Stagestruck

by Peter Lovesey

  ‘How do people get hold of this drug?’ Paul Gilbert asked.

  ‘It’s no big deal,’ Halliwell said. ‘I expect you can get it on the internet.’

  ‘This was old stock.’

  ‘Plenty of it was changing hands in the nineties and is still in circulation. We’ve taken it off blokes going into night clubs. They don’t seem to have any problem acquiring it. There are evidence bags downstairs with the stuff.’

  ‘There must have been a lot of it around.’

  ‘How many pharmacies are there in the country? How many doctors over-prescribe?’

  ‘Of more importance to us,’ Diamond said, ‘who in the Theatre Royal would be likely to have a supply of the stuff?’

  Fred Dawkins said, ‘The pocket Lothario.’

  ‘Come again.’

  ‘Hedley Shearman. The little man with the large libido.’

  ‘Fred’s right,’ Halliwell said. ‘Shearman is just the kind of shagbag who would use the date rape drug. He has plenty of form as a seducer, as we’re finding out. Before coming to Bath, he was front-of-house manager at a theatre in Worthing and got one of the box office ladies pregnant. His second wife divorced him on the strength of it.’

  Diamond was less convinced. ‘There’s no evidence that he or anyone else had sex with Denise.’

  ‘He could have made a play for her some other time,’ Halliwell said, clearly liking this scenario. ‘Maybe she gave him the brush-off and threatened to report him to the board. He got scared and set this trap for her.’

  ‘Is that enough to justify murder?’

  ‘He’s still paying for the divorce. Losing his job would be a disaster. That’s the motive and we know the opportunity was there. As manager he could move around backstage without anyone paying attention.’

  ‘But would he risk the theatre closing?’

  ‘It didn’t, guv. Everything carried on as usual after Denise’s death. He was one of the keenest to let the show go on. He argued with you about the matinee that was cancelled.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘He looks the strongest suspect we have,’ Paul Gilbert said.

  Diamond was reluctant to pin it on Shearman at this point. ‘Are you also suggesting he murdered Clarion?’

  ‘He was the man on the spot, wasn’t he?’ Halliwell said. ‘He arranged for her to be seated in the Arnold Haskell box. He could have gone there any time during the play. He was the only one of the theatre staff we know for sure was in there with her. He admits she was dead at the interval and he delayed reporting it until the show was over. If that isn’t guilty behaviour, what is?’

  ‘But why? Why murder Clarion?’

  Halliwell shrugged. ‘He’s unstoppable. He fancied his chances with her.’

  ‘Little Hedley Shearman?’ Diamond shook his head. ‘With an international pop star?’

  ‘You’ve got to remember how vulnerable Clarion was at that stage. She’d been scarred. She’d come back to the theatre, his territory. He felt he had power over her, placing her in the box. He came on strong with her, she told him to get lost and he snapped and killed her.’

  ‘With a plastic bag he happened to have brought along for the seduction? I don’t think so, Keith.’

  Halliwell wasn’t giving up on his suspect. ‘Well, he tried it on earlier, before the interval, and she laughed in his face. He was humiliated, so he went back with the bag and suffocated her.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind,’ Diamond said in a tone suggesting the opposite. ‘Has anything else of interest been uncovered yet?’ He moved around the room looking over people’s shoulders. He could be an intimidating presence. Everything went quiet again apart from the tapping of keyboards and the occasional beep of the phones.

  One of the civilian staff called him to the phone. ‘DI Leaman would like a word, sir. He’s at the theatre.’

  He picked it up. ‘John?’

  ‘Guv, we’ve started the search here.’

  ‘Any joy?’

  ‘I’m in wardrobe, with Kate.’

  ‘Lucky man.’

  ‘You asked us to look for carrier bags. The thing is, Kate has to do shopping for costumes and materials. She has a stack of bags. So far I’ve counted forty-seven.’

