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

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