Imperfection (DI Gardener 2)

Chapter One

Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener ran across New Briggate before mounting the steps leading to the Grand Theatre two at a time. At the top he banged on the glass doors with his right hand whilst displaying his warrant card with his left.

They were quickly opened by a man as tall and gangly as a stork, whose eyes were so intense that Gardener thought he was staring into a double-barrelled shotgun.

“DI Gardener.”

“Good grief, that was quick! I only rang a few minutes ago.” The man extended his neck past the entrance and asked where Gardener’s car was.

Gardener glanced behind him. Two constables pulled up and parked in the loading bay. The town centre was pretty quiet: too late for shoppers, too early for the club crowd, and the theatregoers were already inside.

Gardener waved them up the steps, and all three men entered the building. “Can you close and lock the door, please?” the SIO ordered the man holding it. “And then tell me who you are?”

“Paul Price, theatre manager. Where are the others?”

“On their way.” Gardener glanced around the foyer. Members of staff huddled desperately together, some on the ground floor, others on the stairs leading to the circles. The room went quiet as soon as he entered, all eyes turning toward him.

Gardener addressed the young constables, pointing to one of them. “I’d like you to stay here and guard the entrance.” To the other, he said, “You walk all the way around the outside of the building, take a note of all the exits, including the windows.”

“How did you get here so quickly?” asked Price.

The manager had already developed a habit of interrupting Gardener, something he didn’t appreciate. He was annoyed enough.

“Let’s stick to what’s important, Mr Price. I need to see the crime scene. It has to be secured, and I can’t do that standing here.”

Price turned tail and did as he was told, but his expression told Gardener that he was used to giving orders, not taking them.

Gardener was escorted down a long, narrow corridor with cream-coloured walls that smelled of disinfectant and polish. On his right were the dressing rooms; each door was closed. On his left, a notice board displayed information about performance times, future productions, safety regulations, and very probably everything else anyone needed to know about the theatre. To the right of the board was a set of double wooden doors leading to the stage. Behind them, Gardener could hear the frenzy of panicked voices.

As he entered, he was greeted with a mixture of smells: antique leather, make-up, sweat. On his left was a man with a pale complexion standing next to a mixing desk. From his right, a powerful breeze blew into his face. A huge roller shutter door at the back of the building was open. He wasn’t pleased.

“Close that,” Gardener told Price.

He then surveyed the scene before him. The safety curtain had been lowered. Stage left was an old two-seater leather settee with a narrow rug placed in front of it. On top of the table next to it was a decanter of wine with glasses. Two small tables elsewhere on the stage had brassware and candlesticks, all of which had been neatly coated with cobweb spray.

Gardener glanced at the backdrop: an oak-panelled library, displaying shelves crammed with a selection of leather-bound, dusty tomes. Hung at strategic intervals, posters advertised films in which tonight’s guest actor, Leonard White, had had starring roles. A log-effect fire created a comforting ambience. The whole thing reminded him of the old Universal horror films of Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi.

Especially the corpse at the end of the rope.

Chapter Two

“Has anyone touched the body so far?” Gardener asked Price.

“No.”

“So, no one’s checked to see if he’s dead?”

“Looks pretty dead to me,” said Price.

Gardener had to agree with him. “How long has he been there?”

“I don’t know.”

Gardener removed his shoes, left them by the stage doors. From an inside pocket he produced a pair of gloves and paper slippers. Pulling them on, he walked over to the body and checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one. The corpse was dressed in a black evening suit, white shirt, black bow tie, and black waistcoat. His complexion was ghostly white, anaemic; not that Gardener expected a picture of health.

Glancing beyond the body, Gardener noticed a scenery board with an open door frame. Two more people had arrived. He peered up at the ceiling to search the rafters and saw the beam with the rope attached to it, but

nothing more. He glanced over at the roller shutter door that had now been closed by Paul Price, doubting very much the killer was still on the premises.

He scrutinised the whole area, then turned and shouted to the crowd. “I want everyone to stay exactly where they are. Do not wander around, and do not come on to the stage.”

Walking back to meet Price, he produced his mobile and called Steve Fenton, the Crime Scene Manager, explaining that he wanted him to run an ESLA. He also needed Scenes of Crime as quickly as possible.

Price piped up. “Excuse me, this is my theatre. What’s an ESLA?”

Gardener faced him. “You’re wrong, Mr Price. It’s a crime scene, so now it’s my theatre. And you wouldn’t understand.”

“Don’t patronise me. I do watch the crime shows on the TV.”

Gardener smiled. “Very well. ESLA is the Electro Static Lifting Apparatus. It looks like a sheet of tin foil. Once we’ve rolled it over the stage, we’ll attach wires to either end where a machine will then pass a charge through it. That will lift all the dust exactly as it’s laid out on the floor. We can then take it away for examination, which will give us very precise details of foot marks, which can then be compared against any suspect’s shoes we might recover at a later date.”

Price glanced at his own feet and then to Gardener. Judging by his expression, Gardener thought the theatre manager’s heart had stopped. “Well, I’ve never seen that on Midsommer.”

“My point exactly,” replied Gardener. “Now, can we get back to business? What happened?”