued a press statement before coming in here. I couldn’t tell them anything, so I just appealed for witnesses to come forward. I suggest some of you carry on checking that. Speak to the HOLMES lads as well, see if any of their information has thrown up a lead worth following.”

  Gardener turned to Fenton. “Fingerprints?”

  “None.”

  “He was probably wearing gloves,” said Reilly.

  “Either that, or because of his theatrical background, he’s developed something to hide his prints,” said Fenton.

  Gardener continued. “I need a couple of you to check out any shops in the city that specifically sell theatre and stage make-up. You could broaden your search by using the internet. Whoever is doing this may not necessarily buy it locally, may not even live locally.”

  Gardener pointed to the board. “And then we have the puzzles.” There were a number of photographs, many of them contained the same picture, but taken from different angles. The verses were also highlighted in large print. “The one found on the dressing room wall reads like a quote.” He walked closer and read it out aloud. “‘For long weary months I have awaited this hour’.” He turned and addressed his officers. “Any ideas?”

  “Judging by those words,” said Thornton, “someone has a serious grudge.”

  “I didn’t mean that so much, I was thinking more about the overall context. A needle in a haystack maybe, but we need someone to follow it up. Is it from a film, a play, a book, or has our intelligent psychopath made it up? Can you all honestly say you’ve never come across those words before?”

  “I’ve already checked this out,” said Colin Sharp.

  Gardener glanced at the officer.

  Sharp continued. “I believe it comes from the 1925 film version of Phantom of the Opera.”

  “Where did you find it?” asked Gardener.

  “Usual place, the internet. But the reference I came across was from a book called, Smirk, Sneer And Scream.”

  “Who wrote the book?” asked Reilly.

  “Someone called Mark Clark.”

  “Add him to the list of contacts,” said Gardener, “we may need to speak to him.”

  “So, is it a random comment?” Reilly asked, “Or is it there for a reason?”

  “I can’t see it being random, stuff like this never is,” said Gardener. He addressed Sharp, “was there anything else?”

  “There was a lot more to the paragraph, so I’ll have to study it, see what it’s referring to and whether or not it sheds any light.”

  “So, that opens up more avenues,” said Gardener. “As Sean said, is the comment a random one in so far as he’s seen it in the film and it simply fitted with what he wanted to do, or does it really mean what he wants to say?”

  “It strikes me as being the latter,” said Sharp. “I’m liable to agree with what Frank says, this guy is holding a grudge and that film happened to have the right quote.”

  “Okay,” replied Gardener, “so what does it say about our man?”

  “He’s intelligent,” said Dave Rawson. “He’s obviously well versed, knows his films, spent a lifetime in or around them, and he’ll make us work for a result.”

  “Okay, so we need to keep digging with that one,” said Gardener, “the second quote – or verse – would certainly suggest a grudge.”

  He turned back to the board and the verse. “This had been burned into Leonard White’s chest while he was alive, judging by the blisters on the skin. Fitz suggested a caustic pencil was used, which would have been extremely painful. Sean and I are of the opinion that it’s a taunt. Whilst we haven’t unearthed any evidence of a disagreement between Leonard White and anyone connected to him so far, there obviously has been one.

  “‘Man cannot hide from his sin, as the past will always reveal’. It’s obvious our aged actor has done something he shouldn’t. I think you’re right, Frank, someone definitely bears a grudge. And it’s not just against Leonard White. According to the message, there are others. ‘One has paid while others remain, but be warned, a deal is a deal’.”

  Gardener allowed time for more questions, but his officers were tired, so he quickly brought things to a halt. He raised his hand to the board. “Actions for tomorrow. I want answers on the rope, and any shop in the city that stocks theatrical products, and any information. Colin can concentrate on the dressing room wall quote, the Phantom film, and Leonard White. I also want someone checking out Paul Price and his theatre. Again, there was nothing to suggest he was directly involved, but you never know. I want someone listening to the tapes we pulled from backstage. Something might come to light. And we also need the results of the ESLA.

  “We need to pull out all the stops if we’re going to prevent another death. So, we have a few things to be going on with, but by no means everything. Sean and I will be in Skipton tomorrow. Hopefully, we’ll have something more to add.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The room resembled a dungeon. The walls were painted matt black, the ceiling grey. In each of the corners, running the length of the walls, were huge cobwebs artificially created by him, despite his loathing of the creatures that spun them.

