Murder Most Frequent: three more Inspector Constable mysteries (The Inspector Constable Murder Mysteries Book 5)

by Roger Keevil

  “And you want me to tell Dr, Sicke all this, guv?” asked Copper. “You know, I think it would be much better if she heard it from you direct. In fact, why don't you go and see her straight away – save her wasting her time. I'm sure she'd be grateful. And I could make a start on your report for you.” The sergeant failed completely in his efforts to stop a slow grin from spreading across his face as he spoke.

  “David, you wouldn't by any remote chance be indulging your famous sense of humour at my expense, would you?” enquired Constable as he slowly stood, a mock-severe expression on his features. He reached for his coat. “Although maybe you're right. I'll pop over and speak to Fran … Dr. Sicke … before I make a start. That's if you're happy to get on with things in my absence.”

  “Oh, I'm quite happy, guv,” said Copper, taking the inspector's place at his desk. And as his superior disappeared along the corridor, he added, “I like everyone to be happy.” He looked briefly at the retreating form, gave a little chuckle, and then bent his head to the papers before him.

  * * * * *

  DEATH WAITS IN THE WINGS

  Few places, thought Detective Inspector Andy Constable as he stood looking at the empty auditorium, are as mournful as a deserted theatre. And the Queen's Theatre at Westsea did nothing to change his opinion.

  Built towards the end of the nineteenth century, one of the smaller creations of a celebrated theatre designer, the Queen's was a rare survivor in a world where many of its contemporaries had fallen victim to the successive fashions of cinema, television, bingo, and supermarket shopping. But somehow it continued to cater for a lively local amateur theatrical scene, together with occasional provincial tours of not particularly distinguished drama productions, an annual pantomime, and infrequent concerts by local dance schools, community choirs, and tribute acts for long-defunct rock bands. But it could not be denied that the original glamour was gone, and in the auditorium, lit only by a few naked bulbs, there was no disguising the general air of decaying grandeur. Wall lights with red velvet shades were set at intervals down each side of the gently sloping stalls, but a closer glance revealed the occasional drooping fringe or missing lamp. The upholstery of many of the seats was rubbed down to the base material. A noble central chandelier, its crystal drops defiantly glinting in the little light available, showed signs of tarnish on its gilded frame. Heavy black stage lamps on brutal metal mounts disfigured the otherwise elegant curve of the small balcony. Dusty plaster cherubs pouted down from the front of the boxes, two on each side of the proscenium arch. 'Well, at least there's no Box 5,' thought Constable with a flash of wry humour. 'That should make things easier.'

  The massive stage curtain, swagged purple velvet bravely sporting the town's coat of arms in heavy padded embroidery which looked to be in danger of ripping the slightly threadbare elderly fabric, suddenly began to move convulsively as if being beaten from the rear, and the form of Detective Sergeant Dave Copper eventually appeared in the central gap.

  “Oh, there you are, guv.”

  “Do I detect a hint of criticism, sergeant?”

  “No, sir, not at all,” asserted Copper hastily. “I just thought you'd come in through the stage door round the back. That's where I was waiting.”

  “Not for too long, I hope. I started out as soon as the phone call came through.” Constable thought with regret of the just-poured glass of Sancerre and the immediately-abandoned, and now rapidly congealing, plate of Turbot Veronique from the supermarket Microwave Supreme range now sitting on his dining table.

  “It's those road works at the bridge, isn't it, guv?” sympathised Copper as the inspector climbed the steps at the side of the stage to join his colleague. “They always take me ages to get through. It's a good job I was working late on that report on the racehorse business. Only took me a couple of minutes to get here from the station when the theatre people called it in. Anyway, you're here now. And I've got on with a few bits and pieces in the meantime. There's half a dozen or so people who were about at the time, and I've had a word with most of them. They're all waiting downstairs – there's a sort of sitting room under the stage. I don't know if you want to start with them.”

  “Not until I know a bit more about what we've got – who, where, when, and so on.”

  “We'd better go up to the dressing rooms then, guv.” Copper held back the stage curtain to allow Constable to pass through. “The stairs are back here.”

