‘And it may be a while before we take on anyone else.’
‘Understood.’ George Pidgeon’s face said it all. He nodded and walked off into the darkness.
Halliwell meanwhile was bending metal, mutilating the car. One extra heave on the jemmy and the boot-lid sprang open to reveal a large, soft bag and the leather case Kate had described.
‘Huh,’ Diamond said with satisfaction. ‘You know what this means?’
Halliwell shook his head. It was near the end of a long day. ‘You’d better tell me, boss.’
‘She had no intention of reporting for work when she returned to the theatre or she’d have taken this lot with her.’
‘She’d made up her mind to kill herself already?’
‘Looks that way.’
‘Why not do it at home?’
‘What with?’
‘Sleeping tablets.’
‘There weren’t any. She didn’t take them. The theatre was a better place.’
‘Like her second home, you mean?’
‘For the jump.’ Sentiment didn’t wash with Diamond. But he wasn’t always clear-headed in his personal actions. He was in the act of reaching for the make-up case when Halliwell said, ‘You ought to be wearing gloves.’
‘Raw caustic soda? You’re right. These fingers are old friends.’
‘I was thinking about handling the evidence.’
‘Think what you like. I’m never too proud to take advice.’
Halliwell didn’t say a word.
Better protected, Diamond reached for the leather case and shone the torch inside, over a neat arrangement of brushes, combs, lipsticks and eye-liners strapped to the side. Lower down, jars and tins, a roll of cotton-wool pads and a black cylindrical box that he lifted out. ‘Remarkably like the one Belinda was using.’
‘Careful, boss.’
He handed Halliwell the torch. ‘Hold this.’ Then he opened the box. A small amount of white powder lay inside.
‘I wouldn’t sniff it if I were you.’
‘Could be harmless.’ He moistened his gloved forefinger with spit and dipped it in the powder. ‘It’s supposed to form a viscous slime that burns through skin.’ He rubbed thumb and finger together. ‘Doesn’t feel slimy.’
‘We’d better get it tested properly,’ Halliwell said.
‘Only if they’re quick about it. I’m not waiting a week for results. Can you get some of this to an analyst first thing tomorrow and stay with him till it’s done?’
A shake of the head. ‘Sorry, guv. I’m down for the post-mortem.’
A fixture not to be altered. The only other detective of senior rank was Diamond himself. ‘So you are. We’ll get one of the others to visit forensics. Anyone will do as long as they insist on an instant result.’
‘Fred Dawkins?’
There was a pause for thought. ‘I don’t think so. He makes a song and dance out of anything. Give it to Paul Gilbert.’ He replaced the lid and put the powder box aside.
The cloth bag was the other part of Denise’s dresser’s kit, a collection of sewing materials, sticky tape, clothes brushes, scissors, paper tissues and medical items for almost any emergency. He didn’t spend long with it once he had checked for caustic soda and found none. ‘Can you force one of the doors? I want to see if there’s a parking ticket.’
‘She’ll have taken it with her,’ Halliwell said. ‘At one time this car park was pay and display. These days you take your card to the machine when you return.’
‘Which is why the car wasn’t noticed before this by a parking attendant,’ Diamond said. ‘I still want to check the glove compartment.’
The jemmy was put to use again. The interior, when they got to it, contained nothing of genuine interest. Denise had been too organised and too tidy.
‘Where would she have left her handbag, I wonder?’ Diamond said. ‘I reckon it contains the parking ticket, her credit cards and her mobile phone, any of which could settle this.’
Halliwell gave him a faintly amused glance. ‘In spite of all, you’re not a hundred per cent confident about the suicide, are you?’
He ignored that. ‘Women hate being parted from their handbags.’
‘She wouldn’t have climbed up the ladder with it.’
‘It wasn’t lying around there. Maybe someone picked it up.’
‘Nicked it?’
‘Or handed it in as lost property. It could be as simple as that. We’ll make enquiries in the morning.’
The meal was uneatable when he got home. He settled for his staple fare of baked beans on toast and went to bed. Raffles was already curled up asleep in the centre of the quilt. Getting in without disturbing him was a tricky manoeuvre and then he was left closer to the edge than he liked. He wasn’t sure why he gave that cat more respect than any of his team. Maybe it was because it had belonged to Steph.
On Thursday morning he woke late and with a headache. For much of the night he’d been unable to sleep and had finally got off about five. His brain had been in overdrive, trying to remember things from his childhood. The phone call to his sister Jean had raised more questions than it had answered. What could have triggered the incident at Llandudno when he’d first exhibited signs of this panic about theatres? It had been a variety show, for pity’s sake. What was sinister about that? More than a year later he’d been able to face Treasure Island at the Mermaid. No qualms about Long John Silver and the black spot and poor Ben Gunn, which you’d think might have unsettled a nervous kid. Then there was that one-act play about Richard III that Jean had recalled. It hadn’t been a school play. The art teacher – whose name he couldn’t remember – had belonged to some amateur dramatic society in Surbiton. They’d needed two boys and he’d been recruited along with another kid from his class. They’d rehearsed in some old army hut and the performances were one weekend in a church hall and that was as much as his memory would dredge up. He couldn’t even bring back the name of the other boy. He felt it was somewhere in his brain. It began with G, he thought. He wouldn’t remember the first name; boys all called each other by surnames then.
In the small hours when he should have been asleep he was going through the alphabet, trying different letters after G. When he’d been through the vowels he tried consonants. At G with L he felt he was getting closer. Not Glass, but something roughly like it. Gladstone, Glaister, Glastonbury.
And then it came to him: Glazebrook.
Having got the surname, the rest followed. Mike Glazebrook.
At three in the morning, he was downstairs going through phone directories looking for Glazebrooks. Ridiculous. He didn’t have directories for the whole country and anyway a lot of people were ex-directory these days. He made tea and went back to bed and still didn’t sleep. In the night hours a simple query can easily be magnified into a compulsion. It became a matter of urgency to find Glazebrook. How would you trace a schoolboy more than forty years later? Secondary schools mostly had old boys’ associations, but primary schools seemed not to bother. He’d heard of the Friends Reunited website and never looked at it until this night at 4.15 a.m. No joy. No Glazebrook. His contempt for websites was confirmed. It was beginning to seem a lost cause. If only Mike Glazebrook had progressed at the age of eleven to the same grammar school as Diamond, he’d have been sharper in the memory. He must have gone to some other school. Go through the local schools, then, and see if they had any record of the boy and what had become of him.
Before setting off for work he was phoning schools in the Kingston area. The second he tried came up trumps. ‘We have a Mr M.G.Glazebrook on our board of governors,’ the secretary said. ‘I believe he attended the school as a child.’
‘The M – does that stand for Michael?’
‘I believe it does.’
‘And does he live near the school?’
‘I’m not at liberty to tell you where he lives.’