Imperfection (DI Gardener 2)

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 lack of blood was the real problem, and he’d been distracted by that fact when trying to interview Paul Price.

The first thing that had run through his mind was, “why?” Why had the killer removed it? A fleeting thought of Jack the Ripper came to mind; he had tried writing letters to the police using the victim’s blood. He’d failed because it had hardened in the fountain pen. Had the killer placed the blood in the eight one-pint glass jars in the dressing room simply to write the message? How had he done it? Gardener suspected there was more to it, that it was all a part of some perverse game, especially considering the quote on the wall.

Then came the startling revelation that someone who closely resembled Leonard White had calmly walked out of the theatre as all the commotion was unfolding. In fact, resemblance was probably far too weak a word. By all accounts, the disguise was so good, it had completely fooled people. He wondered how many had actually seen him. So far, only Albert Fettle had come forward.

The connecting door to the kitchen opened, and Gardener immediately caught the mouth-watering aroma of grilled bacon. His taste buds tingled. He would normally prefer a healthy option, but he hadn’t eaten for almost fourteen hours, so anything was better than nothing.

His father appeared in the doorway. “You okay, son?”

Gardener turned off the CD player, then turned to the old man. His complexion was still ashen. He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn for his night out, so he obviously hadn’t slept either. Malcolm’s posture was stooped. Gardener realised his father was no spring chicken. The bad news must have hit him hard. We all take our parents for granted, Gardener thought. We think they will be with us forever.

He said he was fine, and they both walked into the kitchen. Chris, his son, was grilling the bacon. Mugs of tea were already on the table, as were placemats and plates. The room was warmer than the garage, and the music somewhat different. Spook was sitting in the corner wolfing down some scraps of bacon fat, paying little or no attention to anyone or anything apart from the snack.

“Come on, Dad,” said Chris. “You have to eat.” He backed up his statement by serving his father first.

Gardener smiled. No matter how good, bad, or indifferent times were, family meant everything.

The telephone shrilled. Gardener answered it. Colin Sharp informed him the photos were back, and they were waiting to set up the incident room. He said he would be there shortly.

Chapter Seven

Every muscle in Janine Harper’s body ached, or at least it felt that way. Although her headache had subdued to a mild pounding sensation, her arms and legs felt heavy, and the stomach cramps were becoming unbearable. It was a symptom she recognised all too well: the first full day of her period always started – and finished – the same way.

Adding to her explosive mood was the fact that she had had a violent row with her boyfriend Carl the night before. He was immature, and didn’t care about her feelings, or her moods – a typical male.

She sighed and glanced around the room, holding a clipboard in her left hand, a pen in her right. Stocktaking was a job she disliked at the best of times. She worked in a retail outlet for theatrical supplies. A lot of the products they stocked were small, consumed a lot of space, and took an age to count.

The room was clean and tidy, the decor easy on the eyes: plaster-finished walls in two different colours with a border separating them. The strong parquet floor supported at least a dozen racks of Dexion, which contained everything from bottles of acetone, aluminium powder, collodion and spirit gum, to flexible plastic skin, curling irons, eyebrow pencils and foam rubber – even obscure products like fishskin, a thin, tough, transparent material made from the stomach lining of animals used mainly in olden day theatre for building up layers of skin on the face or body.

Janine made it to the top of the ladder when the doorbell suddenly chimed. She grimaced, slamming the clipboard on the shelving. The pen bounced upwards before finally landing somewhere behind the cabinet.

Brilliant, thought Janine, glancing at her watch. And it’s only nine o’clock!

She descended the ladder two steps at a time, and wished she hadn’t. Janine lost her footing, slid the rest of the way. At floor level, her left foot gave way. She keeled over and hit the Dexion before hitting the ground. Her ankle hurt from the collision, her hands burned from the ladder slide, and her back felt bruised. Janine picked herself up, dusted down her clothes, and set off towards the shop faster than she meant to, which left her feeling a little nauseous. She really didn’t need today.

On reaching the entrance leading into the shop, she saw something else she didn’t need.

The creep.

Standing with her back to the wall, Janine wanted to cry. She felt closed in. Why of all days was she going to have to put up with him today? He was such a pompous bastard. He barely spoke, and when he did, it was always that soft nasal drawl. He had the ability to make her skin crawl simply by staring at her. He had a face that only a mother could love; one she wanted to punch, continuously.

Janine summoned up the courage and stepped through the doorway, her greeting forced. “Morning.”

He, of course, made no reply, but simply continued to gaze in her direction.

Janine wondered if he ever slept. The bags under his eyes were huge. The wrinkles in his forehead were deep. His skin resembled an elephant’s hide. He had a long, scraggy beard and bushy eyebrows, and he desperately reminded her of someone.

The man was dressed entirely in black, from what she could see: fedora, shirt, jacket, trousers, socks, as well as a pair of the most expensive shoes she had ever laid eyes on. In fact, despite his appearance, Janine would say that none of his clothes were cheap. They all appeared to have been cut from the finest cloth. She simply couldn’t understand why anyone chose to make such a fashion statement. But that was actors for you – an eccentric bunch if there was one.

“My order is on the counter,” were his only words.

He continued to glance around the shop as though he was bored, occasionally lifting an item from the shelves, clicking his tongue if it didn’t meet with his approval. He ran his finger along the ledges, rolling his eyes.

The cheeky bastard was checking for dust.