by Linda Regan
Banham nodded. ‘She’s light-source testing the concrete block for fingerprints, skin cells and maybe some hair. But we’re looking at least forty-eight hours for some results, so…’
‘What was the concrete block doing there?’ one of the older detectives asked.
‘It’s supposed to weigh down the scenery,’ Alison told him.
Crowther interrupted again. ‘Penny’s also got all the black costumes the actors were wearing at the time of the fatality.’
‘Plus another one I found in a drawer in the producer’s office,’ Banham added. ‘We’re hoping fibres from the concrete will show up on one of the costumes, and Alison will take buccal swabs from every member of the cast today.’ He looked across at her. ‘You can do that during the lunchtime show.’
‘Guv.’ She nodded.
‘If we’re lucky we’ll get skin cells from the light-source treatment and match them to the perpetrator’s. Meanwhile, I’ve decided to let the show continue, because I can’t hold any suspects …’
‘Until we have concrete evidence of murder.’ Crowther burst out laughing at his own joke, and everyone else groaned.
Banham glared at him and carried on. ‘And also because it keeps them in the theatre and we know where they all are.’
‘There were two work experience boys moving the scenery at the back during that scene,’ Alison said. ‘So whoever killed Lucinda couldn’t have walked in at the stage door and round to the other side without passing them. The only other way was across the stage during the routine. So that narrows it right down. It has to be someone who was either on the stage and in the routine, or knew it well enough to join in, unnoticed by everyone on the stage.’
‘That wouldn’t be difficult if everyone on stage could barely see or hear,’ Isabelle argued.
Alison shook her head. ‘They’d still have to know the steps. It has to be one of the actors.’
‘Sergeant Grainger understands the theatre,’ Banham announced to the room. ‘She used to be in pantomime.’
‘Blimey!’ Crowther put the end of his sandwich into his mouth and wiped his lips on the cuff of his yellow shirt. ‘Did you wear those arse-length skirts and thigh-boots?’ He fanned himself with the remains of the greasy brown paper bag. ‘I’d have paid to see that.’
Alison was lost for words. An older DC came to her rescue. ‘How many actors is that in the routine?’
Alison walked to the large whiteboard at the front of the room and started to draw the stage and the placing of the suspects during the routine.
Some of the men were still sniggering; Alison felt herself flush.
‘Just ignore them,’ Isabelle Walsh piped up. ‘They’re jealous ’cos they can’t wear arse-length skirts. If they did we’d see how small their cocks are.’
Silence descended, and Alison decided it was time to take control again. She pointed to the board. ‘Here’s the stage, with two lines of actors in the routine where the fatality happened. Lucinda was here, at the end of the back line, with just three others. It isn’t possible that anyone in the row in front row could have hit her; that would have thrown the routine out of sync, and according to everyone we spoke to, that row didn’t go wrong and never has. It was mainly children, anyway.’
‘Plus the four chorus dancers,’ Banham added. ‘So that eliminates all of them, plus Fay McCormack, who plays the cat. She was in the front row too.’
‘Barbara Denis, Vincent Mann and Sophie Flint were in the back row with Lucinda,’ Alison said. ‘They have to be our main suspects. And the dame, Stephen Coombs, who was supposed to be changing his costume at the time, but – according to Sophie Flint – didn’t.’
Banham jumped in. ‘There’s also the black costume I found in the producer’s office. With the stage manager in the pub and the stage unguarded, someone could have slipped into that costume and gone on stage …’
‘But only if they knew the routine,’ Alison added. ‘Or they would have been noticed.’
‘So add Michael Hogan, the producer, to the list of suspects,’ Banham said. ‘He could know the steps in the routine, just like Stephen Coombs.’
Alison thought for a moment. ‘The wardrobe mistress, Maggie McCormack, claims she was in the audience during the show and came backstage after it happened.’
‘But Michael Hogan said he saw her backstage, just before the UV routine started and again during it,’ Banham said. ‘So one of them is lying.’
‘Could she know the routine?’ Crowther asked.
Alison nodded. ‘Definitely. She told me she used to be a dancer.’
‘She had very little time to get up to the office and get into the costume unnoticed,’ Crowther said.
