‘Yes, sir.’ Pidgeon’s spaniel eyes gleamed in expectation.
‘This isn’t it. I want two reliable officers for a job I wouldn’t care to do myself. And you can stop all this “sir” stuff. “Guv” will do to my face and what you call me behind my back is your affair. Understood?’
In unison they said, ‘Yes, guv.’
‘This job is secret. Do you know the difference between secret and need to know?’
‘If it’s secret, no one needs to know,’ Reed said.
‘Correct. Not your friends, family, brother officers, superiors, the Chief Constable, not even the theatre ghost. Afraid of ghosts, are you, either of you?’
Unused to this sort of question from a senior officer, they each grinned sheepishly.
‘This is something I do need to know,’ he said.
They glanced at each other and shook their heads.
‘That’s good, because you’ll be spending the next two nights on duty inside the Theatre Royal, supposedly one of the most haunted buildings in Bath. It will be dark when you go in and I want it to remain in darkness. You’ll be alone in that spooky old building, apart perhaps from the grey lady.’ He scanned their faces. ‘How does that strike you?’
‘Not a problem for me, guv,’ Pidgeon said.
‘Me neither,’ Reed said.
And they obviously meant what they said.
‘You’re too polite to ask what this is all about. Here’s the deal. We’ve had two murders in the theatre in two days. One thing we know for certain about the killer is that he or she is very familiar with the place, backstage as well as the part the audience sees. The digital security system is no bar to this individual. And we believe the first murder may have been done after hours, at night. My idea is to set a trap, persuade the killer to return to the scene of the crime. The time they’ll choose will be at night. If this succeeds you’ll be lying in wait and you’ll arrest them. Does that make sense?’
‘What’s the bait, guv?’ Reed asked.
‘Good question. Not yet decided. It has to be something that unsettles them, some giveaway clue they left behind and need to return for. They’ll think the theatre is empty. This is why your mission is top secret.’
The start of a frown appeared as Pidgeon asked, ‘Will we be armed?’
Diamond shook his head. ‘You can carry your batons if you like.’
‘I meant firearms.’
‘I know what you meant and I said batons. Have you done the firearms course, either of you?’
They shook their heads.
‘You’d end up shooting each other. If it’s any comfort, the only weapon the killer has used so far is a plastic bag,’ He took out one of the cards issued to theatre staff. ‘These are the security codes. You enter through the Egg Theatre, which is at the back. Get there by ten. Your shift ends at first light.’
‘Do you want us in uniform, guv?’ Dawn Reed asked.
‘What do you think? Because I treated you to tea and a bun, that doesn’t make you CID. I suggest you get some sleep in the next few hours.’
‘Are we off duty now?’
He nodded and watched them leave, two kids let out of school early. A touching sight. He hoped his faith in them would be justified.
The sheets of paper that had been run through Denise’s printer had some marks along the right side that didn’t remotely match the suicide note. Diamond showed them to Paul Gilbert and explained their significance.
‘Is this good news, or bad?’ young Gilbert asked.
‘Good and bad. It’s more evidence that we’re working on the right assumption, that she was murdered,’ he said, ‘so that much is good. If she’d printed the note at home, suicide would have been a safe bet.’
‘So what’s bad?’
‘We don’t know which machine it was printed on. We can’t be sure of anything until we find out.’
‘I expect the murderer has a printer,’ Gilbert said. ‘If we asked each of the suspects…’ His voice trailed away as he realised why he’d been called in.
‘And it’s quite possible our crafty killer didn’t use his own computer at all,’ Diamond said. ‘You can start by getting specimen sheets from all the printers at the theatre. I’ve seen one in the box office. There must be a number of others. When you’ve eliminated them, start making a nuisance of yourself, going into people’s homes. Don’t let anyone offer to do the printing for you.’
‘Isn’t there a flaw in this, guv?’ Gilbert said.
‘What’s that?’
‘If I was the killer, I’d already have cleaned my printer so it wouldn’t leave marks at all.’
Just when Diamond was starting to feel he’d caught up with computer technology and found its Achilles heel. ‘Let’s hope he hasn’t thought of that. Run these tests as discreetly as possible.’
Gilbert looked as if he’d rather stack shelves in Sainsbury’s.
‘Look at it this way,’ Diamond said. ‘You could be the guy who fingers the killer.’
He didn’t seem convinced.
Motive would be the key to the murder of Clarion Calhoun.
Alone in his office and sensing that time was running out, Diamond turned to the classic trinity for all crimes: opportunity, means and motive. Opportunity wasn’t of much help. In a theatre where so much was going on and with the victim isolated, the opportunity had been there for the taking. The means, a plastic bag, was so commonplace that there was doubt if it was worth searching for. The theatre was full of bags. Leaman had called in again to say he had found another nine in the props room, making a total of fifty-six at the latest count, and it was probable that the bag actually used had been disposed of elsewhere.
Only the motive was worth pursuing. Why would anyone want to kill Clarion when she had withdrawn her threat to sue? The theatre had been saved from a damaging court case. She was everyone’s fairy godmother. The good news had been relayed to the entire theatre community by Francis Melmot. But now that Clarion was dead, all bets were off. The future of the place was plunged back into uncertainty. Surely no one wished the theatre to be closed after two hundred years?
There had to be another reason why she was killed. She’d fought her way to the top as a pop star. How many hopefuls had she pushed off the ladder? It was possible someone had harboured a grudge. But when you considered the line-up of suspects, none of them had any connection with the pop world except – very remotely – Melmot, who had been a fan, not a rival.
Who stood to gain financially from Clarion’s death? She had property, for sure, and money, though probably not the fortune she’d earned at the peak of her career. She was going to make a substantial donation to the theatre. Was that the trigger that had killed her? Did someone foresee their inheritance being frittered away on wigs and make-up and weird experimental plays?
He made a note to find out the terms of Clarion’s will, if she’d made one, and who the main legatees were. There had been a live-in boyfriend at one stage, but he’d returned to Australia after they split up. There was a manager called Declan Dean, and she’d dumped him, too. Anyone else? Tilda Box would probably know. Indeed, Tilda Box might be the beneficiary. She seemed to have been more than just an agent. She and Clarion had been seen clubbing together. But then Tilda had been in London at the time of the murder.
The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that nothing would be gained by treating the two murders in isolation. The victims were totally unlike each other, yet the theatre had brought them together as leading actress and dresser. Clarion’s extravagant act of self-harm had thrown blame onto Denise. The unfortunate dresser had at first assumed like everyone else that she’d made a dreadful mistake. Her death, almost certainly dressed up as suicide, must have been cunningly arranged by the killer, who evidently knew the theatre intimately, the butterfly superstition, the empty second-floor dressing room and the door to the fly tower and the compartment in the stove where the so-called suicide note was discovered.