by Hania Allen
‘It can wait till tomorrow. Tonight’s her grand opening, we don’t need to spoil it for her.’
He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Talking of which, shall I pick you up at yours?’
‘We could meet at the theatre.’
‘You don’t fancy a wee bevvie beforehand?’
She registered the disappointment in his voice. ‘Not a bad idea,’ she said. ‘We could rendezvous at that fancy wine bar two blocks up from the Garrimont.’
He looked at his feet. ‘You know, boss, it would be easier if I just called for you.’
She knew he wanted to be in charge of the evening. ‘You’re right, Steve. Seven at mine?’ She pulled the tickets from her bag. ‘Here, why don’t you look after these?’
The doorbell rang at seven on the dot.
‘Hold on, Steve,’ Von shouted, putting the final touches of Fauve Fuchsia to her lips. There was no need to hurry. She knew Steve would wait patiently, he was the waiting kind.
As she opened the door, the wind blew against her face, lifting the ends of her silk scarf.
Steve was standing gazing at the street. He turned at the sound. ‘Wow, boss, I’ve never seen you with your hair up.’
‘And I’m still on duty. You should see me on a non-work night.’ She nodded at his silver Nissan Primera. ‘You’re not driving, are you? There’s nowhere to park on Shaftesbury Avenue.’
‘Good thinking, boss,’ he said hastily. ‘I’ll call a cab.’
She smiled to herself. She recognised this behaviour from her teens. The sensible thing would have been either to come by tube or take a taxi to her flat. But by bringing his car, Steve would have to return with her at the end of the evening to fetch it.
‘Kenny home tonight?’ said Steve.
Von sipped at her vodka tonic. ‘He said he might be. But that can mean anything with Kenny.’
He gazed into his malt, saying nothing.
They were sitting in a dark wine bar on Shaftesbury Avenue. Von was surprised to find it half empty. The drinkers nursing their cocktails seemed to be serious types, dressed for the theatre. It was the type of watering hole she shunned, preferring bright noisy pubs, but it had been Steve’s choice. He behaved as though he knew the place, and she wondered idly whether he brought Annie here.
‘Okay, let’s get back to business,’ she said. ‘We need to check timings in the play. That’s entrances and exits. If we both do it, we won’t miss any.’
He brandished his notebook. ‘And I’ve brought a pencil torch. So, we do all the characters?’
‘All six.’ She scrutinised the programme. ‘In order of appearance, we have a wife, a postwoman, a detective, his assistant, Jack the Lad, and the husband.’ She glanced up. ‘Did you say you’d seen this play before?’
‘I was in Glasgow in eighty-five. It never came that far north.’
‘Then listen carefully as there’ll be a little test at the end.’ She read from the text. ‘Millie and Sebastian Davenshawe, a happily married couple, are living their dream in rural Berkshire. However, Sebastian’s many absences as an MP to Westminster soon cause Millie to find solace in the capable arms of Jack Forrester. But, where Jack is concerned, all is not what it seems. While declaring undying love to Millie, Jack is also declaring undying love to Sandra, Annabelle, Jeanette, Marie, and Veronica.’
‘That’s more than six characters, boss.’
‘They’re not all in the play. Must be noises off.’ She continued to read. ‘Jack juggles his love affairs, keeping his many mistresses sweet with tokens of affection. But when the arrival of his latest gift, a Jack in the Box doll, coincides with the arrival of Scotland Yard, Millie realises that Jack is less of a Lover and more of a Lad. Follow his antics as he tries not only to escape the long arm of the law, but also the wrath of his various mistresses.’
‘There’s a joke in there somewhere.’
‘Now, when it comes to timings, I’m particularly interested in the detective’s assistant, the role Gillanders played in 1985.’
He scratched his chin. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about it and Gillanders doesn’t strike me as a killer. Unpleasant, yes, but not a killer.’
‘I’m ruling nothing out. We’re dealing with actors, Steve. And liars.’ She nudged him lightly. ‘Lose your faith in human nature.’
‘Yes, boss.’
