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

that stretched a pair of brown braces almost to breaking point. His legs were too small, his shoes too big. He was bald, had blue eyes, and wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, which he kept pushing back up his nose. His mouth was cavernous, because his teeth were small and stumpy like him. He walked with a limp, his voice was high pitched, and his accent broad West Riding. He was dressed in a checked blue and red lumberjack shirt with rolled-up sleeves and brown pleated trousers.

“Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener and Detective Sergeant Sean Reilly, Mr Fettle.”

Both men showed their warrant cards. They were standing in the corridor leading to the stage. Three of the dressing room doors were open and being searched by SOCOs.

“Aye, I remember you, Stewart Gardener. You won’t remember me, though. Caught you and your mate one time nicking wood from behind my shed.”

Fettle pointed at Gardener but chose to stare at Reilly. “He were bloody selling ’em by the bagful. Took me ages to find out who it was.” The old man smiled and turned back to Gardener. “You made good on yourself, though.”

Gardener vaguely recalled the incident and smiled. “I’m sure you must be mistaken.”

“Like hell,” replied Fettle.

“So, what have you got for us, Mr Fettle?”

From further down the corridor, DC Sharp called to his superior officer. “Sir, we’re having trouble with this door. It’s locked.”

Reilly glanced over. “Whose dressing room is it?”

“Leonard White’s.”

“Go and find a spare key, somebody must have one!”

Fettle piped up again. “Well, do you want to know, or don’t you?”

“Know what?” asked Gardener.

“Christ, Gardener, how the hell did you make a copper if you can’t concentrate on the job in hand?”

“There is rather a lot going on at the moment.”

“I saw Leonard White walk out of the building. He left the theatre through the stage door.”

“When?”

“Just after half past seven. I’d been for a leak. I wondered what the hell were going on. Then I heard a lot of noise from the theatre. Only it can’t have been Leonard White, can it? He were dead by then, so it must have been your killer.” Fettle snorted. “Bloody perfect disguise, I can tell you.”

Gardener was about to ask another question when Sharp shouted “Jesus Christ!” as the dressing room door was opened.

Reilly immediately made his way to the room. “Boss, you’d better come and see.”

“There’s never a dull moment.” Gardener turned to Albert Fettle. “Stay here, I need to ask you some more questions.” He then brushed past Sharp into the already crammed small dressing room with Fitz, Reilly, and Alan Briggs.

At the back of the room stood a table. Above that, a mirror had been fixed to the wall. Perched on the table were eight one-pint glasses. Each one was mostly full with a substance resembling raw liver. The bottom section of each glass, however, was a clear serum.

“What’s going on?” asked Gardener.

“At a guess, I’d say we’ve found Leonard White’s blood,” replied Fitz.

Gardener stared at the glasses, horrified. “It doesn’t look like blood.”

“That’s because it’s clotted. It’s been in those jars quite a while. Like I said on the stage, I think the victim was killed yesterday. And that’s not all,” said Fitz. He pointed to the wall above the mirror.

The colour of the scrawl was slightly lighter than the congealed blood, but Gardener suspected that’s what had been used to write it:

For long weary months I have awaited this hour.

Chapter Six

Gardener was standing in the garage, staring at the stripped Bonneville motorcycle.

The place was a tip as usual, with spare parts all over. A variety of engine parts sat in a cardboard box, transmission parts in another. At least he hoped they were, and not mixed up. Two wheel rims leaned against one wall, ready for cleaning. Almost every other part of the bike was in a random location he was yet to recall. There were photocopied pages of the service manual tacked to every wall. He was pleased that he’d eventually sent the frame to Jeff Harrison – the enthusiast he’d met in Rawston – to have it professionally cleaned and protected.

His CD player was blaring out Holding Out For A Hero by Bonnie Tyler, the excessive drum rolls reverberating around the small enclosure, rattling the door and anything else that was loose. He could feel the beat on the floor under his feet.

He allowed himself a brief moment to think about Sarah and that fateful night in Leeds. She had been holding out for a hero – her husband – but he couldn’t find the necessary superpowers to save her. He hadn’t felt like a hero then, and he didn’t now.

The track changed to Cold As Ice by Foreigner, which led him into thinking about the case.

It had been a long night. Technically speaking, he was still on duty: he’d only come home to grab a shower and a fresh change of clothes. He was tired, and his bed would have been a better option, but he didn’t have that kind of a job.

Everyone had finally left the theatre at four o’clock in the morning. Gardener and Reilly had returned to the station to set up the incident room. He’d called Mike Sanderson and asked for HOLMES to set up their equipment to compare the first of the witness statements. The building had been sealed and closed, and a search team put in place. He had kicked off the ANACAPA chart by placing Leonard White’s name in the centre. He glanced at his watch: 7:30. He was hoping to return there shortly, when they would hopefully have all the photographs up as well.

Gardener had been disturbed by what he’d seen. A body at the end of a rope was typical enough in his line of work. The