We continued past the front of the theatre. I could imagine Tirian Kirke onstage, describing Dr Farqhuar’s office. Would the line about the books have got a laugh? I noticed my name in lights. Another letter had fused. I’d been reduced to ANONY. One more short circuit and I’d be completely anon. Which, given the reviews, was probably what I deserved.
Hawthorne flagged down a taxi and once again we were on our way.
13
A Run of Bad Luck
I’ve never much liked Euston.
I got to know the area well during the sixteen years I worked on Foyle’s War. I did a lot of the research at the British Library, just about the only modern building in the entire square mile with any sense of architectural style. I still don’t understand how you can have a road that’s only a twenty-minute walk from the centre of town, yet remains so inherently cheap and tacky. Or why there’s been a traffic jam from one end to the other for the past twenty years. The shops are useless and you’d be mad to eat in any of the restaurants. Half the people you meet are tourists with backpacks. I should have known better when I heard that this was where Ahmet had his office. Theatreland it most certainly was not.
I brought Hawthorne to the front entrance, taking him down a flight of stairs concealed behind a row of dustbins to the basement of a tired grey house that had been sliced into flats. Light was streaming out of the windows below pavement level, but the glass was so dusty we couldn’t see in. I rang the bell. It was ten to eight in the evening, but so dark that it could have been midnight. The April weather was showing no signs of improvement. It wasn’t raining, but there was a thick fog that was doing the same job. Nobody came, so I rang the bell a second time. The door swung open to reveal Maureen Bates, dressed in a tweed skirt and mauve jersey with her glasses resting on her chest. She looked far from happy as she stood there, purposefully blocking the way in.
‘I think Mr Yurdakul is expecting us,’ Hawthorne said.
‘I’m aware of that. Yes. But I have to tell you that this really isn’t a good time.’ Did she think we’d just turn round and leave?
‘It’s never a good time when someone has been killed,’ Hawthorne assured her.
‘I don’t see how Mr Yurdakul can help you.’
‘You’ll find out when you let us in.’
With a pout of resignation, she turned and led us through the tiny hallway and into the office, where Ahmet was just finishing a conversation with a dark-haired man who looked uncomfortable in the armchair into which he had folded himself. As we arrived, he stood up and I saw that he was about six foot five, towering over the producer, twitchy and apologetic. I recognised him as the same person Ahmet had been talking to at the cast party. He had looked nervous then too. Cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, which was both unpleasant and, in modern times, rare. Ahmet was smoking. There was a packet of his L&M cigarettes in front of him, along with the onyx ashtray filled with at least half a packet’s worth of butts.
The tall man was in a hurry to get away. He muttered a quick ‘Good evening’ to us and gathered up his laptop and papers, shoving them awkwardly into a leather briefcase. Maureen showed him out and I heard a brief snatch of their conversation at the door.
‘I’ll call you in a couple of days.’
‘Thank you, Martin.’
‘I’m so sorry. You know …’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll deal with it.’
Not good news, then.
Meanwhile, I had introduced Hawthorne to Ahmet and he had taken the empty seat. Ahmet had stayed at his desk, half concealed behind a laptop and a great pile of letters and bills. As usual, he was wearing a suit, but had taken off his jacket to reveal an old-fashioned shirt and braces. His fingers were stained yellow with nicotine. It had even crept into his eyes.
‘So, how are things?’ Hawthorne asked cheerfully.
‘Not so good.’ The three words were like a death knell. I had never heard him sound so defeated. He looked at me like a dog abandoned by its owner. ‘Martin, the man who was here just now – he is my accountant. A very reliable man. And what he tells me …’
‘Are we going to have to close?’ I asked. It was the inevitable conclusion. I just wanted him to get to the point.
He drew out another cigarette and lit it. ‘I am fighting, Anthony. All my life I have been fighting.’ He blew out grey-blue smoke. ‘I will tell you. It was my ambition to produce for the theatre from the day that I joined the Really Useful Theatre Company. I was there for many years.’
‘You worked with Andrew Lloyd Webber?’ I asked. I was impressed. The Really Useful Group had been set up to look after Lloyd Webber’s multibillion-pound musicals, but had since diversified into theatre ownership, film production and records. It was a fantastically successful conglomeration, but Ahmet had never mentioned he had been part of it.
‘I worked for him in IT,’ he explained. ‘I helped to develop the box-office ticketing software they still use to this day!’ For a moment, a smile flitted across his face and his eyes were far away. ‘Database compatible files, easily imported into spreadsheets. Mail merge files and account reports. Online credit card verification. Publicity. Revenues. One of the first user-friendly onscreen seating charts! Do you know what I called it? Computer-assisted Ticketing System. CATS! They told me that Sir Andrew smiled when he heard that. He was not a lord then. I don’t know why they didn’t use it. The name, I mean. The system is still very much alive.’
‘Is that why you became a producer?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘Yes, sir. I looked at the enormous amounts of money these musicals were making. It was incredible! Do you know that a hundred and fifty million people have seen Phantom of the Opera and that it has made more than six billion dollars worldwide?’ He pointed at me. ‘And not all the reviews were favourable, let me tell you! There were critics who said that it was old-fashioned hokum. What did they know?’
‘So we might be all right,’ I said.
‘No, no, no. They still liked the sets, the sumptuous costumes, the music, the performances. With Mindgame … not so much.’ He gazed at me, tears welling in his eyes. ‘I blame myself, Anthony. It is a wonderful play. It is original. Apart from the excessive violence – and we did discuss this – it is highly entertaining. I believed in it and it may be that in the end I did not do it justice. This is my fault. I have let you down.’
I should have argued with him but I was feeling too dispirited.
‘You don’t blame Harriet Throsby?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘Why?’ Ahmet seemed genuinely surprised.
‘I’d have said she had the loudest voice. Certainly, she was the rudest.’ Hawthorne paused. ‘And the first. That may be why she was the one who was stabbed to death.’
‘You believe she was killed because of what she wrote?’ Ahmet shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hawthorne. That is impossible. Sometimes critics upset us. Sometimes they make us angry. But we are never violent!’
‘Jordan Williams was violent. He made threats against her.’
It was Maureen who answered. ‘He did no such thing!’
‘Tony was there. He heard him.’
‘Jordan had been drinking and he was emotional. But it was obvious to everyone in the room that he didn’t mean what he said. He was joking.’
‘A strange sense of humour.’ Hawthorne considered. ‘How well do you know him?’
It was an innocent enough question, but Maureen turned away, leaving it to Ahmet to step in. ‘This was the first time we had worked together. But we got to know each other during rehearsals. Of course he was angry. But I can assure you that he meant nothing by what he said. He was acting!’