Chrissie Horowitz, resplendent in a silver-sequinned sheath dress, a glass of champagne in one hand and a cigarette holder in the other, was in the foyer chatting with a large group of guests. She was clearly on the lookout for someone, turning to the front door whenever it opened.
Seeing Von and Steve, she excused herself and came over. ‘I’m so glad you could make it,’ she said, clasping Steve’s hand. ‘Let me take you to the hospitality suite.’ She smiled at Von. ‘We’ve oodles of champagne and it all has to be drunk.’
‘I expect you’re sold out,’ said Von, as they passed a table loaded high with Jack in the Box dolls.
‘We are.’ There was pride in her voice. ‘Standing room only.’
‘Are you expecting to sell all these?’
‘This is the first time the dolls have been on sale to the public. They don’t go into the shops till tomorrow. All these will vanish tonight. Even people who aren’t seeing the play will come in and buy.’ She smiled over her shoulder. ‘And this pile is nothing. You should see the storeroom.’
The hospitality suite was a large oval room with gilded columns and fading gold brocade curtains. A poorly executed decorating job had caused the plaster to fall off the ceiling and the yellow paint to flake off the walls. Despite this, the atmosphere was one of old-world charm. The room was heaving with guests.
‘The canapés will be here shortly.’ Chrissie beckoned to a waiter holding a tray of glasses.
Von took a flute. The champagne was so chilled that the glass had turned misty. She took a sip. It was good quality. Whatever the Garrimont’s financial problems, Chrissie wasn’t stinting on opening night.
Dexter came over and whispered into Chrissie’s ear.
‘I’m afraid I need to go,’ she said. ‘I’m doing poor old Maxie’s job and I have to get to the wings. We’re about to start.’ She smiled at Steve. ‘Enjoy the performance. And do come back after the show to meet the cast.’
Dexter seemed reluctant to leave. ‘May I say how ravishing you look, Chief Inspector?’ He lifted Von’s hand and kissed it, his eyes on hers. With a nod to Steve, he followed Chrissie out of the suite.
‘Bit of a chancer,’ muttered Steve. ‘I doubt his balls have dropped yet.’
Von took his arm. ‘Come on, there’s the bell. Five minutes to curtain up.’
‘But we haven’t had the canapés yet,’ he said in an anguished voice.
Chrissie had done them proud: their seats were in the front row of the grand balcony. Below was the vastness of the stalls, sprawling towards the stage.
‘This was a marvel in its day, Steve,’ Von said. She had a fear of heights and kept her eyes directed upwards. ‘I used to come here as a child to see the Christmas panto.’
Steve was fingering the threadbare red velvet. ‘I’m not surprised they’re running an appeal. The upholstery’s falling to pieces.’
‘Most London theatres are past their best, but everything here’s just that bit too worn.’ She studied the ceiling. The chandelier suspended from the cusp of the arch was dingy with dust. The few lights that still worked glowed weakly. ‘It was grand once. See those gilded cherubs.’
‘Aye, if you like that sort of thing. Bit over the top for my tastes.’
‘You’re not telling me you don’t get this kind of opulence in Glasgow.’
‘Not the part I came from. The paint peeling off the walls is a familiar sight, though. At least it’s not damp.’
Chrissie walked onto the stage. She held up a hand, and the conversations died away. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said, ‘as you know, the director, Max Quincey, is unable to be with us to
day.’
‘That’s the understatement of the year,’ Steve said under his breath.
‘But I’m sure he’ll be with us in spirit. Maxie was a great inspiration to us all, both cast and crew. His first, his greatest love, was the theatre. He worked selflessly to ensure that not only did he never let us down, he never let his audience down. I’d therefore like to dedicate to Max Quincey, this opening-night performance of the play he made his own: Jack in the Box. Thank you.’
To thunderous applause, and a few wolf whistles, Chrissie swept off the stage.
‘Nice touch, boss. Let’s hope the actors are up to it.’
The lights dimmed, but not enough that they couldn’t see to write. Von glanced at Steve. He looked as surprised as she was.
To the strains of Tom Jones singing ‘Sex Bomb’, the curtain went up. The stage was designed as a split set, bedroom at one end and living room-cum-kitchenette at the other. There were several places to hide, the hallmark of a bedroom farce.
