The only response came from Sergeant Dawkins, still at his desk in the hideous check suit. ‘Did you wish to see her?’
‘That’s the general idea.’
‘Will anyone do?’
‘If I’d wanted anyone, I’d have said.’
‘I’m ready for any assignment.’
‘You’re not, dressed like that,’ Diamond told him. ‘And there ain’t no assignment, as you put it.’
‘Am I grounded?’
‘If that’s how you want to think of it, yes. On essential office duties, as I told you. Do you know where Inge is?’
‘Does that make me a groundling, I wonder?’
‘Fred, I’m too busy for word games.’
‘I’ve also been busy. I transferred all the witness statements to the computer as instructed. My “to do” list is now a blank.’
‘Did she say where she was going?’
‘She did not and I didn’t ask.’
‘But she hasn’t gone home?’
‘With all due respect, that’s not a question you should ask a groundling about a colleague.’
‘For crying out loud, man, I’m not checking up on her.’
‘An informed guess, then. She may have gone to powder her nose.’
Powder her nose? Which century was this stuffed shirt living in? ‘I give up.’
This was the moment Ingeborg came through the door.
‘In here,’ Diamond said like a headmaster, pushed to the limit.
Ingeborg shrugged, looked towards Dawkins for a clue as to what was wrong, and followed Diamond into his office.
‘If I have to put up with that pillock much longer, I’m taking early retirement,’ he told her.
‘I thought it was me in the firing line,’ she said. ‘He’s not too bad if you make allowance.’
‘Believe me, I’ve made all I can manage. I want to tap your brain. I had a thought about the dead butterfly we found in Clarion’s dressing room. The reason I asked you to collect it the other night was simply to avoid an outbreak of hysteria. You know what theatre people are. The butterfly curse, and all that garbage. The obvious explanation is that the thing flew in from outside, got trapped and died, right?’
‘That was my reading of it,’ Ingeborg said.
‘There is another possibility, of course: somebody put it there.’
‘Why?’
‘Out of mischief, or worse.’
‘In what way?’
‘To add to the panic over what happened to Clarion.’
‘Who’d want to do that?’
‘Someone with a grudge against the theatre, or the management, giving the impression the play was cursed.’
She was frowning. ‘Denise, you mean? What would be the point of that?’
‘I don’t know. This is why I’m asking for your thoughts.’
She twisted a coil of blonde hair around her finger and then let it go. ‘If she did, I can’t think why. Damaging Clarion’s face was enough to jinx the production without this extra touch.’
‘Let’s take another option then,’ he said. ‘Someone else planted it.’
She let that sink in before replying, ‘But what for, guv?’
‘To distract us. When a dead butterfly is found, so the legend goes, something bad is about to happen.’
‘Well, it had already. Clarion was in hospital.’
‘This is exactly what I’m getting at, Inge. This wasn’t about Clarion. I don’t think the butterfly was in the dressing room on Monday night. Someone would have noticed. People crowded in there to see if they could help. One of them would have spotted it on the window sill and created more hysteria.’
‘You’re saying it was put there later?’
‘It was Tuesday lunchtime when I was shown around by Titus O’Driscoll. The room wasn’t locked. Anyone could have gone in there late Monday night or Tuesday morning.’
‘Why?’
‘To stoke up superstition. At the time I saw the butterfly and you collected it, we were assuming Denise was still alive.’
For a moment he thought she’d missed the point. Then she took a sharp breath. ‘The butterfly was supposed to be an omen predicting her death?’
He nodded.
She was staring at him. ‘Everyone is meant to think the butterfly curse has struck again – that she was doomed to kill herself.’
She’d got it. But would she go the extra mile?
‘When in fact she didn’t,’ he said. ‘The person who left the butterfly in the number one dressing room murdered her.’
She flicked her hair back from her face as if in denial. ‘That’s a whopping assumption, guv. It opens up all kinds of questions.’
‘Okay. Let’s hear them.’
‘Why would anyone want to kill Denise? She wasn’t unpopular, was she? From all I hear, she was difficult to dislike. And how would they do it? I’ve been backstage as you have, and seen the height of the fly tower. They’d have to persuade her to climb I don’t know how many sections of a vertical iron ladder and jump off. It’s all but impossible.’
‘Back to the drawing board, then,’ he said, not meaning it.
The note of irony caused Ingeborg to reconsider. ‘There may be something in it, even so.’
He watched her face.
She nodded to give him a shred of credit. ‘If Denise was murdered – and I don’t believe for a moment that she was – it would suit her killer nicely to have everyone assuming she did it because of guilt over Clarion. Case closed. We don’t look at anyone else as a suspect. How convenient for this killer of yours.’
‘This hypothetical killer.’
She smiled. ‘This impossible hypothetical killer.’
‘You’re sounding more and more like Fred Dawkins.’
‘It’s catching.’
‘It’s a peculiar thing,’ he said, ‘Dawkins talks a lot of rubbish but just now he made a remark that for one split-second gave me an idea, and then it was gone. I can’t remember what.’
‘He’s added some experience to the team,’ Ingeborg said. ‘He knows a lot about the theatre.’
‘And dance.’
‘Poetry.’
‘Self promotion.’
She smiled. ‘But not what the well-dressed man is wearing. Maybe I should take him clothes shopping tomorrow.’
‘Good thought. I might view him differently as a smart dude.’
She was enjoying this. ‘And we’ll give the clown suit to a charity shop.’
‘Safer to burn it. Are you serious?’
‘About what?’
‘Getting him some sensible gear.’
‘Well, he’s desperate to get out of the office. The only outings he gets are to the little boys’ room.’
He snapped his fingers. ‘Got it.’
‘What?’
‘What Dawkins said. I asked him where you were and after rabbiting on about himself he said you may have gone to powder your nose. I had a mental picture of you in front of a mirror with an old-fashioned powder puff.’
‘And did that inspire you?’
‘It put a useful thought in my head. Well, it may be useful. Earlier I was trying to think of a way round one of the main puzzles in this case. How come Clarion wasn’t in pain until she got on stage, at least twenty minutes after she was made up?’
‘The pancake?’ she said.
He frowned. ‘Come again.’
‘Theatrical make-up. They apply it thickly for the stage. In this case it acted as insulation. The caustic soda went on last and only began to work when she got under the lights and started to sweat.’
‘Twenty minutes is still too long,’ he said.
‘How do you know that?’
‘Caustic soda is highly active. I’ve got a book on toxicology here and it talks of absorbing the moisture from the air, even. I doubt if she’d have left the dressing room before it started destroying the tissue. But I think I know what happened, thanks to Fred Dawkins.’
‘And me supposedly powdering my nose?’
‘Right. The caustic soda wasn’t in the make-up Denise used in the dressing room. Before the actors go on, when they’re waiting in the wings, isn’t someone there to touch up the make-up to stop them shining under the lights?’