‘I’m not surprised, seeing the state of it.’
‘And she was going to be a flop in the play.’
‘His reputation was under threat.’
‘You’ve got it. People of his sort, heirs to a big estate, are often prone to insecurity. They don’t like to be thought of as living off their capital and nothing else, so they get involved in business or the arts at boardroom level. The theatre is a perfect vehicle for someone like him to earn extra status.’
‘Buffing up the image.’
‘And it was in serious danger of collapse. I’ve been asking myself if that could be a motive for murder. But he let slip another intriguing remark.’
‘About being treated unfairly by the press?’
‘Yes, there’s some skeleton in Melmot’s cupboard that we ought to know about. When we get back to Bath, do some digging. See if he’s on file.’
Tilda Box had found time to dress in purple and black, an outfit straight out of Vogue, but appropriate for the occasion. She spotted Ingeborg in the station forecourt and came over, confident, smiling, swinging her handbag and smelling expensive. She’d obviously refreshed her make-up just prior to arrival at Bath Spa station. She was carrying several celebrity magazines.
‘I hope you weren’t trying to phone me on the train. I had to switch off. It’s been non-stop.’
‘It’s like that at the nick,’ Ingeborg said. ‘My boss is giving a press conference some time soon.’
‘Really? What will he say?’ She was eager for information.
‘Not a lot. He’ll want to confirm her identity if possible. That’s up to you, of course.’
She frowned. ‘There’s no question that it’s her?’
‘Not so far as I know.’ Ingeborg started the car and headed out into Dorchester Street and west towards the hospital. She had a miniature tape-recorder running under the armrest between them.
Tilda was more uneasy than she’d first appeared. Nobody enjoys the duty of identifying a body, and most find it daunting, if not scary. ‘There’s no damage to her face, is there? Extra damage, I mean. I should be able to recognize her? I thought this was just a formality.’
‘Absolutely,’ Ingeborg said, noting how panicky her passenger was starting to sound. This would be as good a time as any to pounce. ‘How long has she been cutting herself?’
‘Cutting herself?’ Tilda made a show of sounding baffled without remotely convincing Ingeborg she was sincere.
‘You must have seen the state of her arms,’ Ingeborg said as if she had checked the corpse herself. ‘You of all people will know about the self-inflicted injuries – as her professional adviser.’
Briefly, there seemed to be a real danger of Tilda opening the passenger door and leaping out. Then she seemed to think better of the escape option and gave up any pretence of not knowing. ‘For some years, in fact. Top performers like Clarion are under enormous pressure that the rest of us will never experience. Have you seen the body, then?’
‘My guvnor has.’
‘Oh. Did he say anything else?’
‘Anything else?
‘About her appearance. I’ve no idea what to expect when we get there.’
‘As you said yourself, it’s just a formality,’ Ingeborg said. ‘Did she talk openly about the self-harming?’
‘I wouldn’t say openly. To me in confidence, yes.’
‘It must have been a huge worry for you, personally and professionally.’
‘That goes without saying.’
‘But she told you everything. A sympathetic ear.’ A touch of flattery from Ingeborg, opening the way for the key question. ‘We could see you were very close when we met at the hospital after her face was damaged. Did she tell you she did that to herself?’
Tilda hesitated, as if sensing she’d been forced into a corner, and then the words tumbled out. ‘Yes, it was so sad, really. She told me in the hospital. The rehearsals hadn’t gone well and she was worried sick about the first night. She needed a get-out but at the same time she was deeply ashamed of herself. She’d used corrosives on her skin before, all part of the self-harming. There was caustic soda under the sink in one of the dressing rooms. I think they used it to clear the drains. She collected some in a tissue and dabbed it on her face before she went on, punishing herself as well as making sure she would have to abandon the performance. I don’t think she knew how excruciating it would be. She almost passed out with the pain.’
‘And then she blamed the theatre?’
‘Poor darling. The doctors told her she was scarred for life. Having to admit to the world that she’d done it to herself was more than she could cope with, so she started this talk of legal action. I don’t think she ever intended to see it through, but it relieved the pressure. She even convinced me – and I know her history. That morning when you came to the hospital I was sure she had strong grounds for damages. I called her lawyers and told them what to expect and they promised to see her as soon as she was out of hospital. The meeting never took place, of course.’
‘When did she tell you the truth?’
‘Later, over the phone. It was preying on her mind. I phoned the lawyers and they advised the theatre she’d decided not to sue. Without disclosing the reason, of course.’
Ingeborg breathed a quiet sigh of relief. One part, at least, of the mystery that had engulfed CID all week was solved.
‘Did you see her after she came out of hospital?’
‘No, I’d already returned to London. We spoke on the phone and she told me of her plan to see the play. I would have advised against it, but she sounded so depressed that I thought it would provide some distraction, if nothing else. I couldn’t see any harm in it, so I didn’t try to dissuade her.’ She reached in her bag for a tissue and sniffed into it. ‘If only I had.’
‘Would you say she sounded suicidal?’
‘Why?’ Tilda was all attention again, and her voice piped in horror. ‘Oh my God – did she? Do you know something? They haven’t already done the post-mortem?’
‘No, they won’t have started yet. I’m just asking.’
‘Oh.’ Deflated, she said, ‘No, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.’
Outside Bath Central police station, the pressmen, impatient to go in, were taking pictures of everyone who entered, regardless of who they were. ‘Can’t you let them in?’ Georgina, the ACC, said, not pleased at being called love and asked if she was Clarion’s mother, in spite of being in uniform.
‘I know what they’re like, ma’am,’ Diamond said. ‘Stuck in the conference room they’ll get even more bolshy.’
‘You’d better think of something. They’ll be smashing windows soon.’
It was eleven thirty. The post mortem should have started at ten. He phoned the mortuary and asked for Halliwell. They said he was still observing.
‘Don’t they ever take a break?’
‘They took one less than twenty minutes ago,’ the mortuary keeper said.
‘And what were they saying when they came out?’
‘That it could take another hour or more.’
‘For crying out loud. You’d think it was brain surgery.’
‘Well, it is.’
He was forced to admit that this was true.
He left a message for Halliwell to update him at the first opportunity.
At least Ingeborg had delivered. He’d listened to the tape. To have it confirmed by Tilda Box that Clarion had been a long-term self-harmer was a breakthrough. Under all the pressure he hadn’t yet worked out the full implications. If Clarion had damaged her own face, why had Denise killed herself and left that suicide note? Get through the press conference, he told himself, and you’ll think more clearly.
‘Is this a good moment, guv?’ Paul Gilbert asked, putting his head around the office door.
‘There’s no such thing.’
‘Sorry.’ The head disappeared.
‘Come back.’
Even more apprehensive, Gilbert obeyed.