by Linda Regan
The tapping became more urgent.
All the dressing room keys hung on a rack behind Alan’s chair; she ran to the stage and beckoned to the uniformed PCs as she skimmed the rack for the chorus’s key. It was the only one missing.
‘Get that door open,’ she told the PCs. ‘Break it down if you have to.’
She left them to it and ran back to the stage to find Michael Hogan. There was no sign of him in the wings. The Sultan of Morocco scene was in full swing; Dick Whittington was promising to rid the island of rats with the help of his amazing cat, in return for freedom for himself and his friends. Alan would be on stage. So where was Michael?
Sorting out the hedgehogs, she realised. There was no time to find him.
She ran back to the chorus room. The door was open and Trevor was on the floor wearing only his underwear and a red and white spotted handkerchief tied tightly around his mouth. His wrists were strapped together and bound to the pipe under the sink with the strong grey sticky tape – gaffer tape, she remembered – which was used in abundance backstage. He was sobbing and trying to free himself, helped by the uniformed PCs.
‘What happened?’ Alison asked.
‘I don’t remember anything,’ he sobbed. ‘But I’ve got a terrible pain in the back of my head. I suppose someone hit me.’
‘OK,’ Alison said gently. The two constables wrapped his towelling robe around him. ‘Call an ambulance and get him comfortable.’
‘I’ve got to be on stage,’ Trevor cried desperately. ‘I’ve got to be King Rat.’
The large furry costume was nowhere to be seen – and through the tannoy Barbara Denis was telling King Rat to draw his sword and fight for his life.
Alison snatched her mobile from her pocket and furiously stabbed the keys. As she raced from the room, the phone pressed to her ear, she heard the swords clash. The fight that should have started slowly was already moving at a galloping pace. It grew faster and louder as she reached the wings.
‘Guv, I need urgent back-up,’ she hissed when Banham picked up. ‘There’s an imposter King Rat on stage and I think he’s about to kill Barbara Denis.’
Chapter Sixteen
‘Mushroom, got it.’ Crowther clicked his phone shut and ran after Banham, who was striding away down the corridor pocketing his own mobile. ‘That was the lab, guv. The pizza in Sophie Flint’s stomach contents was mushroom. The salami fragments came from the shoeprint.’
‘Never mind that for now. We’ve got to get to the theatre – that was Alison on the phone.’
They clicked their seatbelts and moment later were following two patrol cars at top speed, lights flashing and sirens screaming.
Alison’s brain was racing. The sword fight was more frantic than usual, but whoever was in the rat costume knew the moves. None of the actors seemed aware anything was different from usual.
Alison tried desperately to think what to do for the best. She had to do something; there was no time to wait for back-up. Not only was Barbara’s life potentially at risk, there were also five hundred people sitting in the auditorium, at least half of them children; and if she stopped the show, the unknown person could jump into the audience.
Barbara seemed oblivious to the fact that she could be in danger. Alison’s eyes darted around the stage; all the actors and dancers should be there at this point in the show, and she started to count them off. Rory the new dame was there, standing well out of the way of the clashing swords. Fay was beside one of the chorus dancers, also well clear of the sword fight, leaning against the back entrance to the set. But which dancer was it? Lindsay or Tanya? They looked so similar.
She spotted Tanya crouching on the ground, fighting a few grey fluffy toys; Alison realised they were the dreadful hedgehogs Michael had substituted for rats. That meant that Michael himself was probably at the opposite side, throwing the ghastly furry creatures on to the stage. But Alison couldn’t see the other side of the stage. She couldn’t see Sonia either, then remembered she was on the stage, playing the Fairy of the Bells.
Again, Alison tried to work out who wasn’t there. Maggie and Vincent should both have been on stage, but they were both missing.
Barbara was struggling to keep up. She ducked as the large sword swung around her head and jumped as it dropped towards her legs, panic and puzzlement written across her face.
Alison made an instant decision to bring the curtain down. She turned to grab the lever behind Alan’s high chair, but it wouldn’t budge. She ran to the back of the set to look for the work experience boys, but realised they would have left; their job was done once they had moved the scenery for this scene.