  His mind was instantly cast back to a particular morning. The big black spider was halfway down the wall when he discovered it. Judging by the direction in which it was heading, he suspected the only place it could have come from was behind the wardrobe. He’d felt tense, uncomfortable. His whole body had shiv
ered, his breathing had grown heavier, and within seconds he was sweating.

  Where had it come from? More to the point, where the hell was it going?

  He and spiders didn’t mix. The thought that the monster had been hiding behind his furniture generated absolute revulsion within him. He’d hated spiders for as long as he could remember: all too aware of commonly held beliefs about them being carriers of disease. But he knew other things about them as well – like the fact that it was unlucky to kill a spider. If you were sweeping and came across a web, you should not destroy it till the spider was safe, when you could sweep away the web; but if you killed the spider, it will surely bring poverty to your house. Thereby creating another problem.

  To ensure the safety of the spider meant he had to leave it. So, it was still in the room. He couldn’t sleep knowing it was permanently at large. If he did manage to drop off, it might creep out and watch him – run all over the place. Even across his face. Couldn’t have that.

  Then again, he knew there would always be a spider in the room if he grew ill. A long-standing cure for ague or fever was to imprison a spider in a nutshell and then wear it as an amulet. Question was, how would you imprison it in a nutshell if you didn’t like them in the first place?

  He shuddered again before continuing with his inspection. Bare boards lined the floor, treated and stained light green. But it was not dirty! The display was merely for effect. It was, in fact, spotless and smelled of lavender.

  Lining each of the walls – either side of a collection of mannequins – were posters of his favourite film star Lon Chaney in a variety of different disguises. The Phantom. The Hunchback. The Ape Man, from the film A Blind Bargain. The Vampire, from London After Midnight, his own particular favourite, now a lost film, no copy in existence save his own. Littering his worktops and shelves were a whole selection of make-up effects.

  Standing in the corner was a full-length mirror with a light attached to the top. He was, at present, admiring his finest creation from that favourite film. He was dressed in a black beaver hat and a black Inverness coat. His face had the pallor of death. His hair was long and straggly and came down to his shoulders. The eyes terrified even him. He had darkened his eyebrows and fixed a wire ring like a monocle, allowing a hollowed-eye expression. The teeth had taken him an age, but had been worth the effort. Both upper and lower sets were sharp and pointed, and were as real as he could make them. His grin was fixed and further emphasised by shading in the upper corners of his mouth.

  He was a genius, of which there was no doubt. Perhaps not quite in the league of his idol. But then, who had been? In his opinion, however, it was more than good enough. It would allow him into places undetected. Carry out the most heinous of crimes without being caught. Grant him permission to continue his work to the fullest. Eyewitness reports would be considered inadmissible, and would therefore do him no harm. They would not give up his true identity. Only he knew that. And once he had completed his mission, without being caught, he would disappear into the night.

  He was not a serial killer. He did not have an insatiable appetite to wipe out and destroy as many people as possible. The killing spree would not continue when he’d done what he needed to do. What he was doing could not be tied to religion, nor did he belong to any satanic cult. His plan was not to go down in history alongside the likes of Jack the Ripper or The Boston Strangler or Dennis Nilsen or Harold Shipman.

  It wouldn’t take long and the police wouldn’t catch him. They had no idea now, after victim number one. And they would have no idea by the time they discovered the others.

  Why?

  Simple! They didn’t know who he was. And they were not going to find out!

  Nor would anyone else, even after the next victim, whose demise was going to be very different. Victim number two would eradicate any pattern, and perhaps lead them in the wrong direction.

  And at the moment, that was all that mattered.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Skipton’s Manor House Hotel was a two-storey grey stone building, sitting in acres of luscious green woodland, enhanced by dark wood, leaded windows, a traditional grey slate roof, and creeping ivy covering the exterior. Each window adorned an intricately hand-crafted window box containing a colourful array of plants. The gravel drive leading to the hotel encompassed a circular fountain and ornately carved bushes.

  Gardener admired the view, and could only find one word to describe it: elegant. It was the sort of place he would expect an old country gentleman – or perhaps a retired actor – to have stayed at. The building spoke of money. Set against the background of a clear blue sky in a late March Monday morning, the view was picture postcard perfect.

  Reilly left the car and stood beside him. “You’re in a good mood, boss, for a Monday morning with the case from hell.”

