She crossed to the door and looked out. Other dressing-room doors were opening and actors emerging dressed in thirties’ costumes. ‘Let’s hang back a moment,’ she said. ‘I’d like to meet Clarion’s dresser if possible.’
‘Is that another request from the guv’nor?’ Halliwell asked. He had a suspicion Ingeborg was acting on her own initiative here.
‘The one who did the make-up.’
‘I know who you mean, but is that a good idea? She’s the main suspect and we’re not acting officially.’
‘He asked us to check if she turns up.’
‘That isn’t the same as meeting her. We could blow the investigation doing that.’
She saw sense. ‘Let’s find out from someone else, then.’
‘After the show has started.’
They waited in the dressing room with the door ajar. The passageway went quiet and the only sound was the voice over the tannoy giving the countdown as curtain up approached and came. The play itself began to be broadcast, a man talking about Berlin.
‘Time to move,’ Ingeborg said.
She seemed to have an inbuilt compass as well as a strong impulse to get results and Halliwell found himself trailing behind her, avoiding eye contact with everyone else who came by. Everyone backstage had a job to do, a sense of purpose. Any intruder would stand out.
Dialogue was being spoken and it wasn’t over the sound system. Halliwell was alarmed to find himself on the prompt side of the wings only a few yards from the actors speaking on stage. Several people were standing in the shadows, watchful and waiting. He recognized one of the actors he’d seen leaving a dressing room. A young woman of elfin size was facing the man, using a soft brush on his face. She looked too young to be the dresser, Denise – but then this was territory peopled by the young. Anyone over forty, as Halliwell was, stood out.
He touched Inge’s arm and gestured to her to move back a few yards. Any closer and they’d get in the way of the performance.
The actor getting the last-minute dusting must have heard his cue, because he eased aside the handmaiden with the make-up brush and stepped behind a set of double doors. A doorbell was rung. The actors could be heard reacting and the doors opened and a buxom female actor carrying a tray with a beer bottle and glass came through. She spoke loudly in German to the waiting man and he responded. Their off-stage voices would have carried to the audience. It was strange to see and hear it from this side of the scenery. The doors opened again and the actor on stage said, ‘Fritz.’ The cue for the waiting actor to make his entrance. The woman with the tray followed him back on.
This was all too close to the action for Halliwell’s liking. He’d taken another step back into the shadows. But as the dialogue on stage developed, Inge was stepping over cables, homing in on the young girl with the make-up brush. At heart, she was still a journalist eager for a story. She tapped the girl on the shoulder.
There was a whispered exchange that Halliwell couldn’t hear. Then Inge turned away and returned to where Halliwell was waiting.
‘Let’s go.’
She led him right around the back of the stage to the opposite side, up a staircase and through a door. Nothing was said until they were through the stage door and in the street, where she took the mobile from her bag.
‘I’m calling the guv’nor,’ she said. ‘They’re all on extra duties. Denise didn’t show up tonight. This has got serious.’
6
Diamond left Paloma asleep in her bedroom in Lyncombe early next morning. Very early. There was much to do, not least returning to his house in Weston to let the cat out. The wild patch at the end of the garden belonged to Raffles. The litter tray was near the door as a back-up, but as any cat would tell you if it could, indoor facilities are second best.
That duty done, the big man cooked himself breakfast, thinking over what he’d learned from Ingeborg’s excited call from the theatre the previous evening. She’d said it was obvious who was responsible for the damage to Clarion’s face and it was just a question whether it had been negligent or malicious.
Obvious?
He’d been in his job long enough to know that the obvious can be deceiving. From the kitchen window he could see Raffles making a statement about concealment, working the earth with his white paws.
Last night’s meat pie at the George had been a good one, but it didn’t stop Diamond enjoying a ‘full English’ less than twelve hours later. Tomatoes and mushrooms joined the back rashers cooked to crisp perfection and the eggs turned over and coated pale pink. He made no claims to haute cuisine, but few could match his morning fry-up. A large mug of tea and toast and marmalade topped it off.
Raffles returned in a beeline to his dish to confirm that at some point in the cooking the guv’nor had stopped to open a pouch of tuna in jelly. The man’s erratic comings and goings were forgivable if he provided the necessary at the proper times, night and morning.
It was now certain that the Theatre Royal and its community would loom large in CID’s schedule today and probably for longer. Diamond didn’t relish the prospect of entering the place again. He’d actually given thought to Paloma’s offer of a meeting with her friend Raelene to discuss his aversion. Well meant, he was sure, but no, he wouldn’t be taking it up. Even if Paloma was right and his problem was psychological, he’d deal with it himself using his professional skills as one more mystery to be investigated and solved. Meanwhile, he’d grit his teeth and get on with the job. Having found the will power to enter the building yesterday he’d do the same again.
‘Count yourself lucky you’re not a theatre cat, Raffles,’ he said to his unlistening pet. ‘They’re all nutters, all superstitious. They’d trade you in for a black one.’
These one-sided conversations were a by-product of living alone. Unless the radio or TV was on, something had to be done to break the silence. Usually what he said was banal, but it helped him through.
‘But if you were a tortoiseshell instead of a tabby, you’d get a better reception – provided that you weren’t dead, of course.’
Raffles raised his head from the dish, stretched, licked his teeth and left the room.
‘Sorry I spoke.’ Diamond drank the last of his tea, checked the time, found his jacket and left the house.
The drive in was quick and enjoyable, before the traffic became the morning crawl he generally endured. He liked the way the early sun picked out the detail of the Victorian terraces along the Upper Bristol Road. The western approach to the city is not Bath as most people think of it. He had to get close before his first sight of Georgian elegance, John Wood’s spacious Queen Square with palatial columns and pediments around a central garden. At this stage of the journey he sometimes reminded himself how privileged he was to be in one of the finest cities in Europe, a boost before moving on to the soulless utilitarian block that was his workplace. He was philosophical about that, refusing to let it get him down. You don’t want your police station looking like the Parthenon.
Having parked, he went inside, looking forward to a quiet start, not expecting to find anyone in the open-plan area that was CID’s hub. The caseload had dwindled in recent days and there was no need for his team to put in extra time. If they clocked in before eight thirty when the civilian staff started, he was content. So it surprised him to see a figure by the window looking out – no one he immediately recognized. None of the team wore a suit, except himself.
And what a suit. This three-piece wouldn’t have looked out of place in a circus ring. Patterned in squares too large to be called check, it was loud, tasteless and, frankly, silly. Its wearer was two sizes too small for it, which made the effect even more odd.
‘How can I help you?’ Diamond asked.
‘The boot is on the other foot. How can I help you?’ the visitor said, turning.