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

Fettle thought long and hard. Gardener could almost hear the cogs turning inside his head. “No.”

Gardener started to wonder about the title of the film Imperfection, and how well it defined Corndell. He needed to find out more about it. Was that the title of the banned film they were looking for? What was it about? Why had it been banned? And if that was the film, what connection did it have with Corndell and how had he managed to obtain a copy?

“Last time we spoke, I mentioned a director by the name of Rupert Julian. You said he was dead.”

“Aye, he is,” replied Fettle.

“Did he have a son?”

Fettle finished his tea and another biscuit. “I’ve no idea. I’ve never heard one mentioned, but I’m not as well up on directors as I am the films. You could soon find out.”

Reilly and Price entered the room. Paul Price had a copy of a letter, which he passed to Gardener. “I thought I recognised the name Corndell. He sent me a letter a few months back.”

Gardener took it but didn’t read it. “What about?”

“He wrote and asked if he could have a tour of the place, quite some time ago now.”

“Why?”

“He said he was an author and he was writing something new which he wanted to set in the Grand Theatre. Asked if I would mind showing him round so as he could get the feel for the place.”

Gardener glanced at Reilly. “Why would he do that? According to him he’s spent his life in theatres up and down the country, writes regularly for Broadway.”

Price continued. “He mentioned his success in America. I asked him if he had a website, but he said he didn’t. I was hoping to do a little checking myself. He also said he wrote his material under different names.”

“Can you remember any of them?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

“Yet you still met him and showed him round?” questioned Gardener.

“Oh yes. I didn’t mind. I had some free time on my hands. The only thing I stipulated was that he should write nothing that would bring the theatre into disrepute. I also asked him of the success he’d had in America and he mentioned one or two titles, which I later wrote down on the back.”

Gardener turned the paper over and studied the titles. He didn’t recognise either. He then passed the paper to Fettle. He was about to ask Price another question when Fettle jumped out of his chair.

“Hey, I know that one, and it’s not one of his.”

“Which one?” Gardener asked.

“Blood’s Thicker Than Water.”

“Who wrote it?” asked Gardener.

“Yon lad as worked for Playhouse.”

“Harry Fletcher?”

“Aye, that’s him. He wrote Blood’s Thicker Than Water. I remember reading about it somewhere.”

“Any idea what it’s about?” asked Gardener.

“Not really, no. Summat about a feud between two brothers, which goes on for years until one of ’em’s dying. I just remember reading a review, and it were taking the States by storm.”

“That’s one of them,” said Paul Price. “That’s one of the names he said he used. Harry Fletcher. I remember it now.”

Another nail in Corndell’s coffin: he said he didn’t know Harry Fletcher.

Gardener’s mobile chimed. He fished it out of his pocket and answered. After listening to the caller, he glanced at Reilly. “We’ll be there in five minutes. That was Fitz. Apparently, he’s found something unusual connected to Janine Harper’s death. He wants us over there now.”

Chapter Forty-three

“Who found him?” Gardener asked the officer guarding the door.

“The prospective new owners, over there.”

The couple’s appearance spoke of wealth: camel hair coats, jewellery, the finest Italian leather shoes. The woman was blonde, slim, mid-forties with a long, deeply lined face. The man was stocky, perhaps early fifties with a good head of hair, tightly curled and grey. He was smoking a cigar. His wife cast glances about as if she’d rather be anywhere than a shopping arcade in Leeds that harboured a dead body, particularly one they were going to buy. And from her expression, the purchase was not her idea.

Gardener and Reilly suited up and entered. The interior of the shop was still gloomy, and despite the cleaning service having done their best, they had been unable to eradicate the smell of death, more the legacy of Janine Harper than the fresh body.

Alan Cuthbertson was laid on the floor behind the counter. He had been no oil painting in life, but death had decided he would be remembered with an expression that welcomed his fate.

“What time?” Gardener asked.

“About ten minutes before I phoned you.”

“Who else have you told?”

“I phoned the station and they said someone was on their way. They told me to phone you.”

Gardener turned his attention to the matter in hand. The shop had been stripped bare. Everything that had been on display on the night of Janine Harper’s demise had been removed for forensic testing. Once the police had finished with it, Alan Cuthbertson had told them to burn it. Gardener had wondered about Cuthbertson’s state of mind during that time period, his personal feelings at having seen his life’s work tainted – if not destroyed – by the actions of a lunatic. The idea of returning to a building responsible for so much trauma was obviously too much. An empty pill bottle stood on the counter, as did the half-finished bottle of whiskey, and what he surmised was a suicide note.

“I wonder what made him do it?” asked Reilly.

“I hope it wasn’t us,” replied Gardener.

“We didn’t do anything wrong, boss. We were doing our job.”

Gardener glanced at his partner. “Maybe he didn’t see it like that.”

Briggs arrived, suited and booted, and then made his way into the shop,