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

Executive Cars, who had used the excuse that his wife had been taken ill and the car had been laid on for him. We’ve checked and there is no such company. So, where did the car come from? And where is it now?”

“What make of car was it?” one of the assembled officers inquired.

“The receptionist doesn’t know,” replied Gardener. “The hotel doesn’t have CCTV, they don’t feel the need. We have a guest list, so I’d like a couple of you to follow it up, see if anyone can help.”

Gardener continued with the briefing. “The following morning, yesterday, the staff at The Manor House had a visit from the police.” He let the remark sink in while glancing around the room, studying the expressions of his team.

“I know what you’re thinking, you’re trying to work out if anyone else has been there apart from us. Well, it wasn’t any of you. It was, in fact, an Inspector Burke.”

“Inspector Burke?” repeated Briggs.

“Sean.” Gardener glanced at his colleague and passed over the disc. “Will you do the honours?” As the DVD played, Gardener was amazed that he hadn’t realised the small segment of film had actually been recorded in black and white.

“Is that him?” said Briggs.

“Looks like it,” replied Reilly.

“He looks familiar.”

“The actor, you mean?” asked Gardener, wondering what Briggs was thinking.

“Yes.” But his superior didn’t elaborate. “He must be bloody confident to play tricks like this. And he’s thought it out as well. Any idea where that is?”

“No,” said Gardener. “If you look closely, the background is out of focus. Maybe our lads can clean it up a little bit. Even if they do, I don’t think it will show us much.”

“What did Fettle have to say?” asked Briggs.

Gardener told them, and then held up the two clear plastic bags. One had the rope, the other contained the latest puzzle, which he’d now copied and pasted to the ANACAPA chart.

“I want that trunk back here,” said Briggs. “He’s taking the piss! All right, you lot, let’s have some answers. This bloke’s far too confident, and he’s gonna make mugs out of us if we’re not careful. And what’s that supposed to mean? ‘Perhaps you should focus in order to be true’?”

Gardener made his suggestion. “He’s very well organised. Everything’s been planned down to the finest detail. He’s suggesting we do the same.” He turned, directing a question to junior officer Patrick Edwards. “Have you looked at ritual killings and murders involving draining the blood?”

“I have, sir, but I haven’t learned much. I’ve studied books in the library, and the internet. I’ve done a small report for you.” Edwards placed it on the table in front of Gardener. “I don’t really think it will help us.”

“Keep digging. Don’t rule anything out,” said Gardener, suddenly turning his attention to another member of the team. “Colin, what do you have on Leonard White?”

“I’m waiting for copies of his legal documents, but nothing seems untoward. His solicitor confirmed that in the event of his death, everything he owned would be left to his wife. As for her, she seems pretty straightforward on the face of it, but I haven’t been looking long enough, yet.”

“Okay. Thornton, Anderson, what about the rope?”

“There’s nothing special about it.”

Gardener held the evidence bag aloft. “I think we’ll find it’s the other half of the one in this bag. We’ll get forensics to check it out for prints.”

“But the knot threw up something interesting,” replied Anderson. “It’s known as a sailor’s eye splice. Not too complicated to form, but pretty effective at holding something in place.”

“Which takes us in another direction,” said Gardener. “Has our killer spent some time in the navy?”

“Or is it a red herring?” said Briggs. “If you’ll pardon the pun. Has he just studied ropes and knots in order to have us running all over the place?”

A silence descended, and Gardener realised they were going nowhere fast.

“What about witness statements?” Briggs asked.

A young PC brought in as support put his hand up. “I’m following up on a woman who thought she saw Leonard White getting out of a taxi outside the theatre on the Saturday afternoon. I’ve telephoned twice to make an appointment, but I’ve had no answer.”

“Go round tonight, then” said Briggs. “We want the registration of the taxi, the name of the firm, the driver, where he picked him up, everything. I want someone back at the theatre to see Paul Price. We need a list of everyone who’s worked there in the last thirty years. Add the hotel guest list to your witnesses and see if anyone’s on both lists, or if any of them noticed the vehicle from Executive Cars. Somebody must have seen something. This bloke’s luck has to give out sometime.”

“You also have a white van to add to your list,” added Gardener. “Seen in the city centre on Saturday afternoon. I know there must be hundreds of white vans a week in the centre of Leeds. Get as many registration plates as possible and then check them out. Go back to The Grand and once again check out the CCTV.”

Gardener glanced at the ANACAPA chart before turning to face them all. “Harry Fletcher was a name that came up last time. Has anyone found him?”

Dave Rawson stepped forward – a man with the build of a rugby centre forward. He had short black hair, a small beard and moustache, neatly trimmed, and strong square teeth.

“I’m taking care of that one, sir. Back in the 1960s he was a writer, mainly detective fiction. Turned them out pretty fast, by all accounts. Then he disappeared for a while. Next thing, he was working for the watch committee in the Seventies. After that, he seems to have gone to ground again. Popped up again in the Nineties as a commissioning