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

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