‘You think so?’ He sounded surprised.
‘How else could one of my hairs have ended up on Harriet’s body? The killer must have done that too.’
‘Can you remember anyone pulling a hair out of the back of your neck?’
‘No!’ Was he being deliberately facetious? ‘But I told you. I never went near her. So it follows that someone must have put it there.’
Hawthorne considered what I’d just said. ‘Then the question is, who hated you enough to want to do that?’
‘I don’t know …’
‘They were all probably a bit pissed off with you. After all, you’d written the play.’
‘They all liked the play,’ I said. ‘That’s why they agreed to do it. Nobody could blame me for the bad reviews.’
‘Harriet Throsby did: “ … his talents fall lamentably short of what is required for an entertaining evening in the more adult arena of the West End and he must take much of the blame for what ensues.” That’s what she wrote. Maybe there was someone else in the cast who agreed.’
Had Hawthorne really learned the whole bloody review, word for word?
‘I don’t know what the reason was for killing her,’ I said. ‘But it’s crystal clear. Whoever did it wanted to make sure I got the blame.’
‘It’s definitely a possibility.’
And yet the way he said it made it sound unlikely.
I heard the bang of a door somewhere above and a deep voice making inarticulate sounds. It was Jordan Williams. He had signed in at the stage door and was making his way to his dressing room, doing some sort of voice exercise.
Hawthorne looked up. ‘Seven suspects,’ he said. ‘And it looks as if the first is right next door.’
10
Dressing Room 5
All the dressing rooms at the Vaudeville Theatre were more or less identical, dominated by a make-up table and recessed mirror with a wardrobe, a sofa, a fridge and a desk. But they were important to the actors in different ways. This was where they relaxed, prepared themselves for the performances, greeted friends. Hid.
Jordan Williams had the only one situated on the upper floor, closest to the light and (since all the windows in the building seemed to be nailed shut) to fresh air. It was just past the stage-door manager’s office, on the other side of the swing doors that you passed through when you came in from the street. I had met Jordan here on the opening night, but I had never been inside and crossing the threshold now, I almost felt as if I was trespassing.
Ewan had mentioned to me that Jordan had refused to sign his contract unless he could have Dressing Room 5 and I had to wonder if it had been worth the fight. It might have been a couple of square metres larger than the others. Instead of a sofa it had a daybed. But otherwise, the furniture was just as tatty, the carpet equally worn. The room was quite cluttered. His wardrobe was open and I was surprised how many clothes he’d managed to pack in, along with the suit he wore during the play. A battered suitcase stood against one wall and there were more old clothes in a plastic laundry basket on the floor. A variety of bottles were squeezed together on the fridge, and books and magazines were piled up everywhere else. As well as the flowers and good luck cards, I noticed a large, silver-framed photograph of Jordan embracing a fair-haired woman – he in a suit, she in white silk – the two of them posing in front of what looked like a registry office. A wedding photograph? It struck me as rather endearing that he should have brought it here. It would be the last thing he saw before he went onstage.
He was not pleased to see us.
‘Anthony – this isn’t a very good time. I like to be alone before a performance. This is a very important time for me. It’s the journey from where I am to where I need to be, from me to my character.’ Jordan often talked like this. He could be jovial – as he had been when I’d shown him my dagger on the first night. But he also took himself very seriously and this was reflected in his choice of language, which was often a little self-important.
I introduced Hawthorne and explained why we were there. ‘We just need a few minutes,’ I assured him.
‘Well, take a seat. You’ll forgive me talking with my back to you, but I’m doing my make-up.’ He reached for a pad of cotton wool. ‘So, you’re here about poor Harriet, are you?’ He grimaced. I saw the reflection in the mirror. ‘I really shouldn’t say this, but I think someone has done the world a favour. She won’t be missed.’
‘She had a husband and a daughter,’ Hawthorne reminded him.
‘So did Lucrezia Borgia. Forgive me, Mr Hawthorne. If you expect me to feel sorry for her, you’re wasting your time.’ He glanced at me over his shoulder. ‘Did you read the other reviews? The Telegraph was excellent. The Guardian didn’t get it at all – but that’s typical. We had a very good audience last night. They thoroughly enjoyed it.’
‘Did you kill her?’ Hawthorne asked.
Jordan stopped with the cotton pad halfway down the long slope of his nose. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s just that I understand you called her a monster and threatened to put a knife in her.’ Hawthorne paused just long enough for the words to sink in. ‘And that’s exactly what occurred.’
Jordan scowled. The cotton pad completed its journey. He threw it down and turned round. ‘I hope you haven’t been breaking the confidentialities of the green room, Anthony,’ he exclaimed, and for the first time I heard a trace of an American accent in his voice. It was because he was annoyed. ‘What goes on tour, stays on tour. I thought you’d understand that.’
‘This is a murder investigation,’ Hawthorne said.
‘Well, I won’t deny what I said. But if we’re being direct with each other, I might as well tell you that I wasn’t alone. Anthony, for one, was all for it.’
‘I didn’t say anything!’ I exclaimed.
‘You nodded.’
‘No, I didn’t!’
‘You can ask the others. They all saw you. I said what I said and I may not have meant it, but you nodded your head in total agreement.’
‘You think Anthony killed her?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘I’m not saying that. Not at all. I’m just pointing out that he had as much motive as any of us. She really hated his play!’
‘You know that she was killed with a dagger,’ Hawthorne said.
‘So the police informed me. I spoke to two of them yesterday in this very room. A lady by the name of Cara Grunshaw and her rather kickable sidekick. They were particularly interested in the murder weapon.’ He leaned forward and grabbed the dagger he had been given by Ahmet. He waved it in our direction. ‘As you can see, I still have it. Not the murder weapon! Mine is unsullied! It wasn’t the most generous first-night present in my opinion. Quite tacky and irrelevant to the play. But much as I like Ahmet – and in many ways he is a decent enough chap – he doesn’t have much sense of style.’
‘So why did you agree to appear?’ Hawthorne asked.
That surprised him. ‘For the same reason that I agree to do anything. The script, dear boy, the script. I thought Mindgame was a genuinely interesting piece of work. That’s why I was so angered by Harriet Throsby’s intervention. And a comedy thriller! Why not? I’ve always believed it’s the mission of the actor to spread one’s wings. Shakespeare, Molière in the original French, Mamet, O’Neill. I spent two years on Broadway … in Sweeney Todd, Sondheim’s masterpiece.’
‘Who did you play?’ I asked.
‘I was the lead.’
The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Another killer.
‘In fact, the first part I took when I came to this country was also in a musical. Cats. I took over as Mr Mistoffelees at the London theatre. It was a wonderful experience.’