A Theatrical Murder

by David W Robinson

  Nat sniffed just once, as if he were catching and controlling his grief. “It’s the kind of production I’d minimise on my CV. Instead of waxing eloquent about it, I’d just note the dates and the play. On the other hand, I have three days now to change things… assuming the police will let us go. I think I may spend that time rewriting some of the scenes.” He tried to smile. “It would be a fitting tribute to Sedgwick’s former brilliance.”

  “What about Teri?” Sylvia asked, her forehead lined with concern. “How bad will it be on her CV, I mean?”

  “At Teri’s age, Mrs Goodson, it will be overlooked. All young actors appear in their share of, er, turkeys.”

  “The quality of the production isn’t important, Gran,” Teri echoed. “The experience is. I can demonstrate that I appeared in a tour, and if Nat does rewrite the dialogue, I can also demonstrate my adaptability.” A look of horror crossed her pretty features. “It’s a terrible thing to say, but Malcolm’s death may actually be good for me.”

  “You’re right, it is a terrible thing to say,” Sheila reproved.

  “But practical,” Joe argued. “I’m sure you’ll be a star one of these days, Teri.” He checked his watch and learned it was coming up to midnight. “Not much to be done tonight, I don’t think. I’ll check with the SIO tomorrow—”

  “SIO?” Nat was mystified.

  “Senior Investigating Officer,” Joe translated. “I’ll check with him or her tomorrow and then I think I’ll have a ride out to Mablethorpe and see if I can’t collar this Dempster bloke.”

  “You’re going to look into it?” Teri was awestruck. “Will the police let you?”

  “It’s a free country, and the police can’t stop me. They can refuse to co-operate. I have no choice but to pass on any information I may uncover, but they can’t stop me asking questions.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” Nat said, “but I don’t think it’s anything to do with Raif Dempster.”

  “He was physically fighting with Sedgwick earlier today. That makes him a suspect.” Joe downed his beer and stood up. “Right, time to catch up on my beauty sleep. I’ll get to you some time tomorrow, Nat, Teri.”

  Chapter Five

  Saturday dawned grim and grey. After showering, shaving and dressing Joe threw open the drapes and looked from his window out across the nearby greens and the beach, all the way to the sea and the wind farm, which was still not in operation. The sun would not rise for another ten minutes or so, but the rain had stopped and he could make out the waters churning and foaming around the individual turbines. The sea kicked up a fuss as it met with the sands, but looking to the horizon, Joe found it difficult to decide where the grey waters ended and the equally drab, grey skies began.

  Moving to the left hand side of his window, so he could stare along the promenade towards the Clock Tower, he could see police vehicles parked by the Rep Theatre. One patrol car, so familiar in its chequerboard pattern of yellow, white and blue, and a white van, which even from this distance, he guessed would belong to Scientific Support.

  He had slept well; a combination of the long day, the journey, the late night and a couple of drinks, he diagnosed. But he had not slept for as long as he would have liked.

  The familiar tug of crimes to be solved had him firmly in its grip. It was too early to come to any conclusions, other than the cause of death, which he knew was unlikely to be a gunshot. But the previous day and evening, and talking with Nat and Teri had raised a few questions.

  When he finally returned to his room at about midnight, he plugged in his netbook, made a few notes on events so far and then, using his theatre programme as a guide, he carried out some basic internet research on the cast and the company, The Sedgwick Players, and learned a little more than Nat and Teri had told him.

  Based in Newcastle upon Tyne, Sedgwick had formed the company some twenty years previously, and he specialised in touring productions designed to bring Shakespeare to the masses. His rewrites of the bard’s major works, utilising modern, tried and tested dramatic themes, yet retaining the familiar Shakespearean dialogue, found little favour with the theatrical community and critics alike, but the tours were financially successful, playing to full, albeit small houses up and down the country.

  With the exception of Sedgwick, the cast changed every year. Joe assumed that was part and parcel of the theatrical life. Nat had said actors spent a lot of time ‘resting’ and tended to snatch up whatever work came their way. They may appear with Sedgwick for one tour, but when the next was due, they could very well be working elsewhere.