‘No one was around,’ Banham pointed out. ‘The stage manager was in the pub next door, leaving the coast conveniently clear.’
‘But it wasn’t clear,’ Crowther argued. ‘Michael Hogan was in the company office just before the routine started.’
‘The routine is about ten minutes long,’ Alison said. ‘That’s ten minutes to slip into a black leotard and pull a balaclava over her head, come down and join in the end of the routine, pick up the scenery block and hit Lucinda, walk back across the stage behind the actors – and it was pitch black, remember, so the stage hands wouldn’t have noticed an extra person – then go upstairs and change while everyone is fussing around the dead girl. It’s pushing it, I grant you, but it could be done.’
The list of potential suspects was growing.
Banham gave the squad a chance to absorb Alison’s points, then added, ‘A few other things came out of the interviews too. Vincent Mann claims that just before the routine started he was listening outside the company office door and heard Michael Hogan and Sophie Flint saying they were going to sack Lucinda. But Michael Hogan’s version is that he wanted to get rid of Vincent Mann.’
‘What do we think about Michael Hogan sharing a dressing room with his adopted daughter?’ Crowther asked. ‘Seems a bit of an old perv to me.’
‘I thought that,’ Isabelle Walsh said, rolling her paper napkin into a ball and throwing it at the bin. It missed. Alison picked it up and dropped it in the bin before she could stop herself. ‘They’re not short of dressing rooms,’ Isabelle went on. ‘Barbara Denis has a room all to herself. Why doesn’t Sophie share that?’
‘The star always has a room to herself,’ Alison pointed out. ‘Barbara wouldn’t take kindly to sharing.’
‘Besides, it’s an office, not a dressing room,’ Banham shrugged. ‘Sophie Flint is the assistant director as well as the choreographer. Where’s the problem?’
‘Colin does have a point, though,’ Alison said. ‘He was discussing business matters with her while she was changing.’
Banham shrugged again. ‘Maybe, but it doesn’t seem of any consequence at the moment.’
Did he really believe that, or was he being naïve, Alison wondered, a little irritated.
‘Listen up, everyone,’ he continued. ‘Time we made a move. Forensics have finished with the area, so the theatre is open for business. They have a show at lunchtime, and Crowther, Isabelle, Alison and I will be there. Mickey Hutchens is on liaison duty with Lucinda’s parents; I’ve asked him to get her phone records and let me know if anything else turns up. And I’m hoping we’ll have results of the post-mortem by about one o’clock. The rest of you can take a break till then.’ He turned to Crowther. ‘Did all the actors stay the night at the theatre?’
‘All except Vincent Mann, Guv. He drove home. Didn’t please Michael Hogan, they had words over it. But Vincent said he wanted to get home to his wife and children, and no way would he sleep in the same room as Stephen Coombs.’
‘Perhaps Stephen Coombs wore the other black costume,’ the older detective piped up, ‘and meant to murder Vincent but got the wrong person.’
‘Good point.’ Banham said. ‘It would be hard to tell who was who in those outfits in the pitch black, especially if they aren’t standing in the right place.’
‘And Vincent is only five foot seven,’ Alison added.
‘As soon as the afternoon show is over,’ Banham said, ‘I want Sophie Flint brought to the station to make an official statement about Coombs not changing his costume during the UV scene. Meanwhile, we’ll be at the theatre, keeping our eyes and ears open. Alison, can you drive me?’
‘So what’s all this with you and the boss?’ Isabelle asked Alison as they were washing their hands in the locker room.
Alison was tired and hungry and not in the mood. ‘Because he asks me for a lift to the theatre?’ She noticed again how small Isabelle’s waist was, as the other woman fastened the buckle on her brown leather trousers.
‘No – because the whole department knows you bought him a CD of greatest all-time love songs for Christmas,’ she said, lifting her perfectly shaped eyebrows.
Alison opened her mouth to argue, but Isabelle got in first. ‘It’s all right, he hasn’t been telling tales. Crowther saw the card.’
