IMPERFECTION

by Ray Clark

  “It won’t hurt,” replied Briggs. “And it isn’t going to cost us anything. He’s got a lot of experience dealing with these people. He worked on the Yorkshire Ripper case.”

  “Peter Sutcliffe? That’s reassuring,” retorted Reilly. “They never actually caught that bastard in connection with his crimes. He was apprehended on false number plates.”

  “We should have had the bloke who caught him working for us,” shouted Thornton. “At least he clocked number plates.”

  The comment raised a laugh, and Gardener did his best to bring the meeting back to order. “What’s his name?”

  “Trevor Thorpe.”

  “Can’t say I’ve heard of him.”

  “Well, all this is irrelevant,” said Briggs. “He’s offered to help, the Chief Super’s accepted, so he’s coming in during the next day or so to study everything we have. So, the next time we meet in this room, we’ll have a guest. Can we show him some respect?”

  The officers dispersed without a word. Gardener wasn’t particularly happy about it, and judging by the expressions of his team as they were leaving, neither were they.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Martin Brown leaned forward and stared at the documents on his desk.

  Running the fingers of his right hand around the inside of his collar, he realised the office was too warm. The general mess – which resembled the aftermath of a nuclear fallout – was also adding to his discomfort. The cupboard to his right was crammed full of magazines and journals. The shelves on the walls were at the point of collapse. Papers were strewn everywhere, on window ledges, pinned to the walls, left on chairs. But they were students; what could he expect? And they were so bloody noisy. He could hear them now in the corridor, shouting at each other all the time, even though they were standing together.

  “Hold on a second, Dave.” Martin rose from his seat and closed the door. He came back to the desk and picked up the phone to continue the conversation. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure, Martin. I’ve worked for BT for about thirty years. I’ve checked it out three times.”

  Martin struggled with the information he’d been given. “But this is William Henry Corndell we’re talking about.”

  “So you keep saying. But who the hell is William Henry Corndell?”

  “Probably one of the greatest actors of our time,” replied Martin, growing more frustrated.

  “Well, I’ve never seen any of his films.”

  “He’s not really in films, Dave,” said Martin. “He’s more a classical actor who works in the theatre.”

  “So where have you seen him?”

  “London.”

  “When?” Dave asked.

  “Oh God, years ago.”

  “What in?”

  “When I saw him, he was in rehearsals for Phantom of the Opera.”

  “Good, was he?” asked Dave.

  Martin wasn’t keen on his friend’s tone. “The best, from what I saw.”

  “So, why didn’t he get the part instead of Michael Crawford? And did you actually see the play itself?”

  “No. I missed the opening night. Apparently, Corndell had a major accident. Fell off a piece of scenery and broke his leg.”

  “And after that?”

  “I left London shortly afterwards. I’m not so sure what happened to him. But I’m telling you, a man of his acting prowess must have been working constantly. Which is why I’m asking, are you sure it’s the same William Henry Corndell?”

  “Are you?”

  “I just can’t believe a man of his talent isn’t in constant demand. You’re positive he’s never had a single phone call to his landline in what, ten, fifteen years? And he’s never made a call?”

  “He hasn’t taken a call.” Dave sounded as if he was tiring of the game.

  “What about a mobile?”

  “He doesn’t have one. I’ve done the most comprehensive search with the most up-to-date technology. Anyone who’s anybody who has a mobile phone, I know their number, Cliff Richard, Tom Jones, Paul McCartney. All your top actors, Ben Affleck, DiCaprio I can get you just about anyone’s number. Posh and Beck’s, if you want. But I can’t get one for William Henry Corndell because he doesn’t have one!”

  “Is it legal, this program of yours?”

  “Of course it isn’t legal. And I don’t want anyone knowing about it, either.”

  The conversation ceased while Martin swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “I can’t believe it, Dave. I really can’t.”

  “Why do you want this bloke, Martin?”

  “If you’d seen him, you’d know.” Martin recalled the time he’d been in London, when Corndell had been rehearsing at Her Majesty’s Theatre for the lead role. The emotion, the feeling, the way he’d delivered his lines and the expressions he’d used were as good as anyone he’d ever seen. “What about the bill? Is it paid regularly?” asked Martin.

  “Like clockwork.”

  Martin blew out a sigh. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You’re going to have to call him, Martin. See if he is your man, which I’m pretty sure he is. Maybe he’ll tell you what he’s been doing all these years. Maybe he’s dropped out of show business. He’s probably a recluse. You know what it’s like, most of them can’t handle the pressure.”

  “Not Corndell. If you’d seen him, you’d know.”

  “So you keep saying. But I haven’t, and I’m not likely to now, if he’s a recluse. Nor are you, by the sound of it. Listen, have you tried a round of the agents?”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t seem to have one of those, either. You’re right, Dave, I’ll have to give him a ring, see what he’s up to and whether or not he’ll do it.”

  “Might be too rich for university blood. You know what penny-pinching students are like.”

  “I’ll ignore that. Anyway, thanks for what you’ve done, you’ve been a great help.”

