‘And not before time,’ replied Fitzjohn, his eyebrows knitting together as he opened each folder out on his desk in front of him. As he did, Smithers came to mind. ‘Things aren’t moving quick enough, Betts. At this stage we should have far more information on everyone concerned with that theatre. We’re still waiting on Stephanie Mowbray’s, aren’t we? See what you can do to hurry things up.’
‘I will, sir.’ Betts pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Madden’s background check offers a few interesting insights, one being that our victim tried on more than one occasion to have her dismissed. The most recent attempt was still undetermined when the theatre closed. On all previous occasions, she threatened to take the theatre’s management to court for unfair dismissal.’
‘Hence, we can assume there was no love lost between Dolores and Howard Greenwood,’ said Fitzjohn, his keen eyes scanning the contents of the folder. ‘The question is, would she kill him in order to save her job?’
‘Considering she’s in her late fifties, it could be difficult for her to get another such position without a good reference,’ said Betts. ‘I looked into her financial affairs and she wouldn’t have managed without being employed. She has no savings.’
‘In which case, being dismissed could have had dire consequences for her,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘And not only that. While reading the manuscript, I got the distinct feeling that not only did Howard not get along with Madden but his wife, Marsha, didn’t either.’
Fitzjohn looked down at the second folder.
‘As far as Roach goes, as you’ll note, his background check does offer one unexpected insight,’ said Betts. ‘It concerns plagiarism. As we already know, Howard was not only an actor but also a playwright and it seems that recently, Roach accused him of plagiarising one of his written works. In fact, he threatened to take legal action on the matter. Howard Greenwood made it clear to Roach that if he went ahead, he’d make sure that none of his plays would ever see another performance. In other words, he’d ruin his career as a playwright. Even so, the two kept up appearances and Roach was invited to the party.’
‘I guess as the person who wrote that particular play, it was expected on its closing night,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Anything else I should know?’
‘Only that it’s rumoured Roach and Marsha Greenwood had an affair but whether that’s true or not…’
‘Mmm. Rumours aren’t facts which are what we work with,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘However, we do know that Simon Roach had the means, opportunity and motive to kill Howard Greenwood as did Howard’s brother Leo, so we’re not lacking in persons of interest, are we? Even so, is there anyone else we should add to that list?’ asked Fitzjohn, his eyes scanning the directory of actors and employees of the theatre.
‘We haven’t spoken to Madelaine Wells yet, sir. She’s the woman who took over Marsha Greenwood’s role in the play.’
‘Ah, yes, she became ill during the closing night's performance and left immediately after the play finished so didn’t attend the celebrations,’ said Fitzjohn, sitting back in his chair. ‘And yet Simon Roach believes he saw her in the laneway when he left the theatre. He may have been mistaken, of course, but we’ll speak to her next.’ Fitzjohn closed both folders. ‘Before we do, however, how is the other matter concerning Rhonda Butler coming along?’
‘I have an appointment with the headmaster of her nephew’s school this afternoon, sir.’
‘Ah, good because with that greenhouse going up and since speaking to Rhonda again this morning, I have a feeling there’s no time to lose. She isn’t cooperating nor, I suspect, does she intend to. The whole matter needs to be dealt with, and quickly. I feel it in my bones. In the meantime, however, let’s speak to Madelaine Wells.’
***
Betts turned off the hustle and bustle of Marion Street in Leichhardt, with its restaurants and cafes, onto a quiet tree-lined avenue before pulling up in front of a Victorian terrace house. ‘Madelaine Wells rents this property, sir,’ he said as the two officers climbed out of the car. Fitzjohn eyed the peeling paintwork on the front door as they reached the porch, its surface covered in dust along with dried leaves blown there by the gusting wind. As he did, the front door opened and a woman in her late thirties with shoulder-length fair hair appeared, carrying a handbag.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked with a look of wariness as the two officers mounted the porch steps.