  Sedgwick was always billed as the director and producer. Although familiar with the titles, Joe had no idea what they meant in terms of theatre. The only other permanent member of staff was Michelle Arran, who was listed as wardrobe/properties mistress and acted as Sedgwick’s personal assistant. Joe figured that if anyone would know about Sedgwick’s enemies, it would be her.

  The rest of the cast were a hotchpotch of new and old. Playing Gertrude, Irma Anderton appeared, as Joe had concluded, under her maiden name of Karlinsky, while her husband, Edgar, took on the role of Claudius. Both were veteran performers with a long list of stage, TV and film credits behind them, but the website devoted to this production of Hamlet, stressed that the role of Claudius had been minimised in order to accommodate Edgar’s failing health.

  “Why take him on in the first place, then?” Joe asked the room.

  Nat Billingham had a career going back almost twenty years, but Joe noticed that he had never been cast in a leading role. He was always one of those supporting players. On the other hand he was credited with writing several episodes of a long-running sci-fi drama. Teri was hailed as the ‘bright new light with star quality’ and finally Carlton Spiller, as Horatio was, like Teri, a comparative newcomer. At the age of twenty-five, his only other major role was as The Artful Dodger in a BBC production of Oliver Twist some six or seven years previously.

  Nat had said that they had an understudy for the part of Hamlet, but according to Joe’s research, he was that understudy. Carlton would step in as Laertes, but it was not made clear who would then take over as Horatio.

  As he dug a little deeper Joe learned that the BBC version of Oliver Twist had also starred Raif Dempster and Malcolm Sedgwick. Dempster had played Bill Sykes opposite Sedgwick’s Fagin. Slightly puzzled, considering the animosity between the two men, Joe dug deeper into Dempster’s past and found, as Nat had said, a man who concentrated largely on comedy, working the pantomime season in Great Britain, and the summers in Benidorm, where he did a stand-up show in many of the bars.

  Shutting down the computer, Joe realised that, with the possible exception of Dempster, who was probably on stage in Mablethorpe at the time, almost any of them could have killed Sedgwick, and everything depended on how the murder was committed and where everyone was at the time. Those were questions he would need answering in the morning.

  It had been getting on for half past one before he went to bed, and here he was, up and about just after eight. At best, he guessed he had had six hours sleep.

  Making his way downstairs to join his companions for breakfast, he also knew the police would not welcome what they saw as his interference.

  “But that’s never stopped me before,” he told Sheila and Brenda over a bowl of cereal and a plate of bacon and eggs.

  “And where do the maestro’s ideas lead him?” Sheila asked. “I’m only asking, Joe, because Brenda and I had planned a little shopping today.”

  “You went shopping yesterday.”

  “I shop, therefore, I am.” Brenda grinned broadly. “You see, Joe, I regard shopping as an art form, and I am one of the divas. Paris, New York, Rio de Janeiro—”

  “Huddersfield, Doncaster,” Joe interrupted. “So you’re going to be chucking money about again. What difference does that make to me? Or did you fancy using me as a bloody pack mule, like always?”

  “That was the plan,” Sheila agreed.

  “
Well count me out. I’ll be hassling the cops for a while, then I’m going over to Mablethorpe to see this Dempster bloke.”

  “Ooh. We could go shopping in Mablethorpe, Sheila.” Brenda was positively excited at the prospect.

  “There are no shops in Mablethorpe,” Joe argued. “The place isn’t big enough. It’s as boring as Filey, but without the cliffs and the bay.”

  “According to the brochures, Mablethorpe has illuminations,” Sheila said.

  “Everywhere else, they’re called traffic lights.”

  Sheila tutted. “And Filey is not boring. And I’m willing to bet Mablethorpe isn’t boring, either.”

  “Listen and learn,” Joe advised. “Thorpe is a Danish word which meant a small settlement. Therefore, Mablethorpe is Mabel’s settlement. How much more boring can you get than a village named after Mabel?”

  “Mabel who?”