  “And you can fill me in on the way.”

  *

  It had been only moments after seven o'clock on the Monday evening when the phone on Dave Copper's desk rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Sergeant?” came a voice from the control room. “We've just had a call from the Queen's Theatre – sudden death, male, looks like suspicious circumstances ...”

  “I'm on it.” Copper was already on his feet, closing down his laptop and reaching for his car keys. “Can I leave it to you to do all the usual – SOCO, the doc, and so on. Oh, and can you call the guv to let him know what's on?”

  “D.I. Constable's actually gone home already?” laughed the officer at the other end of the line. “Bit unusual for him, isn't it?”

  “Apparently he does have a life,” responded Copper. “News to me. And if you quote me, you're on traffic duty for the next six months. Right, I've gone.” Odd sheets of paper fluttered to the floor in the draught as the door closed behind him.

  At the theatre stage door, Copper was greeted by an anxiously-hovering man who looked to be in his seventies - thin, balding, bespectacled, wearing a cardigan.

  “Are you the police?”

  “Yes, sir. Detective Sergeant Copper.” Copper flashed his warrant card. “And you are …?”

  “My name's Peter Castle. I'm the stage doorman. I got my little booth just inside here. And it was me what found him. You see, what happened was, I was...”

  “Just a moment, sir.” Copper turned his attention to the blue-flashing patrol car which had just pulled up to the rear of his own. “Good timing, guys. You're just the people I need. Mr. Castle, has anyone left the theatre since you called us?”

  “Not that I know of. And I would, see, because this is the only way in and out.”

  “No other access to the theatre?”

  “Well, there's the box office at the front, of course,” explained Castle. “That's open for ticket sales up to half past seven, but the doors to the auditorium are kept locked when there's no performance on.”

  “Good.” Copper turned back to the two uniformed officers. “Right, one of you stay here, the other one go round to the box office, just in case. Nobody comes in, nobody leaves without my say-so. Oh, except for D.I. Constable – he should be on his way by now. And SOCO, obviously. Okay?”

  “Right, sarge.” The officers took up their positions as Copper made his way in through the stage door with Peter Castle shuffling in his wake.

  Copper produced his notebook. “You'd better give me some details, Mr. Castle,” he declared briskly. “All I know so far is that somebody has reported the sudden death. So tell me ...”

  “You'd better come and see,” said Castle. “He's up in the Number 1 dressing room.”

  “Lead on, then.” The pair mounted the bare concrete staircase to the first floor, where a corridor with doors along one side of it stretched to a further staircase at the far end. Castle held open the first door, its chipped green paint sporting a large chrome figure 1, with beneath it a small metal card-holder containing a piece of paper bearing the words 'MR. NELSON' in rather wobbly capitals.

  The room was sparsely furnished and lit by a single naked overhead bulb, with a bench along one side at worktop height bearing a plastic toolbox containing a variety of items of stage make-up, with boxes of tissues, towels, deodorant spray, pairs of socks, a play script and other oddments scattered about. On the wall above it, a range of mirrors surrounded by light-bulbs. At one end, a washbasin with toothbrush, soap, a wet razor and a can of shaving foam. At the other end,
a part-full bottle of undistinguished supermarket whisky and two not particularly clean tumblers, one of them used. A barred window with opaque glass had clearly been painted shut many years ago. Behind the door lurked a sagging elderly armchair upholstered in dingy brown corduroy, piled with discarded clothing, with alongside it a clothes rail whose hangers bore several shirts, pairs of trousers, and a suit. And beyond the rail, in the corner of the room, a shower cubicle, in which was slumped the naked body of a man.

  “That's him,” said Castle, somewhat unnecessarily.

  Copper swiftly knelt to check for a pulse. Nothing. “And who is he exactly?” he asked, rising to his feet.

  “His name's Stuart Nelson. He runs the theatre company. Now, that's not the same as running the theatre, you know. No, the way it is, see, ...”