The music faded away, and a slim woman in a pink chiffon nightie and matching dressing gown floated onto the stage. She went into the bedroom and sat in front of the dresser, combing her hair.
‘The wife, Millie. Character Number One,’ whispered Steve. He peered at his watch, and wrote in the notebook.
A minute later the doorbell rang. It was the postwoman, delivering a parcel for Millie. They bantered about the weather being unpredictable, like men. She left, and Millie carried the parcel into the living room, unwrapping it as she went. A frisson ran through the audience as they saw what it was.
Millie held up the gilt-edged card and read to the audience. ‘To Millie, from your ever-loving Jack.’ She lifted the lid and the doll sprang out with its cry, ‘Jack-jack! Jack-jack!’ Even from the balcony, Von could see it was identical to the doll in Max Quincey’s room.
The doorbell rang again and the detective and his assistant arrived, asking to interview the husband. They left when they discovered he was not at home. But the moment Millie closed the door, the living room window opened and Michael Gillanders, instantly recognisable by his blue suit and paisley cravat, climbed in. It soon transpired that Jack was a bank robber who was dispersing his loot, hidden inside the dolls, prior to laundering it. While Millie was making coffee in the kitchen, he rang his various mistresses telling them he was sending them presents. The timing of his one-sided conversations with the women was superb and, despite her dislike of Gillanders, Von found herself admiring his acting.
Jack stayed the night with Millie. The transition between night and day was effected by the hands of the large wall clock moving rapidly round to 8.00am. The detective arrived while Jack and Millie were still in bed. Jack scrambled to his feet and hid inside the wardrobe.
‘He’s come without the assistant, boss,’ whispered Steve, scribbling. He glanced at her. ‘You’re not writing.’
‘Sorry, I’ve been watching Gillanders.’
The detective told Millie he was looking, not for her husband, but for Jack. As Gillanders poked his head out of the wardrobe, a look of shock on his face, the curtain came down on the first half.
‘Brilliant,’ said Von.
‘Was it?’ said Steve petulantly. ‘I was too busy writing to notice.’
‘Oh, don’t be like that. You’ve a much better eye for detail,’ she added guiltily. ‘Come on, let’s get a drink.’
The foyer was packed with people queuing to buy the Jack in the Box dolls. Dexter and his mates, clearly harassed, were stuffing them into plastic bags and thrusting them at the buyers. Von caught his eye and gave him a sympathetic look. He grinned and held out a doll, lifting his eyebrows questioningly. She shook her head.
‘Not buying, boss?’
‘A bit steep at £49.99.’
‘Aye. And I’ll bet good money they’ll be a one-month wonder. After the show’s run is over, they’ll be consigned to attics.’
‘I thought you said they became collectors’ items.’
‘And the collectors have thousands in their attics.’
The crush at the bar was so great, they took their drinks into the corridor.
‘Did you notice something odd?’ she said, sipping. ‘Once the lighting dimmed, it didn’t change. It was the same level all the way through.’
‘I’ve seen that technique before. They sometimes use music.’
‘There was music only at the start.’
He took a swig of beer. ‘Maybe it’ll all happen in the second half. That’s when the action takes place.’
‘What action?’
‘You’ve never seen this type of play before, boss?’
‘I rarely go to the theatre.’
The creases round his eyes deepened. ‘Then I won’t spoil it for you.’ His expression changed suddenly. ‘Hey, isn’t that Kenny?’
She spun round in time to see a man in a dark jacket slip out of the corridor. ‘Hold this,’ she said, thrusting the glass into Steve’s hand. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
In the foyer, she scanned the area rapidly.
He was standing lolling in the queue for the dolls, his weight on one leg.
She clutched his arm. ‘Kenny!’
The man turned, and she realised her mistake. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she breathed. ‘I thought you were someone else.’
He smiled suggestively. ‘I’m sorry I’m not,’ he murmured.
She released his arm. Reluctantly, she returned to Steve.
‘It wasn’t him,’ she said.