  19

  Patience was a virtue Diamond didn’t have in abundance, but over the years he’d cultivated a little of it. Experience had taught him that you can’t rush the people who work in forensic labs. The blood test results from the postmortem on Denise Pearsall would be revealed only when the scientists were ready. The men in white coats were well used to dealing with calls from policemen wanting swifter action. However, the same constraints didn’t apply to document examiners. They were used less often, so fair game for some badgering, in Diamond’s opinion. The suicide note supposedly written by Denise and recovered from the fake stove on stage at the theatre had been sent to an expert in Bristol called Lincroft. He hadn’t reported back yet.

  ‘Fearfully sorry, but I can’t help you much,’ Lincroft said when Diamond phoned him. ‘There isn’t much to go on.’

  ‘A signature.’

  ‘Half actually. She signed with her first name only.’

  ‘We sent you her real signature to compare it with.’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t do much without. If the suicide note is a forgery, it’s a good one. Often you can tell under the microscope, for example when there’s some shakiness to the writing from the effort to make an exact copy. There is slight evidence of a tremor here, but one has to make allowance for the writer’s state of mind.’

  ‘I don’t know how you ever reach a conclusion,’ Diamond said, hearing himself apeing the laid-back voice.

  ‘Usually there’s more to work with. And I don’t confine my researches to suicide notes. You’d be surprised what gets referred to me apart from the usual cheques and wills. Degrees, diplomas, even sick notes. Sometimes the deception is obvious, when, say, they trace over a signature in pencil and ink it in after. This certainly didn’t happen to the note in question.’

  ‘If this is a forgery – and there’s reason to think it is – how do they make it look right?’

  ‘By working from a genuine signature and practising. In that way they avoid the giveaway signs of uneven speed and pressure.’

  ‘But I can’t look to you for a firm opinion?’

  ‘I did say it was quite well done if it isn’t the real thing. I’ve spent considerable time, effort and taxpayers’ money examining this document. The fact that it’s merely a forename makes my task even more demanding. Even if I work on it for another week I’m unlikely to say what you want to hear.’

  ‘Oh, brilliant.’

  At this point, Lincroft must have been moved by the disappointment in Diamond’s voice. ‘If I were you, I’d come at this from another direction.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The letter was computer-generated. Did this lady possess her own computer and printer?’

  ‘Yes, but you can’t tell anything from printed stuff. It’s all done by laser, isn’t it? The days are long gone when we all used typewriters with chipped keys.’

  ‘Some modern printers still give information. I noticed some specks down the right edge, very small, deposited by the toner.’

  Diamond picked up the photocopy he had of the note. He’d already seen some tiny dots randomly spread and hadn’t thought anything of them.

  ‘Cleaning the drum removes them,’ Lincroft went on, ‘but people tend to wait until the marks get worse and become obvious. There must be enough here to identify the printer that was used. I suggest you run some paper through the lady’s printer and then compare it.’

  He was impressed. ‘Sounds like good advice.’

  ‘Glad to be of service. I’ll return the letter with my invoice. Goodbye.’

  The phone went dead. There were times when Diamond wished he, too, was self-employed and issuing invoices.

  He checked with the store downstairs where evidence was kept. They had what t
hey called Denise’s motherboard, but not her printer. ‘Why not, for crying out loud?’ he said, and then aired his new expertise. ‘Some printers leave marks, you know. Vital information.’

  They said it wasn’t their fault, but they would send someone to Dolemeads to fetch it.

  ‘Pronto.’

  ‘If that’s what you want, sir.’

  ‘What I really want is for someone to run a dozen sheets of blank paper through the thing and have them on my desk within the hour.’

  He went down to the canteen. He’d arranged to meet his new recruits there. George Pidgeon and Dawn Reed were waiting by the door, as edgy as first night actors. Was it his imagination, or were police getting younger?

  ‘You should have gone in,’ he told them. ‘Or are you waiting for me to buy you tea and a bun?’

  PC Reed started to explain, but Diamond interrupted. ‘You’ll soon learn that I’m not easy to work for. Whatever you do, it’s wrong. Coffee?’