Every second counted if she was to prevent another murder. Where was Alan? He wasn’t on stage and he wasn’t in the wings. He had promised he wouldn’t disappear off to the pub any more – so where had he gone?
There was no more time to waste. If she couldn’t bring the curtain down, she would have to walk on stage with the two uniformed officers and stop the show. She decided to give the curtain one last try.
But she was stopped short. Her jumper had hooked itself against the trestle table. The table was overflowing with stuffed hedgehogs, and stood at its usual dangerous and obstructive angle beside the police tapes that cordoned off the basement. The only light was a small worker bulb intended to help the actors find their props in the dark. She felt around to find out what she was hooked on, and her finger jabbed something sharp. She carefully freed the jumper and turned around to see what it was. Her heart started racing like a formula one car. It was one of the rusting prop swords.
So what was the person in the rat costume using to fight Barbara?
She gesticulated to the uniformed PCs and rushed back to try the curtain lever again. One of the constables followed her and they both pulled and tugged, but the lever still wouldn’t budge.
Out front the audience was going wild as the sword fight headed towards a climax. They were out of time; she had to stop the show.
The screams from the audience could have been heard in the next town as Barbara ducked and dived. Today, King Rat was winning the fight, and panic was written across Barbara’s face. She clearly knew she was fighting a very different fight from the one they had rehearsed; this one was to save her own life.
The audience were on their feet, yelling themselves hoarse. King Rat waved the sword above his head like a madman. Suddenly a voice came through the head-cans draped across Alan’s stool. ‘Can anyone hear me?’ pleaded the sound technician, who could see everything from his seat at the back of the stalls. ‘Bring the curtain down now. Something’s very wrong up there.’
Alison snatched up the head-cans and pressed the Speak button. ‘It’s Sergeant Grainger,’ she said desperately. ‘I am trying, but the lever won’t budge.’
‘Pull it upwards and tug it sharply to your left,’ he told her. ‘I’m on my way.’
Barbara let out a yell. Alison turned to see her clutching at her shoulder. The sword had landed at the top of her arm, which was shielded only by the thin white cotton shirt under her mini tunic dress. A rush of dark red blood stained the sleeve and she dropped her own sword. The rat’s sword landed again, cutting into her shoulder.
The audience fell suddenly into horror-struck silence, and the actors stared in terror. Barbara fell face-down and hit the floor.
A child in the audience cried, ‘Don’t die, Dick. Get up and kill the monster!’
Then everything seemed to happen at once. Alison rushed on stage shouting, ‘Stop! Hold it right there.’ Trevor and the sound man arrived at the side of the stage and grabbed the curtain lever. The two uniformed PCs walked purposefully towards the unknown person in the rat’s costume, but backed away as the intruder pointed the long, sharp sword at them. Panic spread through the cast as the intruder lifted the sword and swung it around.
Alison kept her eyes firmly on the creature standing before her pointing the sword. ‘Everyone stand back,’ she ordered. ‘And someone help Barbara.’
The girl dancers rushed to Barbara’s aid, kneeling beside her as her face contorted in pain and she clutched her bleeding shoulder.
As slow handclapping from the impatient audience started to mount, police sirens wailed towards the theatre. The anonymous creature took another swipe, cutting the air a few times around the uniformed PCs.
Alison kept her distance but faced the furry impostor. ‘You must know you can’t get away,’ she said. ‘The theatre will be surrounded by police in a moment. Drop the sword and we’ll sort this out.’
The sirens grew louder then stopped.
Alison stretched her hand out to the rat. ‘Just give me the sword,’ she said calmly, taking a step forward.
The stage door opened and banged. Alison used the momentary distraction to take another step. ‘Give me the sword.’ She was now standing less than a foot away.
A moment later Banham rushed on the stage, followed by Crowther and half a dozen uniformed officers.
King Rat lifted his sword.
‘Drop it,’ Banham commanded.
The rat seemed to flounder, and Crowther seized the moment. He crept up behind and grabbed the creature by the wrist which held the sword. The rat tried to resist, but a uniformed officer grabbed his other arm, and after a very brief struggle the sword hit the floor.