‘Sorry I got your hopes up, boss.’ He handed her the glass. ‘We’re not going to this reception afterwards, are we?’
‘All the cast will be there. I want to see what sort of a dynamic there is. With luck, we’ll learn something useful about Max.’ She sipped her vodka. ‘Anyway, I thought you wanted your canapés.’
They stood with their drinks until the bell. ‘First bell, boss.’ He jotted the time in his notebook. ‘9.15pm on the dot. The interval’s twenty minutes.’
They returned to the balcony. After the second bell, the curtain rose suddenly, catching out some of the dawdlers.
Millie and the detective were standing where they’d been at the close of the first half. Jack was nowhere to be seen. While Millie busied herself in the kitchen, the detective took the opportunity to snoop around the bedroom. He found Jack hiding in the wardrobe.
Then the fun began. Unwilling to confess she had a lover, Millie introduced Jack as her husband. But then Sebastian arrived unexpectedly. Spinning him a yarn to explain the presence of the detective, Millie persuaded him to hide in a large blanket box, telling the detective that the mystery caller was a debt collector, arrived to extort money from her husband. Fearful that he himself might be taken for Sebastian, the detective hid under the bed. The rest of the play was a wild romp consisting of disguises, chases, and near-miss discoveries. Eventually, however, the game was up. The detective (now minus his clothes and wearing Millie’s dressing gown) realised he’d been duped, and Jack was apprehended. Sebastian, seeing the doll in the bedroom, concluded Millie must have a secret lover. In the final scene, when Sebastian said to the detective (still wearing Millie’s clothes), ‘Well, if it wasn’t you in my wife’s bedroom last night, who was it?’, the doll popped out of its box and screeched, ‘Jack-jack! Jack-jack!’ The audience shrieked with laughter. Jack the Lad, suitably crestfallen, lifted the doll, unscrewed the base, and a large wad of banknotes fell out.
As the curtain came down to ‘Sex Bomb’, deafening applause filled the auditorium. The curtain rose and the six actors came onto the stage. Michael Gillanders, still in pink chiffon, clasped his colleagues’ hands and bowed deeply.
‘It was good,’ said Von.
‘Aye, can’t deny it. Specially the lass who played Millie. I may bring Annie tomorrow night and actually watch it.’
‘You think it’s Annie’s thing?’ she said, her eyes still on Gillanders.
‘After Swan Lake, anything would be her thing.’ He handed Von
her bag. ‘You were right about the lighting, though. And the music. It came on only at the start and end.’
As they left their seats, she peered up the raked auditorium to the lighting box. For a second, she thought she saw a head bob inside.
‘You go on to the reception, Steve. I’ll catch you there.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To poke around upstairs.’
‘Shouldn’t I come with you?’
‘I won’t be long. I need you at the reception.’ She patted his arm. ‘Try to draw the cast out. But don’t introduce yourself as a copper. Socialise. Drink a lot.’
‘At this rate I’ll turn into an alkie.’
She threw him an affectionate look. ‘What’s the problem? You’re a Scotsman.’
She made her way up the rows to a door at the back. The sign on it read: Staff Only. The door would lead either out of the auditorium, or into a cupboard. She glanced around quickly, then leant against it, turning the handle. The door opened onto a short corridor with a flight of stairs at either end. From the sound of voices and laughter, she guessed that the stairs to the left led to the foyer. She turned right.
As she reached the end of the corridor, she saw the door with the word, Lighting, in faded red paint. She knocked gently. There was no reply. She gripped the handle and twisted firmly. The door was locked.
The stairs descended into darkness. She pulled a torch from her bag and started down, switching it on when it became too dim to see. The last few steps ended abruptly at a fire door. She played the beam over it, examining it closely. It was a door that opened from the inside, but needed a key to come in from the street. There was no sign of an alarm, so she pushed it open and poked her head out. The side alley was littered with styrofoam cups and half-eaten burgers. The stench of urine hit her nostrils.
She shut the door and made her way up the stairs slowly, doing the calculation. From the lighting box, it would take a minute to reach the alley. And less than five minutes to Shaftesbury Avenue and Piccadilly Circus. And from the tube station, to the rest of London.