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

Chapter Thirty-five

Gardener was sitting in the office, reflecting. He had spent most of the previous day with his father, trying to trace any records the local watch committee may have left behind; and a banned film would surely leave a stain. They were still operating, but out of a government office in the centre of Leeds with private screenings at various places. None of the current members recognised Malcolm, although one of them remembered hearing his name mentioned more than once.

After a lengthy conversation, they had discovered that no records older than ten years were available. They were also told that they might have better luck with one of the local historians, or maybe the film museum in Bradford.

Having driven over there, Gardener had treated his father to a pub lunch and, afterwards, had tried the museum. All records had been stored on discs and could be accessed by computer but they, too, proved fruitless. There was no mention of a banned film, despite Malcolm’s persistence that it had caused a stir at the time.

What little time they had left before people were starting to wind down for the evening was spent trying to trace Harry Fletcher. Two people had remembered him, though they had no idea of his whereabouts now; one of them, however, had seen him recently. He simply couldn’t remember where. Frustrated and tired, they drove home.

Gardener had spent the evening trawling the internet in an effort to shed further light on the banned film. Malcolm had no details and no title, so he’d given up a little after ten o’clock.

He had downloaded a short history of Lon Chaney and a bibliography, but neither of them proved useful. One site had contained an appraisal of Chaney by none other than William Henry Corndell. But try as he might, no further information about Corndell himself was forthcoming. The only connection for the quotes at the scenes of the murders came back to what Colin Sharp had told them: they came from the film Phantom of the Opera. Nothing in the film’s storyline gave any indication of what they were dealing with.

Gardener was left with questions and no answers. Why was there no reference to Corndell in the West End musical Phantom? Or Hollywood? More importantly, who really was the man who lived in a world full of dead people but thought they were still alive? Maybe he would find out when he joined Laura and Sean for Corndell’s university performance tonight.

Sean Reilly came into the office and placed a coffee and a cup of tea on the desk; he was carrying a packet of Bourbon creams in his mouth, which he also dropped on to the desk.

“Is that from the machine?” asked Gardener.

“It’s free,” replied Reilly.

“But it’s from the machine,” insisted Gardener.

Reilly passed over the biscuits. “Have one of those, it’ll take the taste away.”

“It’s not the taste I’m worried about, it’s the after-effects. Colin Sharp claimed this stuff has turned his water green.”

“He’s only saying that to get attention. He thinks we might actually treat him as an equal.”

Gardener laughed, taking a biscuit. “So, how did you get on yesterday?”

“Some pretty interesting stuff,” said Reilly. “Initially, the planning department knew nothing about any tunnels under the house or the grounds. But one of their senior guys who’s been there years had a story to tell. Apparently, the house had originally been built in 1840 by a man called Jacob Wilson, a pretty wealthy industrialist by all accounts, into everything. Anyway, he owned a mine, and he had the house built near it. One of the problems he had was transporting the coal, so he devised a network of tunnels under the ground which led to the railway station.”

“Which one?” Gardener asked.

“Horsforth.”

Gardener leaned forward on his desk. “We had a witness who said that Leonard White had entered the station in Leeds. No one has a record of him buying a ticket. No one saw him leave, and no one knew where he went to.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Do you think there’s a tunnel under the station in Leeds which goes to Horsforth as well?”

“Still looking into that one, but I did find out about one of those nature walks that goes from Leeds station and eventually finishes up there. Which would be a hell of a walk to do at night. We’re appealing for witnesses.”

“Okay. It may not be much of a lead, but it’s something. Let’s see if Briggs will put a couple of the junior officers on to it. In the meantime, you and I should go and see Corndell again, see if we can have a better look around the house.”

“I’m all for that,” replied Reilly.

A knock on the door diverted Gardener’s attention. Steve Fenton opened it and walked in, immediately helping himself to a biscuit. Before the door closed, Frank Thornton and Bob Anderson entered as well, each carrying a folder in one hand and a coffee in the other. They, too, helped themselves to biscuits.

“What the feck’s going on here, then, open biscuit day?” Reilly exclaimed.

“Give it a rest, Reilly. You probably pinched them anyway,” said Thornton.

“That’s hardly the point now, is it?”

“Depends whose office you raided,” said Anderson.

“Yours.”

Gardener was amused by the banter of his colleagues, the first since the investigation had started, as far as he could remember. “Okay, Steve, what do you have for us on the prints?”

Fenton reached out for another biscuit, but Reilly was quicker and held them close to his chest. “Information first, son.”

Fenton turned to Gardener. “Nothing, sir. Yours are on there. And Corndell’s, I assume, because his are not on file.”

“Okay, it was worth a try. Give him a biscuit, Sean.”

“Feck off! That’s no good to us.”

“Frank?