Alison grabbed it, and ran her fingers across the blade. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘That could take someone’s head off.’ She looked at it more closely. ‘It’s been sharpened recently.’ A thought flashed into her head: the oily stone on the desk in the company office. It was a carborundum stone; her father had one in his shed, for sharpening his garden shears.
‘Who is it?’ Banham demanded.
Two officers took hold of either side of the rat while a third struggled unsuccessfully to pull the head off.
‘It’s Vincent Mann,’ Alison said.
Banham pushed the creature against the wall and struggled with the zip at the back of the costume.
‘No, I’m here,’ Vincent said sheepishly. He peered out from behind the set. ‘That fight was a bit scary. I thought I was better off back here.’
Alison looked quickly round the stage. The dancers were all there, comforting Barbara; Sonia had ripped the sleeve off the bloodstained white shirt and was using it to staunch the blood.
The rat continued to struggle, and Banham still couldn’t get the head undone.
‘It opens at the back. You need to undo the clips as well as the zip,’ Trevor explained.
‘Mummy knows how to do it,’ Fay said. But Maggie was nowhere to be seen.
Alison moved in to help Banham. She felt for the clips and relieved the creature of its head.
‘You?’ she said.
‘I think I’m going to faint,’ Barbara Denis. Her head lolled to one side and she lost consciousness. Blood trickled down her thin arm to her fingers.
Alison knelt beside Barbara and lifted her so she rested against her shoulder. ‘I’ll get her to the couch in her dressing room. Chase the ambulance up,’ she told the one of the PCs. ‘She’s bleeding and it might need stitches.’ Alison and the dancers lifted Barbara and began to carry her into the wings. ‘You’ll be all right,’ Alison said to her. ‘Help is on its way.’
Behind her Banham’s voice rang out. ‘Michael Hogan, I’m arresting you for the murders of Sophie Flint and Lucinda Benson, and the attempted murder of Barbara Denis. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence …’
Alison eased Barbara on to the sofa. The actress gulped in air and cupped her hand over the wound in her shoulder.
‘Could you go and fetch the first aid box?’ Alison said to the dancers.
Barbara clenched her teeth against the pain. ‘You’re going to be OK,’ Alison told her. ‘The cut doesn’t look deep and the paramedics are on their way.’ The wound was bleeding and might need a few stitches, but it didn’t look too bad.
She felt totally responsible. She should have simply stopped the show when she first realised something was wrong, instead of trying to find out how the curtain worked, and spare the five hundred odd people in the audience. If Barbara had been the third victim she’d never have forgiven herself.
Barbara’s eyes started closing. ‘Water?’ she whispered.
She licked her dry lips and Alison opened the fridge door to look for a bottle of mineral water. She found one and was about to close the door when her eyes fell on the pizza carton on the middle shelf. The letters C and T were written across it. But no one in the show had those initials.
The penny dropped. M and S on the ones upstairs in Michael’s office didn’t stand for Michael and Sophie, but mushroom and salami. And this one was obviously cheese and tomato.
A current of pain shot through her brain as something hard hit the back of her head. Her hair was grabbed and her head yanked backwards. Then something cold slithered around her neck. It was Barbara Denis’s arm, and she held a small, sharp knife. She froze at the sudden prickle as the point touched her throat.
‘Don’t think I won’t kill you too,’ Barbara said, her tone very different from her usual voice. ‘The only thing stopping me is that you’re my ticket out of here.’
‘Can we come in? We’ve got the first aid stuff.’ It was Tanya’s voice outside the door.
‘Say no,’ Barbara whispered, turning the knife in her hand so the handle jabbed into Alison’s throat. ‘And don’t try any fucking heroics, or I guarantee you’re dead meat.’
‘We’re OK for the moment,’ Alison shouted to the dancers, trying to sound as normal as possible. ‘Go back to your dressing room and I’ll come and get them.’