‘Ms Wells?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m DCI Fitzjohn and this is DS Betts.’ Fitzjohn held up his warrant card. ‘We’re investigating the death of Howard Greenwood and we understand he was a colleague of yours.’
‘Yes, that’s right. I played the leading female role opposite Howard in his latest play. I couldn’t believe it when I heard he’d been killed. It’s terrible.’
‘As you worked closely with Mr Greenwood we’d just like to ask if you saw or heard anything that might help us in our investigation, no matter how insignificant it might seem.’
‘Well, as you can see I’m on my way out. Can you come back later?’
‘It won’t take more than a few minutes,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Did you?’
‘No. I can’t say as I did other than the fact we were all feeling somewhat low because the play was closing. It’s meant steady employment for us for quite some time and you never know how long it will be before you get another part or how long it will run.’
‘We understand there was a farewell party after the performance.’
‘Yes. Howard organised it. But I didn’t attend. I suffer from migraines. Not often but I could feel one coming on during the third act and I knew I had to come home because I can become quite ill.’
‘That’s unfortunate,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘By any chance did you speak to Howard before you left the theatre?’
‘No. After the performance and the curtain calls, he went straight to his dressing room.’ Madelaine paused. ‘Look, you may as well know now, because I’m sure someone will tell you anyway, that Howard and I didn’t exactly see eye to eye. He rarely made conversation with me.’
‘Oh? Was there any particular reason?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘I can only think it was resentment, Chief Inspector. You see, my role had previously been played by Howard’s wife, Marsha. She died in an accident a couple of years ago.’
‘So we understand. It was at a Christmas party, wasn’t it?’
‘It was, yes.’
‘Were you there at the time?’
‘Yes. The whole cast was there. It was an awful night. Things deteriorated after that; with Howard, that is. As time went along, he became increasingly difficult to work with. His grief, I suppose.’ Margo paused. ‘I know it’s not nice to speak ill of him, especially now, but to be honest, I wasn’t surprised when I heard he’d been murdered.’
‘So you believe there were those who might have wished him harm?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘I really couldn’t say. I just know he was confrontational at the best of times and did have arguments with the cast and the crew from time to time.’ Margo looked at her watch with an air of impatience.
‘We won’t keep you much longer, Ms Wells,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Just one more question. Can you confirm what time you left the theatre?’
‘It was after the last curtain call. I booked an Uber and it came almost immediately. Just after eleven. It’s only a ten or fifteen minutes' drive. Here, I’ll show you.’ Margo rummaged in her handbag for her phone and scrolled down the screen. ‘Here’s my Uber booking,’ she said, turning the small screen toward Fitzjohn. ‘As you can see, the driver dropped me here at eleven-twenty.’ Margo met Fitzjohn’s gaze with a satisfied look. ‘I was feeling so ill by that time, I came in and went straight to bed.’
‘So you didn’t return to the theatre later on?’
‘Why would I do that? As I said, I wasn’t well.’
‘I only ask because you were seen in the laneway at approximately twelve-thirty a.m., Ms Wells,’ Fitzjohn repli
ed.
‘But that’s ridiculous. Whoever told you that is mistaken.’
***
Under a slate grey sky with the first drops of rain splattering the pavement, the two officers walked briskly to their car. ‘Well, one thing seems clear,’ said Fitzjohn, rubbing his hands together to generate a bit of warmth before he opened the passenger door. ‘Howard Greenwood was difficult to get along with and so consequently, wasn’t liked by those who knew him. What isn’t clear, however, is whether Simon Roach was mistaken about seeing Madelaine Wells in the laneway that night or is she lying?’
‘It’s a stone’s throw to the theatre from here, sir. It’s possible she may have walked back.’
‘My thoughts precisely,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Let’s keep that in mind, shall we? After all, she could have feigned illness to provide herself with an alibi.’
Betts looked at his watch. ‘I’d better get over to the school for my appointment with the headmaster, sir.’
