IMPERFECTION

by Ray Clark

  Gardener sighed, disappointed. “What about the tape you took from the theatre?”

  “Same with that, it was also TDK,” said Fenton. “But no one uses cassette tapes so they wouldn’t speculate at all on that one. We’re pretty sure the words shouted are ‘look out’, but no idea if it’s been recorded live or comes from a film.”

  Gardener updated the ANACAPA chart, even though there was little new evidence.

  Briggs addressed them all. “I think it’s time to introduce you to the new man in the corner. I’ve noticed the looks you’re all giving him.” The man stood up and offered a smile.

  “Trevor Thorpe,” said Briggs. “The profiler.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  As the officer in charge, Gardener walked over and shook hands with Thorpe, introducing himself and using the opportunity for a quick but close inspection. He was slightly shorter than Gardener and similar in weight. His rugged exterior conveyed a tough life. The left eye was a little bigger than the right, and he was quite clearly blind in it. A scar on his forehead ran down past the eyebrow, below the eye. His brown hair was closely cropped with flecks of grey running through it. The texture of his face resembled a piece of old leather. Thorpe was dressed in a well-worn tweed jacket and a pair of brown corduroys, and brown casual slip-on shoes.

  Gardener returned to his seat. As he did so, he asked the question, “So, Mr Thorpe, I’m sure DCI Briggs has briefed you about everything that’s happened. Do you have anything to add to what you’ve seen so far?”

  “Can I thank you all first for, er, inviting me?” Thorpe walked around the room with his hands behind his back, like a schoolmaster. When he spoke it was very slowly, while he stared at the ceiling.

  “There was a lot of, er, work accomplished here, a lot of articulate planning. Couple it with the clues, and you can see straight away that this man is very intelligent. He cares about what he does. It’s an art form. He plans everything down to the last detail. He has medical knowledge.”

  Gardener thought Thorpe sounded like a politician. “Why, in your opinion, is he doing it?”

  Thorpe went back to his seat and sat, his legs astride, resting his arms on the back, choosing to face his audience, rather than the ceiling. “Because he can.” He lifted one hand matter-of-factly. “I think he likes playing sadistic games. He’ll have played them all his life. When he was younger it would have been animals, children younger than himself. In fact, anything that was defenceless.”

  Gardener was beginning to feel irritated by the man’s demeanour. Perhaps that was his manner. He had to accept that the man was here of his own free will. He was not being paid. Maybe Gardener simply didn’t like what he saw.

  Thorpe stood up, started to pace, staring at the ceiling again. Gardener felt like he was being lectured.

  “Murder usually stems from a deadly fantasy, a need to exert power over the victim, to inflict pain and fear, which can then be played for real. He almost certainly has a grudge, and he is exerting his power. I think you’ll find that’s because he was repressed when he was younger. He had a domineering mother who allowed him no freedom. No chance to express his emotions.

  “And that is what we are seeing here. He’s, er, no different to most serial killers. Because they kill so casually, without emotion, they’re almost impossible to catch. Just as difficult to understand. As far as he’s concerned, killing is an art form, no different to eating a meal.” He returned to his seat and pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and mopped his brow.

  “Everything all right, Trevor?” asked Briggs.

  “Er, yes, may I have a drink of water, please? I, er, need to take a tablet.”

  Briggs asked Patrick Edwards to do the honours. After the tablet, Thorpe continued. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, most of them live, er, outwardly normal lives and have a very high IQ. We can see that by the games he’s playing, and the puzzles he’s leaving.”

  “Why does he drain the blood?” asked Reilly.

  Thorpe took to his feet again. “Well, you see, there’s another interesting point. Blood may be very sacred to him. Have you checked to see if either of these people who have been killed have any blood-related diseases? Particularly in the case of the girl. Was she promiscuous? Was she HIV positive? Maybe he thinks that blood is very precious, and these people...” – Thorpe turned and reached out with his arms – “...are not treating their bodies like a temple, as he does.”

