Imperfection (DI Gardener 2)

“So, is it a random comment?” Reilly asked, “Or is it there for a reason?”

“I can’t see it being random, stuff like this never is,” said Gardener. He addressed Sharp, “was there anything else?”

“There was a lot more to the paragraph, so I’ll have to study it, see what it’s referring to and whether or not it sheds any light.”

“So, that opens up more avenues,” said Gardener. “As Sean said, is the comment a random one in so far as he’s seen it in the film and it simply fitted with what he wanted to do, or does it really mean what he wants to say?”

“It strikes me as being the latter,” said Sharp. “I’m liable to agree with what Frank says, this guy is holding a grudge and that film happened to have the right quote.”

“Okay,” replied Gardener, “so what does it say about our man?”

“He’s intelligent,” said Dave Rawson. “He’s obviously well versed, knows his films, spent a lifetime in or around them, and he’ll make us work for a result.”

“Okay, so we need to keep digging with that one,” said Gardener, “the second quote – or verse – would certainly suggest a grudge.”

He turned back to the board and the verse. “This had been burned into Leonard White’s chest while he was alive, judging by the blisters on the skin. Fitz suggested a caustic pencil was used, which would have been extremely painful. Sean and I are of the opinion that it’s a taunt. Whilst we haven’t unearthed any evidence of a disagreement between Leonard White and anyone connected to him so far, there obviously has been one.

“‘Man cannot hide from his sin, as the past will always reveal’. It’s obvious our aged actor has done something he shouldn’t. I think you’re right, Frank, someone definitely bears a grudge. And it’s not just against Leonard White. According to the message, there are others. ‘One has paid while others remain, but be warned, a deal is a deal’.”

Gardener allowed time for more questions, but his officers were tired, so he quickly brought things to a halt. He raised his hand to the board. “Actions for tomorrow. I want answers on the rope, and any shop in the city that stocks theatrical products, and any information. Colin can concentrate on the dressing room wall quote, the Phantom film, and Leonard White. I also want someone checking out Paul Price and his theatre. Again, there was nothing to suggest he was directly involved, but you never know. I want someone listening to the tapes we pulled from backstage. Something might come to light. And we also need the results of the ESLA.

“We need to pull out all the stops if we’re going to prevent another death. So, we have a few things to be going on with, but by no means everything. Sean and I will be in Skipton tomorrow. Hopefully, we’ll have something more to add.”

Chapter Thirteen

The room resembled a dungeon. The walls were painted matt black, the ceiling grey. In each of the corners, running the length of the walls, were huge cobwebs artificially created by him, despite his loathing of the creatures that spun them.

His mind was instantly cast back to a particular morning. The big black spider was halfway down the wall when he discovered it. Judging by the direction in which it was heading, he suspected the only place it could have come from was behind the wardrobe. He’d felt tense, uncomfortable. His whole body had shiv

ered, his breathing had grown heavier, and within seconds he was sweating.

Where had it come from? More to the point, where the hell was it going?

He and spiders didn’t mix. The thought that the monster had been hiding behind his furniture generated absolute revulsion within him. He’d hated spiders for as long as he could remember: all too aware of commonly held beliefs about them being carriers of disease. But he knew other things about them as well – like the fact that it was unlucky to kill a spider. If you were sweeping and came across a web, you should not destroy it till the spider was safe, when you could sweep away the web; but if you killed the spider, it will surely bring poverty to your house. Thereby creating another problem.

To ensure the safety of the spider meant he had to leave it. So, it was still in the room. He couldn’t sleep knowing it was permanently at large. If he did manage to drop off, it might creep out and watch him – run all over the place. Even across his face. Couldn’t have that.

Then again, he knew there would always be a spider in the room if he grew ill. A long-standing cure for ague or fever was to imprison a spider in a nutshell and then wear it as an amulet. Question was, how would you imprison it in a nutshell if you didn’t like them in the first place?

He shuddered again before continuing with his inspection. Bare boards lined the floor, treated and stained light green. But it was not dirty! The display was merely for effect. It was, in fact, spotless and smelled of lavender.

Lining each of the walls – either side of a collection of mannequins – were posters of his favourite film star Lon Chaney in a variety of different disguises. The Phantom. The Hunchback. The Ape Man, from the film A Blind Bargain. The Vampire, from London After Midnight, his own particular favourite, now a lost film, no copy in existence save his own. Littering his worktops and shelves were a whole selection of make-up effects.

Standing in the corner was a full-length mirror with a light attached to the top. He was, at present, admiring his finest creation from that favourite film. He was dressed in a black beaver hat and a black Inverness coat. His face had the pallor of death. His hair was long and straggly and came down to his shoulders. The eyes terrified even him. He had darkened his eyebrows and fixed a wire ring like a monocle, allowing a hollowed-eye expression. The teeth had taken him an age, but had been worth the effort. Both upper and lower sets were sharp and pointed, and were as real as he could make them. His grin was fixed and further emphasised by shading in the upper corners of his mouth.

He was a genius, of which there was no doubt. Perhaps not quite in the league of his idol. But then, who had been? In his opinion, however, it was more than good enough. It would allow him into places undetected. Carry out the most heinous of crimes without being caught. Grant him permission to continue his work to the fullest. Eyewitness reports would be considered inadmissible, and would therefore do him no harm. They would not give up his true identity. Only he knew that. And once he had completed his mission, without being caught, he would disappear into the night.

He was not a serial killer. He did not have an insatiable appetite to wipe out and destroy as many people as possible. The killing spree would not continue when he’d done what he needed to do. What he was doing could not be tied to religion, nor did he belong to any satanic cult. His plan was not to go down in history alongside the likes of Jack the Ripper or The Boston Strangler or Dennis Nilsen or Harold Shipman.

It wouldn’t take long and the police wouldn’t catch him. They had no idea now, after victim number one. And they would have no idea by the time they discovered the others.

Why?

Simple! They didn’t know who he was. And they were not going to find out!

Nor would anyone else, even after the next victim, whose demise was going to be very different. Victim number two would eradicate any pattern, and perhaps lead them in the wrong direction.

And at the moment, that was all that mattered.