‘Seeing you’re going that way, perhaps you can drop me at the theatre,’ said Fitzjohn. 'I want to take another look at the crime scene and the theatre in general. Just to satisfy myself that I haven’t missed anything. You can join me there later.’
***
The stage door refused to open on his first attempt, warped as it was by the damp weather. Fitzjohn gave it a gentle shove and stepped into the dimly lit space, where dust particles filled the air causing an uncontrollable sneeze. Roused by Fitzjohn’s outburst, a security guard, slight in stature, appeared in the doorway of his small office, a questioning look across his face.
‘I’m sorry, sir, the theatre is no longer open to the public.’
‘I’m not the public. I’m a police officer. DCI Fitzjohn.’ Fitzjohn showed his warrant card as he spoke and at the same time, tried to stem another sneeze.
‘I was told the police had finished here,’ replied the security guard. ‘As soon as the crew have done packing up their equipment, I’ll be closing the building down.’
‘I shan’t be long. I just want to have a final look at the crime scene.’
‘Well, I hope you’re the last person who decides they want to take another look around the place.’
‘Why, have you had others?’ asked Fitzjohn.
‘Mmm. The guy who wrote the play was here wanting to take photographs of the auditorium.’
‘Simon Roach?’
‘Yes, that’s his name. Beats me why he left it till the last minute. His play’s been running here for the past eighteen months.’
‘No doubt he was prompted by the theatre’s imminent destruction,’ said Fitzjohn.
***
Where once the hurly-burly of performers scurrying towards the wings filled the maze of backstage passageways, and the sound of voices of those on the stage reverberated throughout the auditorium, Fitzjohn continued on, deeper into the building, its silence now only broken by the creak of the floorboards underfoot. When he reached Howard Greenwood’s dressing room, he drew back in surprise to see Dolores Madden rummaging through the drawers of the dresser.
‘Ms Madden.’
Dolores spun around, wavering as she did so. ‘Chief Inspector, you startled me,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I was just making sure there weren’t any costumes left in here.’ As she spoke, Dolores slipped her hand into her jacket pocket. ‘But then I wished I hadn’t come in,’ she added, looking down at the floor where the victim’s body had lain. ‘The sight of Howard just won’t leave me. Anyway, I must carry on,’ she continued making for the doorway. ‘I still have things to pack.’
‘Before you go, Ms Madden, you may be able to help answer a question that’s come up. I seem to remember you saying that you didn’t attend the after-performance party and yet one of those who did remembered seeing a woman dressed in an electric blue gown with gold beading. It sounds similar to the one you were wearing when we spoke yesterday.’
‘Are you accusing me of lying to you, Chief Inspector?’ replied Dolores with an air of indignance. ‘Because, if you are, you’ll be sorely disappointed, the reason being there are two such gowns. Come, I’ll show you.’ Dolores bustled past Fitzjohn and along the passageway to the costume department. There, hanging on a rack on the back wall were two identical gowns.
‘Do you know who wore the other gown last night?’ asked Fitzjohn at the same time wondering what she had slipped into her jacket pocket.
‘No, I don’t,’ bristled Dolores. ‘The gown was here when I left the theatre so I can only think that whichever cast member it was, came in here before the party and helped herself.’
Disinclined to pursue the matter further, Fitzjohn left Dolores to return to the scene of the crime where he found Betts on the threshold, looking into the room.
‘Has being here helped in any way, sir?’
‘No, not really,’ replied Fitzjohn, ‘other than the fact that Dolores Madden appears to be a petty thief. When I arrived, she was in here rifling through the victim’s possessions, but it doesn’t mean to say she’s our killer. What was the result of your inquiries with the headmaster?’
‘It’s as you suspected, sir. Rhonda Butler’s nephew isn’t enrolled in any horticultural classes. In fact, his school doesn’t run any such courses.’
‘Mmm. On that account, I’ll have to put Mrs Butler straight on the matter,’ said Fitzjohn as he and Betts entered the crime scene.