  Joe took in Brenda’s grin and scowled. “Mabel who cares. Anyway, you two can suit yourself, but if you’re going to Mablethorpe looking for the local branch of Fortnum and Mason’s, you’re gonna be sorely disappointed. I’m going to the Bijou Theatre to speak with Dempster.”

  “How do you know he’ll be there?”

  Joe helped himself to another cup of tea from the pot. “It’s a pantomime, and what is it pantomimes do on a Saturday? They put on an afternoon matinee, don’t they? He’ll be there.”

  Sheila gave him a mock round of applause. “Well done, Joe. We’ll make a detective of you yet. Brenda, what say we take a walk around Skegness while Joe is negotiating with the police, and then, if you give us a ring, Joe, we’ll come with you to Mablethorpe?” She smiled sweetly. “You never know, we might find Fortnum and Mason’s where no man has been before.”

  Brenda nodded her agreement, and Joe gulped down his tea. “Sounds good to me. Keep your phones on.” He got to his feet. “I’ll see you later.”

  From the dining room, Joe called back at his room to collect his cap and quilted overcoat, then stepped out into the bitterly cold morning.

  The cap pulled low over his eyes, hands buried deep in the pockets of his overcoat, he was insulated against the worst the elements could throw at him, and inside he revelled in the adventures to come. This was his element: the mystery, the murder which seemed so obvious on the surface but which, when you looked deeper into it, was anything but obvious. He actively anticipated and welcomed the police objections to his interference, and was looking forward to persuading them, bringing them to his way of thinking by the use of questions designed to throw them off balance. He had done it before, he would do it again.

  Drops of water fell on his face as he hurried along. As with the previous day, he had no way of knowing whether it was starting to rain again or whether it was just sea spray whipped up by the fierce gales. He ignored them as inconsequential; a mere aside to the important business of the day. A hundred miles to the north, Lee would be in the middle of the Saturday morning rush, quieter, less busy than the weekday hustle, but still enough to keep them on their toes. In forty-eight hours Joe would be back at it, but for now he had a murder to investigate, a puzzle or series of puzzles to solve in an effort to bring Malcolm Sedgwick’s killer to justice.

  Across the road, the beachside fairground lay dormant, not yet open. The taller rides, like the Ferris wheel, would be unlikely to run in the strong winds, but even the low lying stalls and attractions would struggle to make the day worthwhile.

  He passed the amusement arcades, their business hanging by a thread on this gloomy, January morning, and looked towards the theatre and the Clock Tower, where a press pack waited, pocket recorders at the ready, talking amongst themselves. There was even a TV crew standing by. A murder in Skegness’s theatre was obviously big news.

  The first obstacle presented itself when he reached the double glass doors of the Rep Theatre and found his way blocked by a young policewoman. Shrouded in a her high-visibility, day-glow coat, her bonnet pulled well down on her head to prevent the wind from taking it she looked bored as well as cold, and Joe could imagine her mind fixated on a cup of tea at one of the many nearby cafés.

  “I’m sorry, sir, the theatre’s closed until further notice.”

  Joe wondered how many times she’d repeated that already. He wondered how many times she had said it to the waiting press wolves.

  “I’m aware of that. Who’s your SIO?”

  She sighed irritably. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I have information for him. It may or may not be relevant to Malcolm Sedgwick’s murder, but I think he should hear it.”

  The policewoman tutted and spoke into her R/T. “Sarge, is the chief there?”

  There was a second’s delay before another female voice came back, “Who wants to know?”

  “I’ve some old boy on the door says he has information on last night.”

  “The boss is busy. Hold him there, I’ll be right out.”

  The officer smiled bleakly at Joe. “If you could hang fire a minute, sir?”

  Joe grunted and moved off to one side to study posters of forthcoming attractions.

  They were the staple fodder of British seaside theatres: Abba, Showaddywaddy, Grease tribute shows, live appearances by well-known and not-so well-known pop singers. Joe would have chosen any of them over the farcical production of Hamlet the night before.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Hinch, sir. Can I help you?”

