by Linda Regan
‘One accident is enough,’ Alison snapped. She released the bolt on the fire doors and icy air and snow blew down the steep ramp. She shut the doors quickly and tapped the snow from her gloves.
‘Where does that lead to?’ she asked the woman.
‘The street up the side. We’re not allowed to use it, no matter how bad the weather is – we have to walk all the way round to the stage door.’
Alison nodded a thank you to the woman. ‘I’d sort those skips out if I were you,’ she told her. ‘The health and safety officers will have a field day if you block a fire exit, especially with children in the show.’ She headed back to the dressing room before the children froze to death.
The smallest girl was still crying and frightened. All she could tell Alison was that she heard a bump at the end of the routine. The next told a similar story: she heard a thump at the end of the scene and thought someone had fallen over.
The rest of the interviews were a formality; all the children gave exactly the same account of the incident, much as Alison had expected. She sent the last one home and looked around the dressing room for the shoulder bag that accompanied her everywhere.
Suddenly she was aware of a noise. It sounded like footsteps, and seemed to be coming from the opposite wall, behind the rail of costumes. She stood as close as she could and listened: yes, someone was definitely walking about on the other side of the rough, unpainted brickwork. She ran a hand along the bricks and found a small silver handle. She turned it, and part of the wall opened like a door, releasing a damp smell.
The footsteps seemed to be getting nearer, and in the darkness she could just make out the shape of another spiral staircase directly in front of her. But leading where? She moved her fingers along the wall in search of a light switch.
‘Is someone there?’
Chapter Three
‘What do people call you?’ Crowther asked, following Barbara Denis through a door adorned with a large, white plastic star and the words NUMBER ONE DRESSING ROOM.
‘Quite a lot of things, and some of them not very nice,’ she said with a laugh.
Crowther noticed her back teeth were slightly discoloured. Always a sign of age in a woman, he thought smugly; she must be over fifty. So what was a woman her age doing playing Dick Whittington?
She settled herself in an old, comfortable armchair in front of a mirror that covered the whole of one wall, and smiled at her reflection. ‘You can call me Barbara.’
The actress’s skin was still shiny from the cream she’d used to remove her heavy stage make-up. Her long, thin legs were covered in well-worn black leggings; she curled them under her in the chair, pulling her floor-length grey cardigan more closely around her shoulders.
Crowther was a streetwise boy, and her large, brown eyes held no secrets for him. He’d seen that lonely, haunted look all his life – on the hookers that walked the beat in his home town of Chingford.
‘Please make yourself at home,’ she said, waving at the large, brown sofa that took up the whole of the opposite wall. He obeyed, and coffee from Banham’s unwanted cup splashed on to his hand as he sank into the cushions. Aware of her eyes on him, he quickly sat upright, put the coffee down and took out his notebook and Banham’s pen.
She swung her armchair around to face him. Under the cardigan she wore a black Bardot-style boat-neck jumper, which bared part of her shoulder. She pulled the jumper up and tugged her cardigan even closer. ‘What do you want me to call you?’ she asked, widening her eyes.
‘Detective,’ he answered, meeting her gaze.
‘Would you like something a bit stronger than that coffee, Detective? Do help yourself to a gin and tonic. Gin on top of the fridge, tonic inside. There’s a lemon too – I like to do things properly.’
She had taken a shine to him. He knew he had a way with women, especially older ones. Even from several feet away he could see the crow’s feet around her eyes. And she wasn’t a real blonde either; grey roots peeped through her fine, shoulder-length, honey-coloured hair. He gave her an insincere smile and told her that the coffee was fine.
‘How did you and Lucinda get on?’ he asked.
The smile left her face. ‘Not well, to be honest. We had to work very closely together. Principal boy, that’s me, and principal girl … We had to sing love duets together, that sort of thing. And I can’t deny I found working with her difficult.’
‘Because she was young and beautiful?’
‘No, Detective, because she sang flat and that reflected on my work.’ She pulled her face back into a smile and he noticed the fine lines above her top lip; she was, or used to be, a heavy smoker.
‘I often have to work with young hopefuls, and often ones without talent.’ She sighed and closed her eyes. ‘I work a lot for Michael, the producer of the show. He’s my ex-husband. He uses a lot of beginners in his productions. I call them his baby birds.’
‘Come again?’ Crowther said.
‘Cheap cheap.’
Crowther still looked blank.
‘They don’t cost him a lot,’ she explained patiently. ‘They want to get into showbusiness and he wants to save money. It suits them both.’
Crowther slurped his coffee. Barbara stood up and walked over to the tall rusting fridge that stood by the window. She poured herself a small gin and opened the fridge to take out the tonic. ‘Are you sure you won’t change your mind?’ she asked him, shaving a slice off a half-used lemon with a small kitchen knife.
He shook his head.
