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

“Do you know what that was about?” asked Gardener.

“Henry wanted to try to raise extra funding to keep the place open. We rely on charity, you see. He thought if he could get the council involved we might be able to keep going indefinitely. Anyway, they came for an inspection.”

“They? Do you know how many?”

“Afraid not.”

Gardener stood and left the room. When he found Bob Anderson, he asked him to contact the council for a list of all the names of the people who had attended the previous night’s meeting. When he returned, he continued to question Mary Phillips. “You don’t happen to know where he worked before here?”

“I’ve no idea, but I did hear him mention America once or twice. But he was a very private man, never said much about his personal life.”

Gardener’s heart was beginning to sink slowly towards his shoes. “Did he say where in America?”

“If he did, I never caught it.”

“What’s America got to do with anything, Stewart?” asked Briggs.

“Something Thornton and Anderson had found out. A number of years ago, Harry Fletcher left Leeds to go and work on Broadway. He came back a couple of years ago, but no one’s seen him since.”

“Who’s Harry Fletcher?” asked Mary Phillips.

“That’s what we’d like to know. Tell me, Mary, do you happen to know if Henry was his real name? I don’t suppose he was ever called by any other name, was he?”

Mary’s expression darkened. “Now you mention it, yes. Only yesterday.”

“Go on,” said Gardener, growing concerned when she had stopped.

“Well, I found it a bit strange. We had a bloke come into the shelter a few weeks back. Started talking to Henry, and they were getting on right well. Anyway, yesterday Stan, that was his name, Stan. Anyway, he was in yesterday and he was in a right state with himself, and Henry asked me to make a bed up for him. He wanted Stan to stay the night.”

“And did he?” asked Gardener.

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know?” asked Reilly.

“Well, I’ve not checked his bed.” She rose to her feet.

“It’s okay, Mary, love, you stay where you are,” said Briggs. “You tell us the room and I’ll check.” She did as she was asked and then sat back down.

“Carry on, Mary,” prompted Gardener. “A strange incident.”

“Oh, yes. When Stan was leaving, he called Henry by the name of Harry. I just thought it was a mistake, but maybe it wasn’t.” Tears welled in her eyes and she brought a handkerchief to her face.

Briggs returned. “The bed hasn’t been slept in.”

“I know this is hard for you, Mary, but we have to carry on. You said that Stan left, have you any idea where he went?”

“No, he just said he had business to see to and that he would come back later.”

“But you never saw him come back?”

“No.”

“How well did you know Stan?”

“I didn’t. In fact, until yesterday, we’d never really spoken. I’d only nodded to him. He seemed pleasant enough.”

“Any idea where he came from?”

“No. He was a down and out, but I’ve no idea which places he went to, and Henry never said.”

“Couldn’t give us a description, could you, love?” asked Reilly.

“Shouldn’t be a problem. He’d certainly stand out in a crowd. I’d say he was in his sixties, and he had odd eyes, they were different colours and one was lower than the other. He had an awful scar as well, just under the right eye. He’d not looked after his skin, poor love, but then who could? When you’re living rough, moisturiser’s not top of your list, is it? Lots of wrinkles, and it looked leathery. But for all that, he didn’t look hungry.”

Gardener really didn’t like where the description was heading. “How did he dress?”

“Well, there’s another funny thing. He reminded me and Henry of Sherlock Holmes. He had a deerstalker, and he used to smoke a pipe, well, not smoke it exactly, just stick it in his mouth as if he used to smoke and had given up.”

She gave out another sob. “Do you know, I can’t believe anyone would do something so awful.” Her voice rose an octave. “He had his head cut off, and where’s the body, for God’s sake? Who would cut off a head and take the body?”

Gardener hadn’t the heart to tell her what they’d found upstairs, but he figured she’d find out soon enough. “I appreciate you didn’t know Stan very well, but in the time you did see him, was there anything unusual about his behaviour?”

“Again, not really. He was a nice enough chap, talkative. Had some funny ideas about the world and where it was heading; none too keen on insects, as I remember, or things that flew around: moths and butterflies. He was frightened of storms. We had one once, a right humdinger. I remember seeing him sitting at the table, his knuckles were as white as his face.”

“At least that’s something,” said Gardener. “Anything else?”

“To be honest, Mr Gardener, I didn’t really know him, and Henry didn’t talk about him that much, either.”

Gardener sighed inwardly. For someone who could cause so much damage, information was pretty thin on the ground. “Can you think of any strange things happening over the past week or so?”

Mary Phillips paused and then said, “Nothing that I know of.” And then she cried into her handkerchief again.

Gardener thought it best to terminate the interview. She was stressed enough as it was. “Okay, Mary. You’ve been a great help. I’ll leave you a card. If you remember anything, no matter how trivial you think it is, ring me. Day or night, I’ll get the message.”

Mary took the card and he told her she was allowed to leave. Before she actually