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

“I doubt it, boss, it probably takes him a week to get round it all.”

Gardener laughed as the intercom buzzed. “Yes?” asked the voice.

“Mr Corndell?” questioned Gardener.

“May I inquire who’s asking?”

Gardener glanced at Reilly, and then at the intercom. “Major Crime Team, Mr Corndell. Detective Inspector Gardener and Detective Sergeant Reilly, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“But you have no appointment. I don’t see people without appointments.”

Gardener pressed his authority. “We don’t need one. We are the police.”

The reply – when it came – sounded forced. “You’d better come in, then.” The gates opened. Both detectives returned to the car and drove into the grounds.

The house was a three-storey Victorian mansion with gothic turrets on either side. Built with grey Yorkshire stone and a grey slate roof, the building had dark oak frames and leaded windows, with two black arched front doors. The gardens were well landscaped, the perimeter covered in poplar trees. As they drew closer, the poplars were replaced by bay trees. To the right of the building was a double garage. Opposite the front door was a large fountain.

Reilly pulled the car to a halt and switched off the engine. “Even Derek Summers would have had trouble keeping up with this one.”

“It’s not bad for someone we’ve never heard of,” said Gardener. “How does he manage to make such a good living if he’s not in the limelight?”

“Perhaps it’s time we went and found out.”

Both men left the car and approached the house. Gardener rang the bell. Eventually, the door opened.

Chapter Thirty

An agitated Corndell glared at the detectives. They peered back with confused expressions. He didn’t like the one on the right, wearing the brown bomber jacket and jeans. He was hard and Corndell suspected there would be trouble, most likely a personality clash. The other one was well groomed, smartly dressed in a blue shirt, black slacks and a grey striped suit jacket. Corndell warmed to him, especially the grey leather hat. “Come in,” he said invitingly.

The two men stepped over the threshold. Corndell shut the door and leaned against the wall, returning to a conversation on his mobile. “I’m sorry?” He paused before resuming. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell Rupert Julian that if he’s not happy with my script, we can always bring in Wallace Worsley to direct.” He rolled his eyes, covering the phone with his hand. “Please excuse me. Problems with Hollywood.”

When he returned to his phone, he noticed that the taller and better-dressed of the two detectives was studying the film posters decorating most of his dark, oak-panelled hall. “I can promise you, George, we shall not be having this conversation again. Either Rupert Julian stands down or I take my script elsewhere.”

Having said his piece, he cut the connection, gripped his walking stick, and shuffled towards them. “I do apologise, gentlemen.”

“Not at all, Mr Corndell. I was admiring your posters.”

“Wonderful. Are you into films, Mister...?”

“Gardener,” he replied. “And my partner, DS Sean Reilly. I’m afraid I don’t get the time, but my father does. He’s the biggest film buff I know.”

“Really,” replied Corndell, wondering where he was heading.

“Oh yes, never away from the cinema.”

“Any particular era, Mr Gardener?”

“He likes pretty much anything, the older films in particular, black and white, something with a story. I’m sure he’d like a look at these.”

“A man after my own heart. It’s taken years, Mr Gardener, and a lot of patience,” replied Corndell. “You see that poster there.” He pointed, and Gardener followed the line of his cane. “That’s an original for Boris Karloff’s Frankenstein, made in 1931. There are only four left in the world, and one recently sold for a $198,000.”

“Jesus Christ!” said Reilly. “For a poster?”

Corndell laughed. “Language, Mr Reilly.” He glanced back at Gardener. “Do you know something? Karloff was still an unknown at forty-four when he made that film, and it was his eighty-first. What do you think to that?” The detective glanced at him with an uncertain expression. “The things I could tell you about the film world, Mr Gardener. But I’m sure that isn’t why you came here.”

“On the contrary,” said Gardener. “It is one of the reasons.”

“Dear me,” said Corndell. “Where are my manners? I haven’t offered you a drink. Please, come through.”

He led them into the kitchen, where he made drinks and small talk before finally taking them through to the conservatory. He asked Gardener if he would be kind enough to carry the tray.

They all sat down. Corndell picked up the conversation. “Films play a big part in my life, Mr Gardener, so how can I help you?”

“Have you starred in many?” asked Gardener.

“None,” replied Corndell.

“Oh,” said Gardener. “I thought you were an actor.”

“I am,” replied Corndell, sipping his tea. “But I prefer to act on a stage rather than behind a camera. Not that there’s anything wrong with acting for a camera, but I think there’s more skill involved in theatre. I’m also a scriptwriter, and I regularly have my work accepted in Hollywood.”

“That must be rewarding,” said Gardener. “Are you responsible for any of the modern-day material gracing our screens at the moment?”

“Not at all, Mr Gardener. My work is deeper and more meaningful than the stuff you see in the cinema today. There is more emotion to my material, more acting skill required. I write with the old masters in mind, those that didn’t have the privilege of working with sound. Now, that was acting.”

“So, if you don’t write film scripts for Hollywood, what do you write?”

“I do write film scripts, as you call it,” replied Corndell, sipping his tea and becoming more unsettled. He didn’t like being questioned. “But I also supply the Hollywood