CHAPTER 12
C onstance turned over the cardboard sign that hung from a hook on the bookshop glass door to Closed and reached to flick off the light switch before she stepped out into the cold night air. As she did, the telephone on the wall next to the counter rang. She hovered at the door for a moment, undecided whether or not to bother answering it. It had been a long day with an abundance of customers and deliveries, and she felt weary. But then again, perhaps I should, she thought. After all, it might be about that call I’m waiting on regarding the book fair.
‘Hello,’ she said, placing her keys and handbag on the counter.
‘Ms Parsons, it’s Detective Sergeant Betts.’
‘Oh, hello, Sergeant,’ replied Constance after a moment's hesitation. ‘You only just caught me. I was just about to leave for the day. I hope this is to tell me you’ve solved the case.’
‘Not yet but we do have a new lead and since it’s in relation to the manuscript, Chief Inspector Fitzjohn wonders if you’d be able to meet him at the theatre.’
‘You mean now?’
‘Yes. He realises it’s an imposition, but it could help our investigation.’
‘I see. Well, I suppose I could drop by there on my way home if it’s that important although, I can’t see that I can add anything more to what I’ve already told you both.’
‘It concerns not only the manuscript, Ms Parsons but Howard Greenwood’s dressing room. The Chief Inspector would like your views on whether anything has changed since you were last there and since the building is about to be demolished...’
‘Oh yes, of course. It’s the last chance really, isn’t it? All right, I’ll meet you there but with the traffic as it is at this time of day, it’ll probably take me a good half hour.’
***
With a soft rain falling, the wet pavement glistened under the street lights as Constance climbed out of the taxi in front of the theatre. When she did, she looked up at the dark edifice, its windows now boarded, the life and vitality of the building gone forever. Such a shame, she thought with a sigh as she started along the laneway, deserted but for a car parked in the shadows. Obviously the chief inspector’s she told herself, buttoning her coat against the dank air. When she reached the stage door, it stood ajar. It creaked as she pushed it open and stepped inside, her senses instantly assaulted by a musty odour of damp and mould in the already dusty atmosphere.
‘Chief Inspector,’ she called, reluctant to walk alone any further into the gloomy interior. While she listened and waited, her thoughts turned from the silence to the electrifying atmosphere that had met her
on previous occasions, brought to life by the performers festooned in their costumes, each clamouring to reach the wings. All at once, however, the mental image faded and as silence returned, she caught sight of a light now radiating in the distance through the murky dimness. It’s coming from Howard’s dressing room I think, she said to herself as she peered ahead. With a sense of apprehension at the thought of witnessing the scene where he had died, she tentatively moved forward towards the light.
‘Chief Insp… Oh,’ she uttered as she reached the doorway to Howard’s dressing room and stared inside, the space empty but for the familiar trappings of his theatrical life. For a moment or two she lingered, almost as if she expected him to appear and invite her in as he usually did, but that sensation vanished when she heard footsteps. Reassured, she stepped back into the passageway expecting to catch her first glimpse of the chief inspector and his sergeant but there was no one there. In the deathly silence that followed, she remained still, reluctant to walk further into the shadows as a growing sense of unease took hold. ‘I’m being ridiculous,’ she muttered at last. ‘What’s there to be scared of? After all, it’s just a dark, deserted building.’ With that, she took a deep breath and walked on to the end of the hallway where she turned the corner to see another light emanating from one of the rooms. Oh, no wonder they couldn’t hear me. They’re in the farthest reaches,’ she thought as she quickened her step, anxious to end her isolation. When she reached the room’s threshold, however, a gasp left her lips and she shuddered as her eyes fell upon Dolores Madden’s body lying on the floor in a pool of blood and festooned with long-stemmed red roses.
Her heart racing, Constance stood transfixed in fear, before she staggered backwards. Stumbling in the half-light, she retraced her steps, but had she? Confused she stared into the labyrinth of choices. Which passageway led to the stage door? It was then a gurgled laugh sounded, its echo surrounding her before a silhouette of a shadowed figure approached out of the darkness.
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