IMPERFECTION by Ray Clark (good books to read for women TXT) 📕

Gardener updated the ANACAPA chart as he went along. The whiteboard was full of straight lines and arrows pointing all over the place; it resembled a map of the London Underground already.

“So, there we have it. Just because his wife doesn’t know about any misdemeanours, or claims not to know, someone does. One thing we have picked up is that he formed part of a watch committee between 1976 and 1979, a group of people who vet films and decide on the certificate before they’re shown locally. It’s an area worth concentrating on. My father, Malcolm Gardener, was on that committee. The only other surviving member apart from him is someone called Harry Fletcher, at the time, a local writer. He shouldn’t be too hard to find. Look close, dig deep. I can’t help wondering if there was an incident connecting the watch committee.”

“Has your dad said anything, Stewart?” asked Briggs.

“Nothing that helps us with the investigation. It’s all been a bit of a shock.”

“And he can’t remember anything involving the watch committee?”

“No. He couldn’t even remember the names of the other two. But, as I said, I don’t think he’s on top form.”

“Okay, so let someone else take a statement from him when he’s calmed down a little. One of our lovely WPCs, maybe? I’m sure he’d like that.”

Gardener nodded and continued. “Val White gave us another lead. Her husband always stayed at a hotel called The Manor House in Skipton. Sean and I will be going there tomorrow. I’d be surprised if we didn’t have a few leads to follow after that.”

The SIO glanced around the room. “Does anyone have any questions?”

“You seem to have ruled Val White out,” said Thornton. “She obviously has an alibi.”

“Yes,” said Gardener.

“And her lover will no doubt back it up,” said Reilly.

There were a few nods and glances, but no one offered anything further on that score.

“Is there any particular reason for hanging the man after he was dead?” asked DC Sharp.

“None that I know,” replied Gardener. “Other than to cause a stir or make an impact of some sort. I want someone to take the rope and find out everything you can. Is there anything special about it? What was it made from? What type of a knot is it?”

“Do you think there’s any real relevance to the rope and the knot?” asked Bob Anderson, Thornton’s partner.

“Could be,” replied Gardener. “We can’t rule out anything. I think we’re going to have a lot of problems with this one. The killer’s obviously very intelligent, and from the knowledge we’ve so far gathered, we think he’s an expert in the art of disguise. He fooled my father, who had been a friend of Leonard White for a number of years. He fooled the theatre staff, because he somehow managed not only to get himself into the building, but also the corpse of the aged actor. So, it seems he’s someone who knows the background, has very probably worked in theatre, perhaps even The Grand. Maybe he’s worked with Leonard White himself.”

Gardener turned to Steve Fenton, the Crime Scene Manager. “Steve, it says in your report you found traces of aluminium powder in the dressing room. Any idea what it is?”

Steve Fenton’s physical features were similar to his superior officer’s: short black hair, slim build. Gardener had long since become accustomed to Fenton’s eyes, which differed in colour from day to day. At first, the contact lenses had confused him.

“Yeah, we found hairs on the table in front of the mirror. It was used in olden day theatre apparently, to whiten or grey the hair. From what I’ve found out, it’s bloody hard to wash out, and if you got it on your face, it would darken the make-up and still wouldn’t wash out.”

“Another reason to support our man’s theatre background,” said Gardener. “If he’s using material from the olden days, is he as old as Leonard White? If so, how could he manage to do all he’s done by himself? Does he have an accomplice?”

Briggs stood up. “Anyone picked anything up from the witness statements?” There was a buzz of conversation, but the general answer was negative. It was far too early. “I issued a press statement before coming in here. I couldn’t tell them anything, so I just appealed for witnesses to come forward. I suggest some of you carry on checking that. Speak to the HOLMES lads as well, see if any of their information has thrown up a lead worth following.”

Gardener turned to Fenton. “Fingerprints?”

“None.”

“He was probably wearing gloves,” said Reilly.

“Either that, or because of his theatrical background, he’s developed something to hide his prints,” said Fenton.

Gardener continued. “I need a couple of you to check out any shops in the city that specifically sell theatre and stage make-up. You could broaden your search by using the internet. Whoever is doing this may not necessarily buy it locally, may not even live locally.”

Gardener pointed to the board. “And then we have the puzzles.” There were a number of photographs, many of them contained the same picture, but taken from different angles. The verses were also highlighted in large print. “The one found on the dressing room wall reads like a quote.” He walked closer and read it out aloud. “‘For long weary months I have awaited this hour’.” He turned and addressed his officers. “Any ideas?”

“Judging by those words,” said Thornton, “someone has a serious grudge.”

“I didn’t mean that so much, I was thinking more about the overall context. A needle in a haystack maybe, but we need someone to follow it up. Is it from a film, a play, a book, or has our intelligent psychopath made it up? Can you all honestly say you’ve never come across those words before?”

“I’ve already checked