‘And Crowther decided something was going on between us and told the whole department? Well, it’s not true.’ She was tired and upset, and this was the last thing she needed. ‘I don’t mix business with pleasure,’ she snapped. ‘And I’m not looking for a leg up the promotion ladder; I can get there on merit. I bought him a CD, yes, but not love songs. It was Phil Collins, who happens to be his favourite singer. He’s a friend, and I felt sorry for him – Christmas is the anniversary of the murder of his wife and baby and …’
The shrill of the phone in her handbag left her floundering. She pulled the phone out and flipped it open, aware Isabelle was staring at her.
‘Mickey, yes.’ She turned away and groped in her bag for a pen. Isabelle handed her one silently, still staring.
‘Her parents … Vincent Mann’s mobile …’ She scribbled on a scrap of paper. ‘And outgoing calls? Michael Hogan’s mobile … few to Vincent Mann … one to Sophie Flint. Good work, Mickey.Thanks.’
‘So why did she keep ringing her boss?’ she said, more to herself than to Isabelle.
‘To complain she was being bullied by Barbara Denis?’ the other woman suggested.
‘But why keep ringing him? We know she went to talk to him in the wings, but he implied that was the first he’d heard of it.’
‘Perhaps she wanted a leg up the promotional ladder?’
The quip broke the tension; Alison smiled. ‘And Sophie Flint found out? It’s possible. That’s a lot of secrets in that company.’
Isabelle laughed. ‘Affairs are always secret ones,’ she said. ‘No one ever admits they are happening – more exciting that way.’ She raised her dark eyebrows. ‘You don’t need a CID badge to know that.’
Chapter Six
The headline on the board outside the newsagent’s made Banham’s heart sink.
OH NO IT ISN’T! OH YES IT IS! MURDER!
Alison had just come out of the station. He waved to her and pointed towards the shop.
As he took his wallet out to pay, the appointment card from the sex therapist slipped to the floor. He bent down to retrieve it just as Alison walked in.
‘So how did that leak out, guv?’
He swiftly pushed the card back into his pocket, hoping she hadn’t noticed it. His stomach tightened; the thought of Alison knowing he really cared about her but couldn’t do anything about it was too awful to bear.
Suddenly, the image of baby Elizabeth flooded his mind again, her body covered in blood.
‘Are you all right, guv?’ Alison asked with great concern. ‘You’ve gone a funny colour. I wouldn’t trust Crowther’s bacon and egg butties.’
The image receded and he managed a smile. ‘No one would sell Crowther duff butties,’ he told her. ‘They wouldn’t dare mess with him.’
She picked up a paper and flicked the pages. ‘Good publicity for the show,’ she said. ‘Big picture of Vincent Mann on page two. Small ones of Stephen Coombs, Barbara Denis and Sophie Flint.’ She blew out a breath. ‘Now, that could make for bad feeling.’
He relaxed; she hadn’t seen the card. ‘I’d like to know how the press got the story,’ he said.
‘Someone in the cast rang them?’
He nodded. ‘It certainly wasn’t us!’ He picked up a couple of reduced price chocolate Christmas puddings from the counter in front of him and paid for them.
‘Do you want one?’ he asked as they made their way back to the car.
‘No, I don’t,’ she snapped.
He was still in her bad books, then. He unwrapped a chocolate pudding from its coloured paper.
‘So who stands to gain from the publicity?’ he asked. ‘Surely not Michael Hogan? It could have the reverse effect on the ticket sales.’
Alison shook her head. ‘There’s a very old saying: all publicity is good publicity.’
‘I’ll bow to your knowledge.’ He crunched into the chocolate. ‘Who would the publicity help?’
‘All of them! Barbara Denis wants to make a comeback, she needs all the publicity she can get.’ She tutted irritably. ‘You’ve already eaten an enormous fried breakfast bun, wasn’t that enough?’
‘What about Sophie Flint? And it wouldn’t look too good for Vincent Mann – a top children’s presenter involved in a murder case?’
Alison tried not to look at the chocolate pudding. ‘Sophie is assistant director and choreographer,’ she said. ‘She’s probably on a percentage of the takings. Vincent Mann … well, if he’s convinced she was murdered, he might care more for her than the bad publicity, and it’s going to get out eventually.’ She pressed the electronic key to open her dark green Golf parked a few paces away. ‘The same goes for Stephen Coombs,’ she mused. ‘Actually, the only person it could reflect badly on is the stage manager, Alan McCormack. Don’t get chocolate on my car seats.’
