Imperfection (DI Gardener 2)

“I left London shortly afterwards. I’m not so sure what happened to him. But I’m telling you, a man of his acting prowess must have been working constantly. Which is why I’m asking, are you sure it’s the same William Henry Corndell?”

“Are you?”

“I just can’t believe a man of his talent isn’t in constant demand. You’re positive he’s never had a single phone call to his landline in what, ten, fifteen years? And he’s never made a call?”

“He hasn’t taken a call.” Dave sounded as if he was tiring of the game.

“What about a mobile?”

“He doesn’t have one. I’ve done the most comprehensive search with the most up-to-date technology. Anyone who’s anybody who has a mobile phone, I know their number, Cliff Richard, Tom Jones, Paul McCartney. All your top actors, Ben Affleck, DiCaprio I can get you just about anyone’s number. Posh and Beck’s, if you want. But I can’t get one for William Henry Corndell because he doesn’t have one!”

“Is it legal, this program of yours?”

“Of course it isn’t legal. And I don’t want anyone knowing about it, either.”

The conversation ceased while Martin swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “I can’t believe it, Dave. I really can’t.”

“Why do you want this bloke, Martin?”

“If you’d seen him, you’d know.” Martin recalled the time he’d been in London, when Corndell had been rehearsing at Her Majesty’s Theatre for the lead role. The emotion, the feeling, the way he’d delivered his lines and the expressions he’d used were as good as anyone he’d ever seen. “What about the bill? Is it paid regularly?” asked Martin.

“Like clockwork.”

Martin blew out a sigh. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You’re going to have to call him, Martin. See if he is your man, which I’m pretty sure he is. Maybe he’ll tell you what he’s been doing all these years. Maybe he’s dropped out of show business. He’s probably a recluse. You know what it’s like, most of them can’t handle the pressure.”

“Not Corndell. If you’d seen him, you’d know.”

“So you keep saying. But I haven’t, and I’m not likely to now, if he’s a recluse. Nor are you, by the sound of it. Listen, have you tried a round of the agents?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t seem to have one of those, either. You’re right, Dave, I’ll have to give him a ring, see what he’s up to and whether or not he’ll do it.”

“Might be too rich for university blood. You know what penny-pinching students are like.”

“I’ll ignore that. Anyway, thanks for what you’ve done, you’ve been a great help.”

“No problem. Let me know how you get on.”

“Okay, mate.”

Martin put the phone down, sighing. Staring at the back wall, he allowed his thoughts to drift. He knew a natural when he saw one. Born and bred in Borehamwood, he’d lived there until he was twenty-five. Most, if not all, of his childhood had been spent at Elstree Studios. He went on to train at the RADA before lecturing in dramatic arts. His fascination with the film industry and the entertainment world were second to none, or so he thought. Eventually he moved to Leeds with his wife and two children to take a post at the university. His children, now in their late teens, were about to attend.

He’d seen and studied Corndell on and off over the years. He’d met Corndell’s father, himself a fine actor who had spent many years on the stage before turning his hand to direction, where he made a multitude of films for Ealing Studios. Corndell’s father had died in the 1980s, and he was pretty sure that Corndell had moved up to Yorkshire to reside in the Corndell mansion in Horsforth. But where had he been since then? There was only one way to find out.

As he reached out for the phone, his arm disturbed a file. The paper shuffled forward and a small spider scurried across the desk, running for cover. Martin jumped up and stepped back with a shiver. He wasn’t keen on spiders. God help the human race if they were the larger species: even Usain Bolt couldn’t outrun something with eight legs.

After Martin had calmed down, he sat and picked up the receiver, listening to the tone, hoping to find a little extra courage. He felt apprehensive. He realised he’d obtained an ex-directory number the only way you could: illegally. He dialled, listening for an age before the phone at the other end was eventually picked up.

“Hello?” The voice sounded far more nervous than Martin.

“Am I speaking to William Henry Corndell?”

“Who is this and how did you get the number?”

Bad start, thought Martin. “Mr Corndell, I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Martin Brown, and I work for the University of Leeds.”

“That’s one question answered.