  They hesitated as if it was a trick question.

  ‘I’m having tea and a Bath bun,’ he said.

  ‘The same for me, sir,’ PC Pidgeon said at once.

  ‘But we’ll buy our own,’ Reed added.

  ‘In that case you can buy mine as well while I bag a table,’ Diamond said.

  From the far side of the canteen he watched with amusement as they lined up at the counter talking earnestly to each other with an occasional glance to where he was, most likely settling who would pay for his tea and bun.

  When they came over with the tray he held out a fiver.

  ‘It’s on us, sir,’ Reed said.

  ‘It isn’t. I brought you here. I pay.’

  Having worked with Fred Dawkins, this young lady was used to being overruled.

  That settled, Diamond said with an effort to be friendly, ‘You’re asking yourselves why you’ve been plucked from the ranks. It’s because I’ve seen you in action, both of you, and I liked what I saw. George, when you found that car for me the other evening you asked about the possibility of a transfer to CID.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Pidgeon’s spaniel eyes gleamed in expectation.

  ‘This isn’t it. I want two reliable officers for a job I wouldn’t care to do myself. And you can stop all this “sir” stuff. “Guv” will do to my face and what you call me behind my back is your affair. Understood?’

  In unison they said, ‘Yes, guv.’

  ‘This job is secret. Do you know the difference between secret and need to know?’

  ‘If it’s secret, no one needs to know,’ Reed said.

  ‘Correct. Not your friends, family, brother officers, superiors, the Chief Constable, not even the theatre ghost. Afraid of ghosts, are you, either of you?’

  Unused to this sort of question from a senior officer, they each grinned sheepishly.

  ‘This is something I do need to know,’ he said.

  They glanced at each other and shook their heads.

  ‘That’s good, because you’ll be spending the next two nights on duty inside the Theatre Royal, supposedly one of the most haunted buildings in Bath. It will be dark when you go in and I want it to remain in darkness. You’ll be alone in that spooky old building, apart perhaps from the grey lady.’ He scanned their faces. ‘How does that strike you?’

  ‘Not a problem for me, guv,’ Pidgeon said.

  ‘Me neither,’ Reed said.

  And they obviously meant what they said.

  ‘You’re too polite to ask what this is all about. Here’s the deal. We’ve had two murders in the theatre in two days. One thing we know for certain about the killer is that he or she is very familiar with the place, backstage as well as the part the audience sees. The digital security system is no bar to this individual. And we believe the first murder may have been done after hours, at night. My idea is to set a trap, persuade the killer to return to the scene of the crime. The time they’ll choose will be at night. If this succeeds you’ll be lying in wait and you’ll arrest them. Does that make sense?’

  ‘What’s the bait, guv?’ Reed asked.

  ‘Good question. Not yet decided. It has to be something that unsettles them, some giveaway clue they left behind and need to return for. They’ll think the theatre is empty. This is why your mission is top secret.’

  The start of a frown appeared as Pidgeon asked, ‘Will we be armed?’

  Diamond shook his head. ‘You can carry your batons if you like.’

  ‘I meant firearms.’

  ‘I know what you meant and I said batons. Have you done the firearms course, either of you?’

  They shook their heads.

  ‘You’d end up shooting each other. If it’s any comfort, the only weapon the killer has used so far is a plastic bag,’ He took out one of the cards issued to theatre staff. ‘These are the security codes. You enter through the Egg Theatre, which is at the back. Get there by ten. Your shift ends at first light.’

  ‘Do you want us in uniform, guv?’ Dawn Reed asked.

  ‘What do you think? Because I treated you to tea and a bun, that doesn’t make you CID. I suggest you get some sleep in the next few hours.’

  ‘Are we off duty now?’

  He nodded and watched them leave, two kids let out of school early. A touching sight. He hoped his faith in them would be justified.

  The sheets of paper that had been run through Denise’s printer had some marks along the right side that didn’t remotely match the suicide note. Diamond showed them to Paul Gilbert and explained their significance.

