Imperfection (DI Gardener 2)
“Not really, no. Summat about a feud between two brothers, which goes on for years until one of ’em’s dying. I just remember reading a review, and it were taking the States by storm.”
“That’s one of them,” said Paul Price. “That’s one of the names he said he used. Harry Fletcher. I remember it now.”
Another nail in Corndell’s coffin: he said he didn’t know Harry Fletcher.
Gardener’s mobile chimed. He fished it out of his pocket and answered. After listening to the caller, he glanced at Reilly. “We’ll be there in five minutes. That was Fitz. Apparently, he’s found something unusual connected to Janine Harper’s death. He wants us over there now.”
Chapter Forty-three
“Who found him?” Gardener asked the officer guarding the door.
“The prospective new owners, over there.”
The couple’s appearance spoke of wealth: camel hair coats, jewellery, the finest Italian leather shoe
s. The woman was blonde, slim, mid-forties with a long, deeply lined face. The man was stocky, perhaps early fifties with a good head of hair, tightly curled and grey. He was smoking a cigar. His wife cast glances about as if she’d rather be anywhere than a shopping arcade in Leeds that harboured a dead body, particularly one they were going to buy. And from her expression, the purchase was not her idea.
Gardener and Reilly suited up and entered. The interior of the shop was still gloomy, and despite the cleaning service having done their best, they had been unable to eradicate the smell of death, more the legacy of Janine Harper than the fresh body.
Alan Cuthbertson was laid on the floor behind the counter. He had been no oil painting in life, but death had decided he would be remembered with an expression that welcomed his fate.
“What time?” Gardener asked.
“About ten minutes before I phoned you.”
“Who else have you told?”
“I phoned the station and they said someone was on their way. They told me to phone you.”
Gardener turned his attention to the matter in hand. The shop had been stripped bare. Everything that had been on display on the night of Janine Harper’s demise had been removed for forensic testing. Once the police had finished with it, Alan Cuthbertson had told them to burn it. Gardener had wondered about Cuthbertson’s state of mind during that time period, his personal feelings at having seen his life’s work tainted – if not destroyed – by the actions of a lunatic. The idea of returning to a building responsible for so much trauma was obviously too much. An empty pill bottle stood on the counter, as did the half-finished bottle of whiskey, and what he surmised was a suicide note.
“I wonder what made him do it?” asked Reilly.
“I hope it wasn’t us,” replied Gardener.
“We didn’t do anything wrong, boss. We were doing our job.”
Gardener glanced at his partner. “Maybe he didn’t see it like that.”
Briggs arrived, suited and booted, and then made his way into the shop, glancing behind the counter. “What have we got?”
“Suicide,” replied Gardener.
“Anyone read the note?”
“Not yet.”
Briggs tore open the envelope. With a confused expression he glanced at Gardener. “It’s addressed to you, Stewart.” He handed over the letter and studied the corpse.
“Why has he written a letter to you?” Reilly asked.
“I’ve no idea.”
Gardener read it:
Dear Mr Gardener,
I appreciate you had a job to do and I want you to know that in no way do I hold you responsible for my suicide. It is fair to say that I have lost everything: the business I had spent years building, my assistant, who meant more to me than you’ll ever know, and the lifestyle I tried so hard to keep secret, becoming public knowledge. There are two things you need to know: Firstly, I am not your killer and have no idea who is. Secondly, proof which backs up the first statement, I could never have killed my own daughter. Janine was my flesh and blood, born from an illicit affair. Though why the secret had been kept after Jack Harper’s death I shall never know.