After a cursory check that included a glance into the WC and shower, Diamond had to admit that Titus had been right – any self-respecting theatre ghost would shun this one.
‘Down all those stairs again?’ Titus said in a superior tone when they stood in the passageway.
‘You said this was the only room?’
‘On this floor? Yes.’
He pointed across the passage. ‘What’s that, then? The cleaners’ store?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
Whatever the door was for, it needed redecoration.
Numerous scrapes and dents could well have been made by buckets and vacuum cleaners.
Diamond pushed the door open and got a shock. He was looking straight across the dark chasm that was the fly tower. This was the loading bridge, the same catwalk cluttered with counterweights that he’d reached previously by climbing vertically hand over fist from floor level. Why hadn’t he noticed the door then? Because after the white-knuckle experience scaling the ladder he’d given all his attention to Denise’s broken corpse.
‘Should have thought of this,’ he complained more to himself than Titus. ‘The scene shifters need to get access.’ He leaned over the metal railing and reminded himself what a long way down the floor was, but vertigo wasn’t his problem in this theatre. Already his mind was working on new scenarios. A major objection to his murder theory had been the difficulty of getting the body up to this level without assistance. Now he knew how it might have been done.
Equally – to be less fanciful – Denise could have used the back stairs herself in her suicide plan. As an experienced dresser, she would have known all about room eleven and the door across the passage.
‘Peter, I’m lost in admiration,’ Titus said from behind him. ‘I thought I knew this theatre like the back of my hand. I wouldn’t have looked behind that door unless you had.’
Diamond didn’t answer. He was still weighing the possibilities this had opened up.
Finally he turned away. ‘I’ll take another look at that dressing room.’
‘There was nothing in there,’ Titus said.
‘Nothing obvious.’
They returned to number eleven and its nine dressing tables and it still gave the impression of long disuse. Diamond stood in the centre with the air of a prospective buyer trying to visualise the place fully up and running. ‘Do the cleaners come in here most days?’
‘How should I know?’ Titus said, his voice piping in protest. ‘I’m not the caretaker.’
Diamond answered his own question. ‘Likely they wouldn’t when the room isn’t in use.’ He moved closer to the line of tables and crouched like a bowls referee judging a closely contested end.
‘Have you found something?’ Titus asked.
‘No.’
‘What are you doing, then?’
‘Looking at the table tops.’ He took two steps to his left and assumed the same position, eyes level with the surface.
Consumed with curiosity, Titus came closer and tried to ape Diamond’s stance. ‘There’s nothing I can see. Are you a sensitive?’
‘A what?’
‘Certain people have extra sensory perception.’
The man never let up. Diamond straightened up. ‘Be honest with me, Titus. Have you ever seen a ghost?’
‘Up to the present time, no. But I’m sensitive to emanations like the grey lady’s jasmine.’
So tempting to shoot him down in flames, but in a mysterious way Diamond didn’t care to dwell on, he had formed a liking for Titus. Back to reality. ‘I was right. The place hasn’t seen a duster for some time.’
‘It’s a dressing room, not an army hut.’
Unfazed, he moved on again to the next table, the last along that side. ‘When we came in just now we didn’t touch the tops of these, did we?’
‘I certainly didn’t,’ Titus said. ‘I watched you from the doorway. You looked into the shower room. You didn’t open any cupboards.’
‘Because there aren’t any,’ Diamond said. ‘It’s built for economy.’ He completed his examination of each of the surfaces on the facing side. Then he stood back. ‘What we have here are nine dusty tables and one over there’ – he pointed to the one farthest from the door – ‘has a distinct curved shape in the dust at the front edge. You’ve heard of fingerprints? That looks to me like a bum print.’
13
‘Talc, pure talc, and nothing else.’
‘That’s a pain. I thought we were getting somewhere.’
Diamond, Halliwell and Leaman had returned from their liquid lunch to find DC Paul Gilbert waiting in the CID room to report on the contents of Denise’s box of powder. It wasn’t the result anyone wanted to hear.
‘I could have had my feet up watching a film last night instead of standing in a car park kidding myself we’d found solid evidence.’
Young Gilbert hung his head as if he was personally res ponsible. ‘But we can use this,’ Diamond said, more in charity to the young cop than real confidence.
Gilbert looked up. ‘Can we?’
‘If Denise’s talc was harmless, how did Clarion come into contact with the caustic soda?’
‘It can’t have been accidental,’ Halliwell said, picking up the point. ‘We’re talking about a dangerous substance with all kinds of warnings on the container. Someone was hell-bent on damaging Clarion’s face. If Denise didn’t do it, who did?’
‘I can name some people with an interest in stopping Clarion.’ From across the room, Ingeborg said, ‘We’ve been over this, guv, and we got nowhere.’
‘Yes, but since we spoke I’ve met some of these characters.’
‘The understudy?’ Ingeborg said without enthusiasm.
‘Only four days into the run and already behaving like the prima donna. Clarion’s misfortune is Gisella’s big break. Very little sympathy there and huge ambition. For some reason,
though, she hasn’t moved into the star dressing room.’
‘Feels safer where she is?’ Halliwell said.
‘Could be as simple as that.’
‘Now she’s got the part, she doesn’t want to get unpopular with the rest of the cast, lording it over them?’
‘I can believe that, too. I pointed out that she’s the only person to benefit from Clarion’s exit from the play.’
‘What did she say to that?’
‘Basically, that actors ride their luck and take any chance they get.’
‘Doesn’t she understand she’s a prime suspect?’
‘She rules out foul play. They all do.’
‘That’s actors for you,’ Halliwell said. ‘Turn their backs on real life and put on a show.’
Diamond didn’t comment. He’d started on this update and he meant to complete it. If Ingeborg showed signs of disenchantment, the entire team needed firing up. ‘I also met the male lead, Preston Barnes, after he punched the theatre director on the nose.’
‘Punched him? What for?’ Ingeborg said, all interest again.
‘For allowing John Leaman to search his room this morning. Barnes had things to hide. Turns out he’s a junkie.’
‘Really? What’s he on?’
‘Methadone, he says. He needs a fix before each performance.’
‘But is he also a suspect? Why would he want to hurt Clarion?’
‘Maybe like me she saw the state of his arms and worked out what he’s doing to himself. He’s fearful of anyone in the theatre finding out.’
‘But where’s the logic in damaging her face?’
‘To be shot of her. She’s not going to give any more thought to his drug habit. She’s out of it now.’
‘I suppose.’ She didn’t seem wholly convinced.
Undaunted, Diamond moved on. ‘Another one in the mix is Hedley Shearman, him of the bloody nose, who incidentally is quite a goer. I opened a door and saw him having it away with Kate, the wardrobe mistress.’
‘Before or after the punch-up?’ Leaman asked.
‘The night before, during the play.’
‘A lot of it goes on behind the scenes,’ Ingeborg said, speaking as the ex-journo.