  “No problem. Let me know how you get on.”

  “Okay, mate.”

  Martin put the phone down, sighing. Staring at the back wall, he allowed his thoughts to drift. He knew a natural when he saw one. Born and bred in Borehamwood, he’d lived there until he was twenty-five. Most, if not all, of his childhood had been spent at Elstree Studios. He went on to train at the RADA before lecturing in dramatic arts. His fascination with the film industry and the entertainment world were second to none, or so he thought. Eventually he moved to Leeds with his wife and two children to take a post at the university. His children, now in their late teens, were about to attend.

  He’d seen and studied Corndell on and off over the years. He’d met Corndell’s father, himself a fine actor who had spent many years on the stage before turning his hand to direction, where he made a multitude of films for Ealing Studios. Corndell’s father had died in the 1980s, and he was pretty sure that Corndell had moved up to Yorkshire to reside in the Corndell mansion in Horsforth. But where had he been since then? There was only one way to find out.

  As he reached out for the phone, his arm disturbed a file. The paper shuffled forward and a small spider scurried across the desk, running for cover. Martin jumped up and stepped back with a shiver. He wasn’t keen on spiders. God help the human race if they were the larger species: even Usain Bolt couldn’t outrun something with eight legs.

  After Martin had calmed down, he sat and picked up the receiver, listening to the tone, hoping to find a little extra courage. He felt apprehensive. He realised he’d obtained an ex-directory number the only way you could: illegally. He dialled, listening for an age before the phone at the other end was eventually picked up.

  “Hello?” The voice sounded far more nervous than Martin.

  “Am I speaking to William Henry Corndell?”

  “Who is this and how did you get the number?”

  Bad start, thought Martin. “Mr Corndell, I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Martin Brown, and I work for the University of Leeds.”

  “That’s one question answered.
”

  “Am I talking to the same William Henry Corndell who once played the lead role of the Phantom in the West End?”

  “Good grief, young man, you have done your homework.”

  Martin Brown almost laughed at the change in tone of Corndell’s voice. He sounded like an eccentric country squire. “So, it is you, then?”

  “It most certainly is. But I’d still like to know how you got this number, and what you’re after.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Corndell, but I’ve seen and admired your work. I’ve even seen a copy of the film you produced which your father directed. Ahead of its time, is all I can say.”

  “You flatter me, Mr Brown, but don’t stop, I could get to like it. However, you still haven’t answered my question. What do you want of me?”

  “I’d like to book you, Mr Corndell.”

  “Pardon?” Corndell sounded shocked, as if what Martin was asking was not an everyday occurrence.

  “I’m in charge of the entertainment at the University of Leeds, and one of the students suggested we have a night of culture. They wanted me to find a classical actor of your ability to put on a one-man show here. I was really hoping that you were still involved, and wondered whether or not you’d be interested.”

  “You have my undivided attention. I’m flattered you know so much about me. But there are two things I must ask. Firstly, when is it? Second, and perhaps equally as important, do you have the necessary funding?”

  “I’m sure we could negotiate the price.”

  “Don’t count on it, Mr Brown.”

  Martin’s heart sank a little. He might be stepping out of his league, and he was beginning to think it was a bad idea. But at least he’d managed to avoid answering how he’d obtained the number. “I wondered if you would consider April 1st.”

  The pause on the end of the line seemed to last forever. “I’m impressed, young man. But I have to say I’m extremely busy with Hollywood at the moment, negotiating for my latest manuscript, which, of course, must take precedence. But you’ve obviously gone to a lot of trouble to track me down and ask me to entertain your students. And furthermore, you’re asking if I’ll do it on my birthday. I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

  “You’ll do it?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. Isn’t that what you wanted?” asked Corndell.

  “Yes it is, but I never expected.”

  “Don’t be negative, young man. Positive thinking has brought you this far. I presume you know my address, particularly as you know my ex-directory telephone number.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Good, then put a contract in the post to arrive no later than two days’ time. I shall sign and insert the price at the same time.”

  “But that’s just it. The price. I’m not sure we can afford you.”

  “The price, sir, will not be negotiable. If you want the best, then you have to be prepared to pay for it. However, my quote will not disappoint. Thank you and goodbye.”

  Martin was listening to the dialling tone again. He was amazed, not only to find he had booked a man whose work he admired, but the fact that the conversation had ended so abruptly. He wasted no time in making the next call.

  “Hello?” answered Laura.

  “Laura? It’s Martin, from the university.”

  “Hi Martin, how are you?”

  “Just great. I’ve got an assignment for you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You seem in a good mood tonight, Laura,” Reilly said to his wife.

  “I am.” She helped herself to another mouthful of pasta.

  “Is it the university job?”

  “Yes, but I can’t think why. I mean, when Martin rang me, he was ridiculously excited that he’d managed to book some obscure actor called William Henry Corndell for the uni. Like I said, I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Have you checked him out?”