  “Yes, all in good time, Mr. Castle,” interrupted Copper, sensing an imminent digression. “First things first. You say you're the one who found him? Exactly like this?”

  “Yes. After the bang, like. I knew he was dead straight away. I thought I'd seen enough dead men to last me a lifetime. I was in Kenya, you know ...”

  Copper ruthlessly overrode Castle's inclination to ramble. “And you've touched nothing?”

  “No, not a thing,” asserted Castle virtuously. “I know what's right. Well … that's to say, I did turn off the shower. I mean, I don't know what he was doing taking a shower then anyway. Most people have a shower after the show. But it didn't seem proper to leave it running, somehow, with him lying there and everything.”

  “But other than that …?” Castle shook his head in response. “And nobody else has been in here?”

  “No,” said Castle. “Some of them wanted to, but I wouldn't let them. I made them all go downstairs to the Green Room and then went to dial 999.”

  “You seem to have taken control of the situation very efficiently, Mr. Castle,” said Copper.

  “Ex-army,” replied the other shortly. “I was a sergeant – bit like yourself, I suppose. You get used to telling people what to do.” He puffed himself up slightly. “And being as I'm stage doorman, they all know better than to get on the wrong side of me.”

  Copper blinked slightly. “I'll bear that in mind, Mr. Castle. So, if you can show me where these other people are …?”

  “Like I said, they're all in the Green Room – it's underneath the stage. I'll take you down there.” Castle started out of the room and headed back down the stairs.

  Copper, in his wake, was struck by a thought. “Better idea, Mr. Castle, is if you just point me in the right direction, and then you can … er … take post at the stage door again. I think it's probably vital that we have someone reliable there to control access. Plus there'll be some of my colleagues arriving very soon, and they'll need to know where to go.”

  “Oh. Right.” Castle drew himself up a little straighter, looking gratified. “Yes, well, you leave it to me, sir … sergeant. I'll take care of that.”

  Copper suppressed a smile. “Thank you. So, this Green Room is where?”

  “Just keep on down the stairs till you get to the bottom. You can't miss it.”

  *

  Dave Copper opened the door at the foot of the stairs, to reveal a large room which evidently stretched the full width of the stage, and which was furnished with a clutter of mismatched armchairs, shabby sofas, a chaise longue apparently recently upholstered in a rather bilious yellow brocade, and a scatter of bentwood chairs and occasional tables. Rugs and carpets of differing sizes in various colours, all showing signs of age, covered the floor in a disordered array. Cupboards, many with padlocked doors, lined one wall, while in one corner was a stack of miscellaneous theatrical paraphernalia – an oriental throne, a giant pumpkin with a cage of rather moth-eaten white mice on top, a stack of medieval weaponry alongside a mannequin wearing a suit of chain-mail which appeared to have been fashioned from knitted string painted silver, and a Victorian lamppost, with a jumbled pile of stage lamps of varying kinds, together with reels of electrical cable. As the sergeant entered, the murmur of subdued conversation inside the room died away, and eight faces turned to him with varying expressions of surprise and enquiry.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all for staying put as Mr. Castle asked. I'm Detective Sergeant Copper ...” Once again Copper displayed his warrant card. “... and I shall be needing to ask you some questions.”

  A burly man who looked to be in his mid-forties stood and approached Copper. “Sergeant, can you tell us what's going on? All we've been told is that Stuart seems to be dead, and the next thing we know is that we're corralled down here without any idea of what's happened. How do we know that it's not natural causes or some horrible accident?”

  “We don't, sir,” replied Copper bluntly. “What we do know is that there is an unexplained death. And until I'm told otherwise by my superiors or the doctor, we shall be treating it as suspicious. And the first thing I need to find out is, who's involved.” Copper produced his notebook. “So let's start with you, sir. You are …?”

  “My name's Don Abbott. I'm the company manager for this tour. Well, I was – I suppose we're all out of work now.”

  “Sorry, sir, but I'm not exactly clear on the set-up. I'm not really a theatre person. Can you clarify for me, please?”

