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

Gardener? Guess? Where would we be if I were to guess all of my answers? Some innocent person would have been locked up by now, that’s where.”

Gardener ignored Corndell’s outburst, trying to recollect the other connection to the film, Inspector Burke, and the film clip they had first watched at the hotel in Skipton. So far, he had not recognised anything that led him to believe that it had been filmed here. But then again, he hadn’t seen the whole house yet. He walked up and down each side of the room, checking all the films. “Any of these yours, Mr Corndell?”

“They’re all mine,” replied Corndell.

Gardener sighed. “I meant, did you write any of them?”

“How could I have, Mr Gardener? As you can see from the titles and the dates, most, if not all, were written before I was born.”

Gardener turned to face Corndell, leaving Reilly to continue writing the titles in his book. “Tell me again what it is that you write.”

Corndell sighed, as if tired. “Stage plays. I told you last time, my work is regularly shown in America.”

“Is it fair to assume that you would know other writers who have their material accepted in America? On Broadway, for instance?”

“Very possibly. It never hurts to be aware of the competition,” replied Corndell, choosing to move away from the films and nearer the staircase that led down into the make-up room.

“Does the name Harry Fletcher ring any bells?”

“Can’t say it does. Just starting, is he?”

“Couldn’t really say. It’s just that you seem to know all of the big names, Lon Chaney, Boris Karloff–”

“I actually met Karloff, many years back, just before he died, on the set of a film called Targets.”

Gardener continued. “Wallace Worsley, Rupert Julian–”

“Don’t talk to me about Julian,” scoffed Corndell.

“Funny that. He is the one I wanted to talk about. Last time we were here, you were having a conversation with George about a director called Rupert Julian. If I remember correctly, you said ‘either Rupert Julian stands down or I’ll take my script elsewhere’. Do you remember that?”

“Well I would, wouldn’t I?” replied Corndell. “It was me who said it.”

“I checked out that name, Rupert Julian. He died years ago. Why are you writing scripts for a dead man?”

Corndell suddenly burst out laughing, a high-pitched screech in which he rocked so much he held his stomach and almost lost his balance. After he had regained his composure, he answered. “Mr Gardener, you’re so funny. I’m not writing for the Rupert Julian who directed Chaney. I write scripts for his son.”

Gardener laughed with Corndell. “Yes, you’re right, I am a little odd. Must be the policeman in me. Where do you write your material?”

“In the study, downstairs.”

“Do you have a computer?”

“Who doesn’t, these days?” Corndell frowned. Gardener took it as a good sign. Time to capitalise.

“Good, because you’re going to take me down there now, and you’re going to show me some of the scripts you’ve had accepted. You’re going to give me the titles of your most successful American plays, and then you’re going to tell me where I can reach Rupert Julian Junior and your friend George, so they can verify your story. I also want to see bills from your internet service provider and your mobile.”

Corndell’s mood changed. Maybe the added pressure was paying off. Gardener noticed that Reilly had finished writing and was standing beside him.

“Why should I do that?”

“Because I’m a policeman and I want to check everything you’ve told me in order to eliminate you from our inquiries. If I find any differences, I’m coming back. And I’ll bring a warrant and a team of forensic officers, and one by one, bit by bit, we are going to turn this whole house upside down, with or without the presence of your solicitor.” Gardened paused and moved closer. “And should I find just one small spec of evidence which connects you to my investigation, Mr Corndell, I am going to wipe the floor with you. Am I making myself clear?”

Without warning, Corndell stormed down the spiral staircase to the make-up room. Gardener and Reilly gave chase. They followed him down the stairs and into the hall, which was where Corndell stopped, glaring at the front door. As Gardener and Reilly arrived at the bottom of the stairs, Corndell made as if to open it.

“I think you’ll find your study is that way.” Gardener pointed.

“I know exactly where it is, thank you very much, but as far as I’m concerned your interview ends here. I have co-operated of my own free will, Mr Gardener. I have provided you with evidence to clear my name, yet you continue to persecute me. From here on in, any interviews with you will be conducted in the presence of my solicitor, and if you want personal details from me, you can damn well provide that warrant you’re talking about.”

Gardener could tell they had physically rattled Corndell: his left eye twitched and his top lip trembled.

“I want you out of my house, now!” shouted Corndell.

“So soon, Willie boy,” said Reilly. “Why the change of mood? A little too close to the truth, are we? Guilty after all, maybe?”

Corndell confidently strolled towards the door, grinning, reaching for the handle, all the while staring at Reilly.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out, Mr Reilly.”

Gardener stared at William. “Don’t worry, Mr Corndell, we will. And the next time we pay you a visit, we will have that warrant.”

“I can’t wait, Mr Gardener.”

Chapter Forty-two

Gardener pushed open the stage door. Reilly followed him down the steps towards Albert Fettle’s office. Nothing had changed. The little spot of cleaning that Fettle had claimed he was doing last time was still unfinished.

He heard Fettle’s voice before he saw him. The door leading