  The honeyed voice stirred Joe, and he turned to find himself confronted by a brunette slightly taller than himself. Like her uniformed colleague, she was dressed for the weather in a bright lemon, hi-vis coat, but beneath it, he guessed she would be wearing plain clothes. Searching brown eyes regarded him with interest, trying to sum him up, and the thin lips were set in a determined bow. Not friendly, not unfriendly, just resolute.

  “Joe Murray,” he introduced himself. “I’m a friend of one of the cast members from last night.”

  “Which cast member?”

  “Teri Goodson.”

  Sergeant Hinch took out her pocket book, flipped it open and read through her entries. “There’s no one by that name on the cast list. Now listen, Mr Murray, if you’re the press—”

  “Do I look like a reporter?” Joe did not wait for an answer. “Teri Goodson is her real name. Her stage name is Teri Sanford. She comes from Sanford, same as me. She played Ophelia and she’s also the assistant prop mistress.”

  Hinch closed her mouth and waited for him to go on.

  “I was talking to Teri and Nat Billingham in the bar last night, after you’d interviewed them, and they told me what had happened. I have information which I thought you should know.” Joe shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s relevant.”

  “Tell me what you know and I’ll decide.”

  “Two things. First, I was walking past the Jolly Fisherman with a couple of friends, yesterday afternoon, and I witnessed a fight between Sedgwick and a man named Raif Dempster. When I say a fight, I mean a real, physical fight. It came to blows.”

  Hinch made a note. “And who is this Raif Dempster?”

  “According to Nat Billingham, he’s the director and star of a pantomime in Mablethorpe. They were fighting over their reputations, and who had the right to be handing out leaflets on the seafront here.”

  Again the detective sergeant made a note. “Sounds a bit childish.”

  “It was childish, and I was surprised when they came to physically attacking each other. I’m not saying this Dempster had a hand in Sedgwick’s killing, but…” Joe trailed off and allowed her to make her own judgement.

  After scribbling out more notes, she flipped to a fresh page of her notebook. “You said there were two things.”

  Joe nodded. “Last night in the bar, there was this bloke. Tall, mean and moody git. He was asking after Sedgwick, and when he was told what had happened, he just barged out of the pub.”

  A new urgency came to Hinch’s eyes. “How do you know he was asking after Sedgwick?”

&
nbsp; “I asked the barman.”

  “And would you recognise this man again?”

  “I’m hardly likely to forget him. He—”

  “Come with me, Mr Murray.”

  Before Joe could protest, she took him by the elbow and led him into the theatre.

  Unlike the last time Joe had seen it, the foyer was empty and barren. If he knew anything about the police, they would not have allowed even the cleaners in, and would not do so until the forensic work was finished.

  Sergeant Hinch did not take him into the auditorium, but through a side door and along a narrow corridor, the wall composed of whitewashed breezeblock, the right hand side punctuated with a series of doors.

  At the red door marked ‘Manager’ Hinch paused, knocked once and pushed her way in, dragging Joe behind her.

  Behind the desk sat a tall, languid man, his feet thrown up on the corner of the desk, mobile phone attached to his ear, and despite the hard appearance thanks to his close-cropped hair, his lean face smiled pleasantly into the phone.

  “Gotta go. I’ll bell you later.” He cut the call and gazed at Hinch, his face now more serious. “Who have we here?”

  “His name is Murray. Friend of Teri Sanford, he tells me. He made some face in the bar last night asking after Sedgwick.”

  “Did he now?”

  The dark blue eyes, which a moment ago had been filled with humour, now rested on Joe with heavy suspicion. “I’m Detective Inspector Nichols. Why did you come here, Murray?”

  Wrapped up for the foul weather, Joe was already feeling the heat of the interior, and the way Hinch had manhandled him into the place had only fuelled his irritation. Confronted now with a man who shouted arrogance before uttering a single word, Joe was on the point of exploding.

  “To begin with, it’s Mr Murray, unless you feel you have enough evidence to charge me with some crime. Aside from that, I don’t like being bundled through doors and along corridors like some refugee from a James Bond movie, without so much as a word of explanation.”