IMPERFECTION by Ray Clark (e novels to read online TXT) 📗

“Can you think of anything that happened during those years? Anything scandalous, a serious incident that someone might want to brush under the carpet?” asked Gardener.

“Stewart, Leonard White was as straight as a die. He worked for Hammer Studios for years, alongside all the big names like Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee. He told me himself that he’d wanted to leave Hammer for a long time. He’d been concerned about their policies. They went through a period of making vampire films, full of nudity and lesbianism. He wanted out.” Malcolm took a mouthful of coffee and asked, “Why the question about a scandal?”

“What we’ve learned so far points to revenge. Leonard White appears to have been killed because of something that happened in his past. Now that could be anything at any time, it’s a big playing field out there. I just thought, if you knew something, however insignificant you might think it is, it could help.”

“What about his wife, any scandal involving her?” Reilly asked.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know her well enough.”

Gardener wondered how his father was really coping with the kind of pressure they were putting him under. He felt guilty. He didn’t like what they were doing, but they had a job to do. At least they were conducting the interview in the comfort of their own home and not the station, with tape recorders.

“The thing is, Malcolm, someone’s playing games with us,” said Reilly.

“Why? What’s he doing?”

“We shouldn’t be telling you this, Dad, but when we managed to get into Leonard’s dressing room the other night, there was a message on the wall. I think it’s a quote, but I don’t know where from.”

“What did it say?” asked Malcolm.

Reilly took out his notebook. “‘For long weary months I have awaited this hour’.”

“Certainly sounds like a quote,” said Malcolm.

“Do you recognise it?” pressed Gardener.

“No. Could be anything.”

“We were also left a verse, a puzzle perhaps. He’s taunting us, leading us to believe there’ll be more.” Gardener paused. “Let’s go back to something you said yesterday afternoon. After I picked you up from the theatre, you were pretty quiet. You said that Leonard White wasn’t himself. He seemed worried about what his wife was going to think. Did he elaborate? What was it that would concern his wife?”

Gardener studied the once solid features of his father he had come to depend on. He was seventy-five years old, but his normal healthy complexion carried a haunted, defeated expression. The lines in his face were deeper, the eyes darker, lifeless. “I don’t know, son.”

“Can you remember the exact words he used?”

“Not the exact words, no. He kept saying Val wasn’t going to like it. She wouldn’t forgive him. I had no idea what he was talking about, and he wouldn’t tell me. He was obviously in some sort of trouble, but I don’t know why. Maybe it was something he couldn’t forgive himself for. Therefore, she wouldn’t forgive him.”

“And you didn’t pick up on anything in the conversation?” asked Reilly.

“No,” replied Malcolm. “I mean, at his age, I didn’t think it was another woman. I couldn’t imagine him having money problems, so I couldn’t think what else it could be.”

“You don’t think someone was blackmailing him?”

“It’s possible, but if they were, he wasn’t letting on. Maybe that was it,” said Malcolm.

“But he never gave you an inkling? Not one bit of evidence about how much trouble he was in?”

“No, nothing. He didn’t really say very much. As I told you, he was quiet, subdued, not himself.” Malcolm waved his finger in the air. “I’ll tell you what was strange. When I got there, Leonard ordered tea for us both. When it arrived, he never touched his, just left it on the tray. He never touched a drop.”

“What’s so unusual about that?” asked Reilly.

“He was legendary for halting productions just so as he could have his cup of tea. It was like a ritual.”

Gardener and Reilly stared at each other.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Gardener sighed. “Did you ever consider, at any point, that you were talking to someone else other than your friend?”

Malcolm lowered his cup to the table. “What are you trying to say?”

“Are you certain you were talking to Leonard White?”

“Of course I was. Who else could it have been?”

“That’s what we’d like to know.”

Malcolm’s grave expression disturbed Gardener. “Are you trying to tell me that someone was impersonating Leonard White and I couldn’t tell?”

Gardener took his time answering, unsure how his father would take the news. “It looks that way, Dad.”

“Surely to God no one could be that good, Son.”

“That’s what we thought. But we’ve had it confirmed that Leonard White had been dead somewhere in the region of twelve to twenty-four hours when he hit that stage. I’m sorry, Dad, really I am.”

Malcolm left the table without saying anything else.

Chapter Eleven

The room at The Queen’s was large and airy, well-lit with adequate heating. The beige carpet matched the drapes and the bed linen. The antique furniture added an air of elegance.

With her bleached blond hair tied up, too much face paint, and an excess of fine jewellery – none of which complimented her leopard skin top – Val White was exactly what Gardener had been led to believe: common, and unsuited to the luxury that life, or more to the point her late husband, had provided for her. His only complimentary thought was that she carried her age well.

As soon as Gardener and Reilly displayed warrant cards, she had called for room service. When the refreshments arrived, she told them to help themselves – and do the honour of pouring her a cup of tea – while she continued to smoke a cigarette through an