She watched Barbara in the mirror. A sadistic smile spread across the dark red mouth, and the lips moved back revealing the teeth. Barbara threw her head back and laughed. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Do as you’re told and I won’t kill you. But cross me and I will. Do you understand?’
Alison couldn’t risk nodding her head. If she moved a millimetre there was a good chance that the knife would break the thin skin on her neck. She swallowed and gasped, to let Barbara think she needed to catch her breath, and to buy herself a few seconds to think. Barbara loosened her grip slightly.
Alison had been trained to deal with situations like this, but nothing in the training had prepared her for the reality. She fought desperately to quell the panic and keep control of herself, but the sharp blade against her throat and the thought of her own blood spilling like the dead Sophie Flint’s made logic waver.
Banham signalled to Crowther to take Michael Hogan out of his sight.
‘I haven’t murdered anyone,’ Michael protested as Crowther took his arm. ‘Dear God, don’t make another mistake.’
‘What mistake? What are you talking about?’
‘I wanted real justice for Sophie. Surely you can understand that. The law would only give her a few years in prison …’
Banham looked at Crowther.
‘Without Sophie, nothing matters,’ Michael said. He lifted his furry arms in the air. ‘Lock me up, throw away the key, I don’t care. But don’t let her get away. ‘
‘What are you saying?’
‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, that’s what it says in the Bible.’
At the same moment Alan McCormack arrived at the side of the stage with Maggie. ‘He was in the pub,’ Maggie said. ‘I didn’t think he could do sword fighting but I had to be sure.’
Alan brushed her aside. ‘You’d better come,’ he said to Banham. ‘The dancers went to get bandages for Barbara’s shoulder, but she’s shut herself in the dressing room with your sergeant …’
Chapter Seventeen
Alison felt anything but calm; the composed voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else. ‘You won’t get away with this. There’s a dozen police just a few yards away.’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Barbara hissed at her. ‘I’ll do the talking.’
Alison closed both her eyes to stop herself blinking. Her ponytail wa
s tugged backwards, pulling her head back so the skin on her neck became taut. ‘Do I make myself clear?’ Barbara asked, moving the knife just a fraction so Alison could nod her agreement.
The small movement was a chance; Alison lifted her hand to go for the knife. But Barbara was quicker. The long bony leg was up in a second; she kneed Alison hard in the kidney, then pressed the knife against her throat again. ‘Do I make myself clear?’ she repeated.
Alison was struggling to breathe. She opened her mouth and cold air rushed into her lungs; the sudden shock, the pain in her kidney and the enveloping fear made her lose control of her bladder. Hot liquid seeped down the inside of her trousers. Barbara watched her in the mirror, amused.
‘I’ll do whatever you ask,’ Alison she said carefully as their eyes met in the mirror. ‘I don’t want to end up like Sophie and Lucinda. Why did you kill them?’
The hard brown eyes seemed to pierce into hers like the knife. A small part of Alison’s mind still worked logically; it weighed up the chances of taking on both the woman and the knife. Strange laughter rang from Barbara’s painted mouth, and Alison felt the grip tighten on her shoulder and the knife press harder against her throat. She had never been so terrified in her life.
‘Sophie Flint had it coming,’ Barbara said casually, turning the knife against Alison’s throat. ‘Thieving little slut. He’s mine. She stole his money too, and talent from every performer she stupidly choreographed.’ Her voice sounded deep and distorted. ‘These pantomimes used to be works of art. When Michael and I directed them they were wonderful.’
She turned to check her reflection in the mirror. Alison nearly seized the moment, but then it was lost.
‘Then she came along, and all her stupid life she made it her business to take everything. And he was too blind to see it.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Who’ll mourn her? No one but him. No one liked her. I did us all a favour.’ She narrowed her eyes again. ‘She had it coming and she got it. She caused everybody nothing but pain.’
‘What about Lucinda?’ Alison asked. The knee in her kidney took her by surprise again; her head jerked up as the pain hit her brain, and her neck nudged the edge of the knife. At first it felt like a wasp sting. Her eyes watered and she gasped for breath. She looked in the mirror to see if there was any blood but Barbara’s arm was in the way.
