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

he’s said because he was home alone. And let’s face it, even if he wasn’t, who’s to know with the two disguises he’s used? Quite frankly, another murder would put us bottom of the popularity stakes, and Briggs would come down so heavy on us we’d have to reach up to tie our shoelaces.”

Gardener sighed as another knock on the door came and Patrick Edwards poked his head around the frame. “Anything on that missing limo, Patrick?”

“Not a lot,” replied Edwards. “Still hasn’t turned up. It was paid for in cash by a man called Robert Sandell, and we’ve now found out all the documents produced were false.”

“Wonderful,” replied Gardener. “Okay, I have something else for you. I want you to check all the rental companies and find out whether or not a William Henry Corndell has hired any vehicles recently using electronic transfers from a London bank as payment. Colin will give you the name of the bank.”

“Okay, sir,” replied Edwards, still standing his ground. “Sir, that number you wanted us to check, Burley in Wharfedale?”

“Oh, yes.”

“It’s not in service anymore. When the owner sold the property and moved on, the new owner had it changed.”

Gardener glanced at the sheet of paper that Edwards had passed over. The address – a side street off the main street, seemed familiar. “Who lives there now?”

“Someone called Cuthbertson... Alan Cuthbertson.”

Chapter Thirty-six

Midday had come and gone, and with early afternoon approaching, Harry Fletcher had to try to organise the next day’s supplies for the soup kitchen. He’d been at work since six o’clock and he was bushed, having prepared and served all the breakfasts, and afterwards, helping to rearrange the furniture in the room of the big house for that night’s local council meeting. But five minutes with a cup of tea and his diary wouldn’t hurt.

Mary Phillips, one of three volunteers, was cleaning the kitchen. She’d said it was fine by her if he took a break, seeing as he started two hours before anyone else. Kathy and Sarah, the other volunteers, had left early due to doctor’s appointments.

Harry took a sip of the now lukewarm tea. He dipped a custard cream and popped it into his mouth, savouring the taste because it was the only thing he had eaten all day.

Since leaving New York, Harry had changed his life completely, starting with his name. Here, he was known as Henry Fowkes, the name he was known by on Broadway. He had a very strict diet, eating virtually nothing during the day, but finishing the evening with a decent meal. Two hours prior to supper he used his time wisely, writing in his study. After his meal, he would then spend a further two hours writing, before retiring to bed early with either a good book or his portable television.

Since returning to Britain he had enjoyed himself, but his current project was coming to an end, and he felt that he should speak to his friend Stan very soon about the whole thing. He had hoped he’d see Stan today, but he hadn’t yet shown his face.

Harry liked Stan. The first time the man had walked into the homeless shelter – which had only been three months ago – Harry had known he was the one. Stan was perfect for the part without a word being spoken. For all Harry had known, Stan could have been a deaf mute. But he wasn’t, and they had started speaking, and the more they had talked, the more he’d seen his project opening up into a bestseller. Americans loved stories about eccentric Englishmen.

Stan’s first appearance had been towards the back end of January when the weather had turned bitter. Hunched into a topcoat with the flaps of his deerstalker down, he’d crept quietly through the door, glancing everywhere, as if he was searching for someone but he wasn’t sure who.

He wore woollen mittens with his fingers poking through, and always had a pipe clamped firmly between his teeth, perfecting a Sherlock Holmes that Conan Doyle would have been proud of. There was no tobacco in the pipe; whether it was because he was trying to give up or he couldn’t afford it, Harry had never determined, and it didn’t seem that important anyway.

Stan had chosen a quiet corner in which to sit, and as Harry approached, he’d tipped his cap and then hesitated, as if he shouldn’t really be there. Harry had laid a hand on his shoulder because he felt sure that Stan would have left the table and the shelter had he not made the gesture. Harry had made tea and sandwiches and sat with his newfound friend while he consumed them. Stan’s mannerisms had reminded Harry of a typical, old English gentleman, as though he had suddenly materialised out of nowhere from that Victorian era.

Stan’s strange phobias and superstitions also suited the part. Harry would never forget the day of the big storm.

Stan didn’t like storms. That had proved interesting. Harry had closed all the doors and windows, and had insisted that Stan stay at the table and finish his meal. He would never forget the fear in the man’s eyes, and his insistence that all doors and windows should be opened at once to allow any lightning bolts to pass straight through. With white knuckles he had gripped the table, refusing to eat. When the storm had finally passed, Harry had paid a taxi driver to take Stan to wherever he felt he needed to be.

But for all that, he enjoyed Stan’s company. All he had to do now was persuade him to give up his life here. What life? Harry knew he was homeless, but homeless people lived somewhere, even if it was only a makeshift shelter at the back of the shops on Albion Street. Harry had toured the city in search of Stan, and none of the