  “What makes you say that?” asked Gardener.

  “Everything we’ve seen so far. The man is articulate. He’s careful, precise. You have no leads because he leaves you no clues with which to catch him. Here is a man who takes life very seriously.”

  Gardener’s mobile interrupted their meeting. After a concerned conversation, he flipped it off and glanced at Briggs. “It’s Fitz. He wants us over at the morgue straight away.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?” asked Briggs.

  “He wouldn’t tell us over the phone,” replied Gardener, “but he said we’re not going to like it.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The three of them made it to the morgue in record time. Fitz was in his office. The desk was impeccably tidy, as if all the paperwork had been positioned using a set square. The files on the shelf behind him were arranged neatly in alphabetical order, with the writing facing the same way. Gardener couldn’t identify the piece of classical music that Fitz was listening to, but assumed it to be an opera.

  “You didn’t waste much time,” said Fitz, glancing at Gardener.

  “It sounded urgent.”

  Fitz rose from his chair, adjusted his glasses. “There’s never an urgency when you’re dealing with the dead.”

  “Well, there is in our case,” said Briggs.

  “Follow me.” Fitz left the office, collecting a green gown and a fresh pair of gloves from a cupboard. He walked over to Janine Harper’s corpse and removed the cover. Her fragile body lacked colour, emphasising the severity of the bruising on her face. Only now, she had a Y-shaped incision where Fitz had done his job.

  “What have you found?” asked Briggs.

  “Something that needs further investigation,” replied Fitz. “There are traces of a drug called ephedrine in her bloodstream.”

  “What’s that?” asked Gardener.

  “It’s an alkaloid drug normally used to relieve the symptoms of asthma.”

  “Did she have a history of asthma?” asked Briggs.

  “Yes, according to her records. I also found alcohol in her system, sherry to be precise, along with traces of nuts.”

  “What type of nuts?”

  “Nothing specific, a bit of a mixture.”

  “Which leads us where?” asked Gardener.

  “I think, and I stress think, that what he’s done is ground the nuts into a fine powder and mixed them with the sherry, which, when using the correct quantities, creates a venomous cocktail with the drug ephedrine. I’ll come back to that in a second, but just take a look at this.” Fitz lifted the head. “De-epithelialisation.”

  “What the hell is that?” asked Reilly.

  Fitz drew out Janine’s tongue. It was red raw, inflamed. “He’s very carefully removed the top layer of skin from her tongue.”

  Briggs stared at the ceiling and sighed. “Did he do that when she was alive?”

  “There wouldn’t be much point when she was dead,” replied Fitz.

  “Oh Jesus,” said Briggs.

  “Someone must have heard the screams,” said Reilly.

  “How?” Gardener asked. “It’s not as if someone’s going to stand around while you pull out their tongue and then slice off the top layer of skin, is it?”

  “I wondered about that,” said Fitz.

  “Is that what the ephedrine was all about? He’s drugged her so he could perform delicate surgery?” asked Gardener.

  “I don’t think so. There are traces of a very mild sedative in her bloodstream as well. For what it’s worth, I think he entered
the shop and used the element of surprise to take advantage. They’ve had a bit of a fight, which he won by exerting his strength. You can see that by the bruising.” Fitz pointed to the top of her left arm. “If you focus just here, there’s a pin-prick where he’s injected the sedative. That made her drowsy, more co-operative.

  “I suspect he’s then taken his time to set up precisely how he wants her, and waited for the sedative to wear off before carrying out the second part of his plan, which was removing the top layer of skin from her tongue. And he also appears to have scraped her fingernails clean. In fact, they’re immaculate. I’d say that’s because he doesn’t want what’s underneath being used against him.”

  “Like Trevor Thorpe said, he’s very precise,” said Briggs.

  “So, where does this drug come in?” said Gardener. “The one that’s made from sherry and nuts?”

