Imperfection (DI Gardener 2)

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Gardener sighed. “Did you ever consider, at any point, that you were talking to someone else other than your friend?”

Malcolm lowered his cup to the table. “What are you trying to say?”

“Are you certain you were talking to Leonard White?”

“Of course I was. Who else could it have been?”

“That’s what we’d like to know.”

Malcolm’s grave expression disturbed Gardener. “Are you trying to tell me that someone was impersonating Leonard White and I couldn’t tell?”

Gardener took his time answering, unsure how his father would take the news. “It looks that way, Dad.”

“Surely to God no one could be that good, Son.”

“T

hat’s what we thought. But we’ve had it confirmed that Leonard White had been dead somewhere in the region of twelve to twenty-four hours when he hit that stage. I’m sorry, Dad, really I am.”

Malcolm left the table without saying anything else.

Chapter Eleven

The room at The Queen’s was large and airy, well-lit with adequate heating. The beige carpet matched the drapes and the bed linen. The antique furniture added an air of elegance.

With her bleached blond hair tied up, too much face paint, and an excess of fine jewellery – none of which complimented her leopard skin top – Val White was exactly what Gardener had been led to believe: common, and unsuited to the luxury that life, or more to the point her late husband, had provided for her. His only complimentary thought was that she carried her age well.

As soon as Gardener and Reilly displayed warrant cards, she had called for room service. When the refreshments arrived, she told them to help themselves – and do the honour of pouring her a cup of tea – while she continued to smoke a cigarette through an eight-inch filter-tipped holder. She never once asked them anything about her late husband.

Gardener was surprised. The woman must have been as hard as granite. His heart went out to the aged actor. It was sad for someone to have achieved his level of status, for it all to go unrecognised by the one person he’d chosen to share his life with. She didn’t, and probably hadn’t, reciprocated the emotion when he’d been alive. Eager to press on and satisfy his curiosity, Gardener opened the conversation.

“Would you like to tell us about your late husband please, Mrs White?”

“Not much to tell really, cock.”

“I doubt that. He was a fine actor, travelled extensively, and led such a full life, probably seen more than most people could even dream about. There must be something to say.”

“I’ll not argue with that summary,” she replied. If her expression was anything to go by, she must have left her enthusiasm back home in the Lake District. Her answers were blunt, emotionless. “But you’re talking from a personal point of view,” she continued. “I shared his home. Your view is from the public eye. As you say, a fine actor, well liked on the silver screen. Off screen, not the husband I’d hoped for.”

Gardener thought back to what his father had said. Val White certainly had a talent for making people feel uncomfortable. Despite the heating, there was a distinct chill in the atmosphere.

“If that was the case, why stay together?” asked Reilly.

“I had my reasons.”

“Money being one of them, I shouldn’t wonder,” he said, cutting to the chase.

Val stared at him. His comment had hit a nerve. “Maybe.” She maintained her self-control. “You’re entitled to your opinion, cock, it’s a free country. Not everyone’s relationship runs to what’s expected.”

Gardener sensed a real difference of opinion building, not to mention an instant dislike between Val White and his partner Sean Reilly. That was nothing new; most people didn’t like his abrupt manner. He had an unerring ability to see through people. He had an excellent technique for ruffling feathers and obtaining the information he wanted when interviewing.

“So, there is something you can tell us,” continued Gardener. “Why wasn’t he the husband you wanted?”

“My home life was what I made it. He was never there. When he was, he might as well not have been. We hardly ever talked, rarely went out as a couple, unless it were a social function of some standing. Quite frankly I played second fiddle to everything, especially his life on screen. The film industry was his mistress.”

I wonder why, thought Gardener.