Banham put the rest of the pudding in his mouth. ‘He’s the only one with a cast-iron alibi,’ he said, opening the passenger door. ‘Three of the pub staff saw him drinking in the Feathers.’
Alison grimaced. ‘Didn’t your mother tell you it’s rude to speak with your mouth full?’ The ignition fired; she indicated and pulled out, blowing her horn at another driver. Banham took a deep breath. Her driving was bad enough under normal circumstances, but when she was in a foul mood he feared for everyone she came into contact with. He didn’t understand; she was all right at the briefing, and since then all he’d done was bought her some chocolate, which he’d ended up eating himself.
‘I want you to talk to the terribly young and terribly bossy choreographer when we get to the theatre,’ he told her. ‘You may not charm her the way Crowther would, but you’ll have more idea of what she’s talking about.’
She said nothing for a few seconds, then returned his smile. ‘OK, boss.’
He wiped the front window to make sure she could see clearly, then clicked on the rear window heater. ‘Crowther is driving her to the station after the show to take an official statement,’ he reminded Alison. ‘So see if you can get any more relevant info out of her first.’
‘I’ll tell her we’re doing her a favour waiting until this show finishes,’ Alison said. ‘Then I’ll grill her.’
The rest of the journey passed in silence. Banham gazed through the window at the Christmas decorations still hanging across the streets. He opened his mouth to tell her how much he enjoyed her company, and that he’d like to see her again, but lost his nerve and closed it again. Women were very complicated.
They entered the theatre from the front and walked into the auditorium. Michael Hogan and Sophie were both leaning against the orchestra pit talking to the cast, who were spread out around the auditorium, apart from the four chorus dancers who sat huddled together.
Alison and Banham slipped quietly into the back row and listened.
‘Both teams of juveniles have left,’ Michael was telling the cast. ‘Red Team’s parents all pulled them out of the show last night, and I’ve had calls from the mothers of five of the Blue Team ki
ds this morning. I couldn’t say anything under the circumstances. So you’ll need to spread out and use the stage. Fay is taking over as principal girl, and Maggie has kindly offered to play the cat.’
The chorus girl at the end sat up. ‘I’m Lucinda’s understudy,’ she said indignantly. ‘I’ve learned the part and I know the songs.’
‘Sonia, darling, I can’t spare you from the chorus,’ Michael pleaded. ‘I’ve lost my juvenile dancers and you four have to make up for ten. Maggie’s too old for the chorus, but she’ll be fine in the cat’s skin.’
Sophie stifled a little laugh, and Maggie tossed her head. ‘Charming!’
Michael smiled placatingly at Maggie and turned back to Sonia. ‘This is the best way,’ he said. ‘Please bear with me.’
Sonia’s disappointment was clear. Trevor put his arm around her.
Sophie noticed Alison and Banham for the first time. ‘Anything we can help with?’ she called. ‘Or are you just watching?’
‘I’d like a few words with you, Sophie,’ Alison said politely. ‘But no hurry – after you’ve sorted your rehearsal is fine.’
‘We can do it now. Come through the pass door; we’ll go up to my office. You can take the rehearsal, Michael.’
As if she was the producer and he the employee, Alison thought.
Sophie was wearing the sugar-pink tracksuit she’d had on the night before, her waist-length, silky blonde hair pulled off her face into a ponytail twisted and secured with a large zebra-print clip. Half the hair had slid from the clip and hung down her back. Alison often dealt with under-age prostitutes, and knew untidy ponytails were all the rage. Sophie’s hard front was reminiscent of those girls’, but Alison felt sure it wouldn’t take too much to knock her off her perch and find a way into her insecurities and fears.
Alison sat on the flip-up chair in front of the Formica-topped shelving. Sophie leaned against the shelves and folded her arms. Her eyes were an unusual colour, a clear, bright indigo, like Elizabeth Taylor’s; but unlike Taylor’s they were small, hard and calculating.
‘Sorry to pull you away,’ she said. ‘I need to ask you a couple of questions.’