  “I have. Can’t find any reference to him.” She had recently changed direction with her career. For many years she had been a freelance photographer. Examples of her work were framed around their two-storey house in Yeadon. More recently she had gone back to the second love of her life, entertainment journalism. Most magazines carried her reviews of the local and regional plays. Every three months she travelled down to London to keep her eye on what was up and coming and would eventually be touring.

  “Wallace Henry Corndell, yes, but not William.”

  “Who was Wallace?”

  “A big film director back in the Sixties, worked for Ealing, turned out a string of comedies. Judging by the reports I’ve read, he was very good at his job.”

  “Is Corndell a relative in the same line of business?” suggested Reilly.

  “Perhaps, but not as successful, otherwise I would have heard of him. Anyway, mine is not to reason why. Martin absolutely raves over the man. Said he saw him down in London when Corndell was rehearsing for Phantom of the Opera.”

  “Well, there you are then, he must have a talent.”

  “But that’s just it, I can’t find a reference for that either. We all know Michael Crawford was the star of that show, and there have been various leading men since, but I’m sure that William Henry Corndell wasn’t one of them.”

  Reilly finished his food, sat back in his chair. As Laura had already finished hers, he signalled the waiter once more for the dessert menu. “It must be costing the university a small fortune if they’re shipping him all the way from London for one night.”

  “That’s just it, they’re not. Apparently he lives locally.”

  “Where?”

  “About five or six miles from us, in Horsforth.”

  “Does he now? Well, I never knew that.”

  “See! You men never pay attention.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Gardener glanced at the clock: 7:30.

  He was feeling guilty for spending the last two hours at home, leading something close to a normal life. Before leaving the station he’d phoned ahead, and Malcolm had made an early dinner of chargrilled chicken breasts and salad, with granary baguettes. All three ate together before Malcolm had taken off for a night at the small private cinema in Headingley. Gardener hoped it would lift Malcolm’s spirits.

  He cleared the pots, took a shower, and thought some more about the case. Most of the team had spent the day trawling through the huge pile of witness statements, consulting HOLMES. A number of cases came to light regarding blood being drained, but none of them bore any of the hallmarks of the Leonard White murder.

  Despite being frustrating, it was also challenging. There was nothing Gardener loved more. The main things on his mind were the watch committee and the puzzles, the connection being Harry Fletcher. Gardener could not figure out why Fletcher would wait until now if there had been a conflict within the group. In spite of the fact that he kept fading in and out of life over the last twenty years, he had always been local. Why not take his revenge before now?

  In the kitchen, Gardener placed a cup of herbal tea on the tray before him, and a can of Coke for Chris, as well as a number of chocolate bars. Gardener picked up the tray, and headed for the garage. The connecting door was open. Gardener pushed it wider with one foot, comforted by the scene before him. Chris was dressed in an oil-stained boiler suit that was at least two sizes too big. The smell of oil and petrol suffused the air. Nuts and bolts clanked as they landed in glass jars. Gardener smiled. His job was very demanding. If all he could grab was a couple of hours now and again, he’d settle for that.

  Chris glanced at his father before immediately clearing a place to put the tray. “Thanks, Dad.” He grabbed his Coke and a chocolate bar.

  As Gardener took stock, he couldn’t believe how clean and tidy the place was. Within a couple of hours, Chris had put everything in boxes, which he’d carefully labelled and placed in some sort of order. Nuts, bolts, screws and washers of all descriptions had been segregated into different glass jars, and the garage was beginning to feel mor
e like home than a workshop, especially as Spook was stretched out on a cushion on one of the shelves, casually washing herself, totally unconcerned at what was happening around her.

  “You’ve done a terrific job, Chris.”

  “I’ve been at it for a couple of days.”

  “How come?”

  “Last time I saw you in here, you were searching all over for a few nuts and bolts, losing your patience.”

  Gardener laughed. “That’s par for the course. It’s part of the restoration process. You lose things, and you’re allowed to swear a bit while you find them.”

  “Do you want me to chuck these all over the floor again?”

  “Yeah, right. We don’t get enough family time like this together, Chris. The way things are at the moment, I have to grab it while I can.”

  “It’s okay,” said Chris, taking a slurp of soda. “I wouldn’t want your job. I don’t care how good the money is.”

  “It’s not as good as you think.”

  “Why do you do it, then?”

  That was a good question, thought Gardener. Working all the hours God sends, chasing perverts and criminals and murderers with no thanks and no patience and no help from the public, wasn’t ideal from anyone’s point of view. “It’s all I know. And it’s personal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Gardener pointed to his chest. “It’s in here. I suppose it’s a bit like being a priest. You might wonder why he does his job, and he’d probably tell you it’s not a job but a calling. That’s how I feel. It’s more than a job, and it has been ever since I first started.”

  Chris seemed deep in thought about the answer before asking, “Do you think you’ll ever catch all the criminals?”

  His son was full of good questions tonight.

  “I doubt it. And in a way, I hope not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then I’ll be out of a job.”

  They both laughed.

  “At least then you can do something you really want, like fixing bikes.”

  Gardener finished his chocolate bar and sipped his herbal tea. “I doubt I’ll ever be good enough for that. Your grandfather might be.”