  ‘Is this good news, or bad?’ young Gilbert asked.

  ‘Good and bad. It’s more evidence that we’re working on the right assumption, that she was murdered,’ he said, ‘so that much is good. If she’d printed the note at home, suicide would have been a safe bet.’

  ‘So what’s bad?’

  ‘We don’t know which machine it was printed on. We can’t be sure of anything until we find out.’

  ‘I expect the murderer has a printer,’ Gilbert said. ‘If we asked each of the suspects…’ His voice trailed away as he realised why he’d been called in.

  ‘And it’s quite possible our crafty killer didn’t use his own computer at all,’ Diamond said. ‘You can start by getting specimen sheets from all the printers at the theatre. I’ve seen one in the box office. There must be a number of others. When you’ve eliminated them, start making a nuisance of yourself, going into people’s homes. Don’t let anyone offer to do the printing for you.’

  ‘Isn’t there a flaw in this, guv?’ Gilbert said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If I was the killer, I’d already have cleaned my printer so it wouldn’t leave marks at all.’

  Just when Diamond was starting to feel he’d caught up with computer technology and found its Achilles heel. ‘Let’s hope he hasn’t thought of that. Run these tests as discreetly as possible.’

  Gilbert looked as if he’d rather stack shelves in Sainsbury’s.

  ‘Look at it this way,’ Diamond said. ‘You could be the guy who fingers the killer.’

  He didn’t seem convinced.

  Motive would be the key to the murder of Clarion Calhoun.

  Alone in his office and sensing that time was running out, Diamond turned to the classic trinity for all crimes: opportunity, means and motive. Opportunity wasn’t of much help. In a theatre where so much was going on and with the victim isolated, the opportunity had been there for the taking. The means, a plastic bag, was so commonplace that there was doubt if it was worth searching for. The theatre was full of bags. Leaman had called in again to say he had found another nine in the props room, making a total of fifty-six at the latest count, and it was probable that the bag actually used had been disposed of elsewhere.

  Only the motive was worth pursuing. Why would anyone want to kill Clarion when she had withdrawn her threat to sue? The theatre had been saved from a damaging court case. She was everyone’s fairy godmother. The good news had been relayed to the entire theatre
community by Francis Melmot. But now that Clarion was dead, all bets were off. The future of the place was plunged back into uncertainty. Surely no one wished the theatre to be closed after two hundred years?

  There had to be another reason why she was killed. She’d fought her way to the top as a pop star. How many hopefuls had she pushed off the ladder? It was possible someone had harboured a grudge. But when you considered the line-up of suspects, none of them had any connection with the pop world except – very remotely – Melmot, who had been a fan, not a rival.

  Who stood to gain financially from Clarion’s death? She had property, for sure, and money, though probably not the fortune she’d earned at the peak of her career. She was going to make a substantial donation to the theatre. Was that the trigger that had killed her? Did someone foresee their inheritance being frittered away on wigs and make-up and weird experimental plays?

  He made a note to find out the terms of Clarion’s will, if she’d made one, and who the main legatees were. There had been a live-in boyfriend at one stage, but he’d returned to Australia after they split up. There was a manager called Declan Dean, and she’d dumped him, too. Anyone else? Tilda Box would probably know. Indeed, Tilda Box might be the beneficiary. She seemed to have been more than just an agent. She and Clarion had been seen clubbing together. But then Tilda had been in London at the time of the murder.

  The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that nothing would be gained by treating the two murders in isolation. The victims were totally unlike each other, yet the theatre had brought them together as leading actress and dresser. Clarion’s extravagant act of self-harm had thrown blame onto Denise. The unfortunate dresser had at first assumed like everyone else that she’d made a dreadful mistake. Her death, almost certainly dressed up as suicide, must have been cunningly arranged by the killer, who evidently knew the theatre intimately, the butterfly superstition, the empty second-floor dressing room and the door to the fly tower and the compartment in the stove where the so-called suicide note was discovered.