  “Right. Where to start?” Don drew a deep breath. “I suppose the first thing to say is that we're a bit of a dinosaur. The Victory Theatre Company, that is … that's who we are. Pretty much of a one-man-band – Stuart Nelson was what they used to call an actor-manager. Put together his own company, and we do short tours of plays around small theatres like this one. Not too many of them left these days, but we scrape a living somehow.” He smiled faintly. “Stu was directing this production, and he was also playing the lead – well, he always did. And he always managed to pick a play which had a great part for him – funny, that.”

  “You say funny. What, so it's a comedy?” hazarded Copper.

  Don snorted. “'Playing Away'? Not so's you'd notice. No, it's one of those miserable psychological things, like the stuff that keeps popping up on television. Ran for about three weeks in the West End a few years ago and then died the death. Just the sort of thing to pack the audiences in.” The sarcasm was plain to hear.

  “Well, at least it's not a murder mystery,” muttered Copper under his breath. “Thank goodness for that.”

  “Anyway, not my job to choose the plays,” Don went on. “I just do what I'm told.”

  “So what exactly is your job, Mr. Abbott?”

  “Allegedly, I'm the one who keeps everything running smoothly. I stage manage the actual performances of the play, and then there's sorting out the transport, doing the wages, making sure that everything's paid for, and so on. Mind you, Stu kept hold of the chequebook – he was a bit of a control freak all round really.”

  “And you last saw him when?” Copper's pen was poised over his notebook.

  “On stage after tech, I think,” said Don. “That's technical rehearsal this afternoon, sergeant. It's the last run we do before dress rehearsal.” He looked at his watch. “Which we should have been in the middle of now, ahead of tomorrow's first night. Well, that's not going to happen, is it?”

  “I'm afraid not, Mr. Abbott.” As Don resumed his seat, Copper's attention moved to the woman sitting next to him on the sofa. “And your name, madam?”

  “I'm Delia Armstrong,” she replied. Looking to be in her early fifties, with short wavy blonde hair liberally mixed with grey, she wore a long loose ethnically-patterned waistcoat over practical grey blouse and trousers. “I'm in charge of props for the play. Properties,” she clarified in response to Copper's slight look of puzzlement. “The bits and pieces that the actors handle on stage – bottles and glasses, newspapers or letters, ornaments to dress the set, weapons, fixtures and fittings – that sort of thing. To tell the truth, I'm a bit of a fixture and fitting myself.” She gave a small half-smile.

  “You've been with the company
a long time?”

  “Heavens, yes. In fact, I've probably known Stuart longer than anyone here – we were at drama school together thirty years ago. Well, the first year, anyway. But his acting career worked out and mine didn't – that's theatre for you. And then I found my niche doing what I do. And Stuart and I had worked together on and off over the years, but we'd never been that close. But then I came to work for him a while ago, and sort of stuck in place.” The small smile reappeared.

  “Can you remember where and when you would last have seen him this evening?” asked Copper. He addressed the room in general. “I shall need to ask all of you the same thing, if I'm to build up a picture of what happened.”

  “I remember very well,” said Delia. “The last time I saw Stuart, he was going into his dressing room, and that was about half past six, because I remember thinking, 'Right, that gives me almost an hour before we're due to start'. Because of course I had my props to sort out.”

  “Thank you for that, madam. And how about you, sir?” continued Copper, addressing the young man in the armchair next to the sofa. On reflection, mused Copper, possibly not quite as young as he'd like people to think. Maybe around late thirties, but with the haircut, complexion, white smile and bright eyes of a man a good ten years younger. Only the beginning of fine lines around the eyes and an incipient lack of tone in the neck gave him away. “Where do you fit into all this?”

  “My name's Matthew Edwards,” replied the man. “Well, that's my Equity name. I suppose you'll want the real name for your enquiries, or whatever it is they say. It's actually Nigel Clegg, but I changed it – well, you would, wouldn't you? And as for where I fit in, I've got the part of Daniel Allen in 'Playing Away'.”

  “Sadly, sir, I never got to see the original play in the West End,” said Copper, with only a hint of irony detectable. “So would that be one of the leads?”