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

“I’d like to do it. Who knows, it may help to catch the lunatic before he does any more damage.” Malcolm rose from the table and left the kitchen in search of a notebook and pen.

“Are you okay with that, sir?”

“If we could spare someone to shadow him, it might serve two purposes.”

“Protect him, and at the same time, lead us to the killer.”

“Works on TV, doesn’t it?”

Gardener laughed.

Malcolm returned to the kitchen. “There’s someone outside waiting to see you.”

“Me?” said Gardener. “Who is it?”

“You’d best go and see.”

Gardener was puzzled. He wasn’t expecting anyone. However, he was delighted to find that Jeff Harrison had finally returned with his Bonneville chassis frame.

Chapter Thirty-four

Martin Brown had tried to call Corndell three times already, and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock. Each call had remained unanswered. In fact, he’d been unable to reach Corndell since his first. He was concerned, and had been since the return of the contract, which had been promptly signed, sealed, and delivered the day after he’d sent it. Corndell had made clear his conditions. Under no circumstances should any of his demands be disobeyed, or he would refuse to perform.

Martin sighed and sat back in his seat, perusing the paperwork. He studied the contract, hoping to Christ the university could maintain the standards required.

In the hall, a bunch of noisy students had gathered outside his door. He returned his attention to Corndell’s first demand – the election of a supervisor to oversee the whole project from the beginning. The man would arrive on March 31st and set up the stage. Martin hadn’t yet seen him, but to be honest he’d hardly had a chance to leave the office.

Corndell’s man would handpick his own crew to help with whatever construction was required. Once the stage and the sound system had been designed to Corndell’s satisfaction, the hall had to be closed and locked, and no one allowed access except Corndell’s supervisor; only he would be present to greet Corndell when he arrived around noon on the day of performance.

Anyone found whistling on the set will be fired; particularly if the tune was Three Blind Mice. No live flowers should be present, or delivered beforehand. No interviews would be granted either before or after the performance. The first customer to buy a ticket and enter the hall should not be a woman.

Corndell had also requested that the dressing room walls be painted with pastel colours and furnished with a dressing table, a mirror, adequate lighting, and a comfortable stool. A meal consisting of a green, crisp salad, accompanied by Chinese green tea, should be delivered to the room no later than four o’clock. Corndell would dine alone.

The biggest surprise – and only bonus – was that Corndell had agreed to put on the show for free.

Martin couldn’t work that one out. But then again, he couldn’t really work any of it out. He sighed loudly, wondering if anyone in the world would even see Corndell, including himself. He still couldn’t help feeling that the person who said he was Corndell wasn’t, that it was some two-bit actor masquerading as a more superior one. He threw the signed contract back on the desk and left his office, in search of said supervisor.

* * *

When Martin entered the theatre hall, he was taken aback. The gothic stage set was magnificent, with red velvet drapes and impressive backdrops containing huge still-frame photographs from very early Universal horror films. There was no doubt that one of them was the Notre Dame Cathedral. A round platform – similar to the one where The Hunchback had been tied and whipped in the village square – had been erected centre stage. In Martin’s opinion, there were heavy overtones of Lon Chaney.

Four strobe lights were equally positioned around the base of the podium, and the fog machines were currently being tested. Between all the photos, the design of the crumbling brickwork with its arched windows and gothic turrets impressed Martin. All of them had been coated with cobweb spray and enhanced by carefully concealed lighting.

A mixture of smells assaulted Martin’s nostrils, some of which he could place: mint, and possibly avocado, which reminded Martin of a shampoo his wife had recently bought. There were others, but he had no idea what. The effect was sensational. The students were going to love it. Perhaps Corndell really did know what he was doing. Judging by the set, the show would be nothing short of spectacular.

Martin suddenly jumped as the haunting sound of Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells reverberated through the sound system. Although he couldn’t see the speakers, they had a sound quality to die for. He wondered if the music had been chosen for the show. He couldn’t see how it fitted in.

Martin breathed a sigh of relief when, at last, he saw someone on the stage, who Martin hoped was Corndell’s electorate.

The music stopped before the man made his approach. Martin was surprised by his appearance. The man was seventy if he was a day. He wore a grey boiler suit and carried a small bag of tools in his left hand. He had a flat cap and a pair of pince-nez perched over the bridge of his nose, and a thick grey moustache. His eyes were a little watery, and so black and so deep they resembled two olives on a bed of cream. Martin struggled to believe that the old man was Corndell’s supervisor.

“Can I help you, son?” asked the old man, with a Bow bells accent. His voice was a choking rasp, as if he smoked sixty cigarettes a day.

“I was looking for William Henry Corndell, I don’t suppose he’s here?” asked Martin.

“Cor blimey, mate, you ain’t asking much, are you? He’s a very busy man, our William.”

“You know him, then?” questioned Martin.

The old man jumped