  Fitz sighed. “He had another purpose in mind. You see, ephedrine is a relief for asthma sufferers, but it can have diabolical side effects if you raise someone’s sense of fear to the limit and then administer lethal doses of the cocktail he’s mixed up. Combined with adrenaline, it eventually causes a stroke. But before you die, the agony would be immeasurable.”

  “Is that what she died of?” asked Briggs. “A stroke?”

  “In the end, yes, but one drawn on through careful calculation.”

  “Why is he going to such lengths?” asked Briggs.

  “Because he can,” replied Gardener. “It’s like your profiler said, he’s exerting his power. But I think it’s more than that, I think he’s making a point. We just don’t know what it is.”

  “Any recorded case, Fitz?” asked Reilly.

  “Not that I’m aware of. But better use of the police computers and the internet may provide us with clues. It’s a very clinical and precise way of killing someone. It’s almost as if he’s perfected the technique.”

  “You think he’s used the method before?” asked Gardener.

  “It’s worth keeping an open mind,” said Fitz.

  “Stewart, Sean,” said Briggs. “Pull out all the stops and find this bloke!”

  “We’ll have one of the lads draw up a list of all thespians living in the area, while Sean and I go and interview the one living in Horsforth.”

  “Before you go rushing anywhere,” said Fitz, “I haven’t finished.”

  “What else has he done?” asked Briggs, as if he couldn’t believe there would be anything else.

  Fitz walked over to the stainless-steel counter at the back of the room. “I found this inserted in her anus.”

  “What is it?” asked Gardener.

  “It’s a glass tube,” said Fitz. “There are no signs of sexual abuse. And the tube wasn’t inserted into her anus for sexual reasons.” Fitz picked up the glass vial, held it out in front of him. “The next puzzle is in here.”

  Seeing as the pathologist was the only one wearing gloves, no one else volunteered. After Fitz had removed the paper and unrolled it, they could see another verse had been printed on the same style paper as before.

  Another one gone … how many more?

  Pity you couldn’t save this little whore

  I’ve left puzzles and clues, but you haven’t got very far

  Here’s another: follow The Scarlet Car

  I implore you again, to study your needs

  Another is all set to fall, down and out, in Leeds.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  As Reilly pulled the car to a halt outside the wrought iron gates, Gardener jumped out and surveyed what could only be described as a kingdom. He gazed upwards, wondering whether or not Corndell was simply security conscious or totally paranoid. The gates were electronically controlled, which opened onto a gravel drive surrounded by pine trees, all under the watchful eye of CCTV cameras. He couldn’t see the house, but he could guess its size.

  Reilly stepped up beside Gardener. “Remind you of anyone?”

  Gardener glanced at his partner. “Derek Summers?”

  “One and the same. Let’s hope these entertainment types are not all tarred with the same brush.”

  Gardener shuddered as he recalled the havoc a group of paedophiles led by Summers had caused him and his partner three months previously: he’d been beaten within an inch of his life, his son had been kidnapped, his father had gone through hell, and he’d lost the only woman who’d meant anything to him after his late wife Sarah. But through it all, his friend and partner Sean Reilly had stood by his side, fighting all the way.

  “God forbid, Sean. I don’t think I could deal with another one.”

  “I’m not sure which is worse. Summers was bad enough, I’ll grant you, but whoever is torturing and killing people the way this bloke does is on another level.”

  Gardener stood with his hands in his pockets. The bright March morning with its clear blue sky added to the postcard view before him. “This is one hell of a place. I can’t wait for a proper look.”

  “You’d better press the intercom, then.”

  Gardener did as advised and waited, but no one answered. “Do you think he’s out?”

  “I doubt it, boss, it probably takes him a week to get round it all.”

  Gardener laughed as the intercom buzzed. “Yes?” asked the voice.

  “Mr Corndell?” questioned Gardener.

  “May I inquire who’s asking?”

  Gardener glanced at Reilly, and then at the intercom. “Major Crime Team, Mr Corndell. Detective Inspector Gardener and Detective Sergeant Reilly, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “But you have no appointment. I don’t see people without appointments.”