  Gardener turned to his partner. “My Christmas present was delivered this morning. I was just leaving the house.”

  “The King and Queen seat?”

  “Chris and Dad had the box ripped apart before I knew what day it was.”

  “Was it worth the money?”

  “I’d say so. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Gardener widened his arms to indicate the size. “It’s really deep, and finished in black leather with big round buttons. It’s the first new part for the bike.” Gardener’s eyes glazed. “And my dad had the foresight to have mine and Sarah’s names stencilled into the sides. It’s brilliant.”

  “Can’t wait for a wee demo on this bike of yours,” said Reilly, rubbing his hands together.

  “You’ll probably have to fight my dad for the first test drive.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” said his partner. “By the time you’ve finished it, your dad will have his own set of wheels, so he will, with its own seat, and handles for you to push.”

  Gardener laughed. The Irishman was probably right.

  “Anyway, let’s get back to the case from hell.”

  The Manor House entrance hall was a mixture of marble and a highly polished wood veneer, with the fresh smell of pot-pourri, no doubt well hidden. The oil paintings were expensive, almost certainly originals. As was the receptionist.

  They flashed their warrant cards. “Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener and Detective Sergeant Sean Reilly.” Gardener tipped his hat. “We’d like to ask you a few questions if we may?”

  “Oh my God, not another.”

  “Another?” asked Reilly.

  “Yes, another!” His reply was terse. “I know you people have a job to do, but so have we. I have a hotel to run, and you keep swarming in and closing down rooms. Well, I’m sorry, but it’s simply not good for business.”

  “Neither is murder,” said Reilly.

  Gardener studied the man. With his smooth complexion and neatly combed dark hair, he estimated an age in the late twenties. He was very slim and wore a pale blue suit with a shirt and tie to match. The man had exceptionally white teeth, manicured hands, and eyes to compliment his attire.

  “Can you clarify that statement, Mr Sparrow?” asked Gardener.

  Sparrow glanced down his nose at the name badge on his jacket, wishing it in hell, judging by his expression. He seemed dissatisfied with the familiarity it caused.

  “Yes, Mr Gardener, I can and I will. We have already had a visit from the police regarding the unfortunate death of Mr White. He was by himself, and spent approximately two hours in the room. Alone.” Sparrow spoke as if he severely resented the police and their business, whilst continually moving his hands and arms as if to express those feelings. “And they told us we were not allowed to rent the room out to anyone until the investigation had been closed. And furthermore, he covered the bloody door with Scenes of Crimes tape, so that everyone else staying here would know.”

  “Did he ask you for a current guest list?”

  “No. Should he have done?”

  Gardener glanced around. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Well, I am rather busy at the
moment.”

  “So are we, Mr Sparrow. And we are real police officers, and we would like a current guest list. I also want someone to take over the reception desk while you tell us everything you know. What he looked like, his name, where he went, where he said he was from...”

  Sparrow’s expression became grave. To his credit, he arranged for Gardener’s requests to be carried out immediately. Two minutes later they were sitting in the hotel bar, which was equally as quaint but with an interior design slightly different to the rest of the building, wooden ceiling beams, red velvet curtains, and carpet. Classical music played low in the background.

  “What was his name?” asked Gardener, seated comfortably in a leather Chesterfield chair.

  “Inspector Burke.”

  Gardener glanced at Reilly, who simply shrugged.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Sparrow.

  “Can you give us a description?”

  “He was tall, well built. Stocky, but not fat. His hair was grey, combed back, and he had long sideburns. He had quite big ears, and the most appallingly wrinkled skin. The man had clearly never seen a tub of moisturizer. He was dressed in a suit that was almost as wrinkled as his face, probably came from an Oxfam shop. There’s enough of them in the town.”

  Sparrow sighed more than necessary, glanced at his manicured hands frequently before making another comment. “His nails were disgusting – bitten to the quick. To be perfectly honest, he reminded me of a 1930s film star.”

  How interesting, thought Gardener, that Sparrow’s comment should be linked to the film world. Gardener was beginning to feel the killer had not only left them a bunch of puzzles and clues to follow, but he was clever enough to stay a step ahead of them.

  “We will need to see the room,” said Gardener. “But for now, let’s concentrate on Leonard White. Who picked him up last Friday?”

  “Well now, he was something. Very smart chauffeur, peaked cap, blond hair, good looking, slim, he should have been in films.”