  Gardener pressed his authority. “We don’t need one. We are the police.”

  The reply – when it came – sounded forced. “You’d better come in, then.” The gates opened. Both detectives returned to the car and drove into the grounds.

  The house was a three-storey Victorian mansion with gothic turrets on either side. Built with grey Yorkshire stone and a grey slate roof, the building had dark oak frames and leaded windows, with two black arched front doors. The gardens were well landscaped, the perimeter covered in poplar trees. As they drew closer, the poplars were replaced by bay trees. To the right of the building was a double garage. Opposite the front door was a large fountain.

  Reilly pulled the car to a halt and switched off the engine. “Even Derek Summers would have had trouble keeping up with this one.”

  “It’s not bad for someone we’ve never heard of,” said Gardener. “How does he manage to make such a good living if he’s not in the limelight?”

  “Perhaps it’s time we went and found out.”

  Both men left the car and approached the house. Gardener rang the bell. Eventually, the door opened.

  Chapter Thirty

  An agitated Corndell glared at the detectives. They peered back with confused expressions. He didn’t like the one on the right, wearing the brown bomber jacket and jeans. He was hard and Corndell suspected there would be trouble, most likely a personality clash. The other one was well groomed, smartly dressed in a blue shirt, black slacks and a grey striped suit jacket. Corndell warmed to him, especially the grey leather hat. “Come in,” he said invitingly.

  The two men stepped over the threshold. Corndell shut the door and leaned against the wall, returning to a conversation on his mobile. “I’m sorry?” He paused before resuming. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell Rupert Julian that if he’s not happy with my script, we can always bring in Wallace Worsley to direct.” He rolled his eyes, covering the phone with his hand. “Please excuse me. Problems with Hollywood.”

  When he returned to his phone, he noticed that the taller and better-dressed of the two detectives was studying the film posters decorating most of his dark, oak-panelled hall. “I can promise you, George, we shall not be having this conversation again. Either Rupert Julian stands down or I take my script elsewhere.”

  Having said his piece, he cut the connect
ion, gripped his walking stick, and shuffled towards them. “I do apologise, gentlemen.”

  “Not at all, Mr Corndell. I was admiring your posters.”

  “Wonderful. Are you into films, Mister...?”

  “Gardener,” he replied. “And my partner, DS Sean Reilly. I’m afraid I don’t get the time, but my father does. He’s the biggest film buff I know.”

  “Really,” replied Corndell, wondering where he was heading.

  “Oh yes, never away from the cinema.”

  “Any particular era, Mr Gardener?”

  “He likes pretty much anything, the older films in particular, black and white, something with a story. I’m sure he’d like a look at these.”

  “A man after my own heart. It’s taken years, Mr Gardener, and a lot of patience,” replied Corndell. “You see that poster there.” He pointed, and Gardener followed the line of his cane. “That’s an original for Boris Karloff’s Frankenstein, made in 1931. There are only four left in the world, and one recently sold for a $198,000.”

  “Jesus Christ!” said Reilly. “For a poster?”

  Corndell laughed. “Language, Mr Reilly.” He glanced back at Gardener. “Do you know something? Karloff was still an unknown at forty-four when he made that film, and it was his eighty-first. What do you think to that?” The detective glanced at him with an uncertain expression. “The things I could tell you about the film world, Mr Gardener. But I’m sure that isn’t why you came here.”

  “On the contrary,” said Gardener. “It is one of the reasons.”

  “Dear me,” said Corndell. “Where are my manners? I haven’t offered you a drink. Please, come through.”

  He led them into the kitchen, where he made drinks and small talk before finally taking them through to the conservatory. He asked Gardener if he would be kind enough to carry the tray.

  They all sat down. Corndell picked up the conversation. “Films play a big part in my life, Mr Gardener, so how can I help you?”

  “Have you starred in many?” asked Gardener.