‘Actually, I felt sorry for her.’ She took a sip of the drink. ‘She wouldn’t have got anywhere. She was dim, naïve and untalented.’
Crowther looked at her. After a second he asked, ‘And what about you? Where have you got?’
‘Oh, I had a hit record, Detective. “Oh Ho, You Know”.’
He fought the urge to laugh. ‘When was that?’
‘1984. It made the top one hundred.’
‘Maybe my dad remembers it,’ he said tactlessly. ‘How old were you then?’
She looked unamused. ‘Work it out for yourself. A woman should never have to give her age away.’
‘So you’re self-conscious about your age?’
‘All female singers are, Detective. It’s a hazard of our job.’
‘Then you must have hated working with Lucinda. You said yourself that she was young and beautiful.’
‘Actually, you said that.’ Her voice grew louder. ‘I said she was naïve and dim.’
‘Was she?’
Barbara sat back in her chair and faced the mirror. ‘Beautiful?’ She wiped a spot of black from under her eye, then swivelled the chair to face him again. ‘Yes, I suppose she was.’ She shrugged and gave a little smile. ‘She looked … foreign, but if you like that then yes, she was beautiful.’ She uncurled her long legs, stretched them in front of her then crossed one over the other, pulling her cardigan over her shoulders again. ‘Detective, I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, but I wasn’t jealous of her. I need to get more work, and that means sounding my best on stage. So a principal girl who sings off-key is irritating.’
Crowther slurped his coffee again. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Talk me through …’ He glanced at his notebook. ‘The ultraviolet scene, is that right?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Could you see the other people on the stage?’
‘I was aware of them. We know exactly where the other actors are because we’ve rehearsed it. For instance, if I stopped in the middle of the stage Sophie would bump into me. I know she’s always behind me, although I can’t actually see her.’
‘So if someone was there who isn’t normally, you would know?
Barbara squeezed her lips together and seemed to weigh this up before shaking her head. ‘Well, no, I couldn’t swear to that. But I’d say it’s highly unlikely. It’s so tightly rehearsed. If someone was there that shouldn’t be, someone would bump into them, and someone else into them. And that didn’t happen. Everyt
hing seemed normal until I heard that thump.’ Barbara put her hand to her cheek. ‘It came from my right side, where Lucinda stands at the end of the line.’ She moved her hand away from her face. ‘It’s very hot and stuffy under those black balaclavas, and my first thought was that she was pregnant and she’d fainted.’
Crowther frowned.
She continued. ‘I would have heard something out of the ordinary if anyone else was there. But I didn’t – all I heard was the thump as she fell.’
He scribbled pregnant? in his notebook, then looked at her again. ‘Does your stage manager often disappear when he should be working?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes. Don’t ask, it’s a long story.’
‘I am asking,’ he said firmly.
She rubbed her neck and edged her cardigan up again. ‘He’s married to Maggie McCormack,’ she explained. ‘Maggie does the wardrobe. They have a daughter, Fay, who plays my cat. I play Dick Whittington.’
‘Yes, I know,’ he responded sharply. ‘The question was about your stage manager.’
She obviously wasn’t used to being told to get to the point. But it was past midnight and they had a lot to do. He just wanted the facts.
‘It’s all relevant,’ she said crisply. ‘Michael, my ex-husband, had an affair with Maggie, many years ago, after our marriage had broken up. Alan started drinking. Then, predictably, Michael got tired of Maggie. But Alan carried on drinking, and Michael feels responsible, so he carries on employing him even though the man is incapable of doing the job.’ Barbara’s tone hardened. ‘Alan and Maggie take advantage of that kindness. So in answer to your question, yes, Alan is frequently in the pub when he should be working, and Maggie covers for him. Like tonight, at the beginning of the UV scene, he had gone to the pub, so she was in the wings helping give out the fish.’
‘The fish?’
‘Plastic sea creatures. They have ultraviolet lights inside them. That helps us see our way across the stage. There are workers in the wings too, by the prop table, to help us pick up the right ones.’
Now Crowther really was confused. ‘Workers?’
‘Small blue lights, by each prop table.’
‘Ah. Not people, then.’
‘No, but there are stagehands around. Two of them, young boys.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Cheap cheap! Work experience boys. Michael cutting corners again. They move the scenery at that point, so they aren’t involved in the UV routine.’
Crowther had already spoken to the stagehands. He decided it was time to change the subject. ‘Why isn’t Stephen Coombs in the routine?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘He’s twenty stone, Detective. Isn’t that enough of a reason?’
‘Come again?’
‘He used to be in it, until a few years ago. But he’s a very large man, and he can’t dance. He gets it all wrong and gets in everyone’s way.’
‘Was it the same routine? When he was in it?’
‘Yes.’
‘So he knows the steps?’
She paused and then frowned. ‘Well, yes, I suppose he would. If he remembers them.’
‘So what does he do when the routine is on?’
‘He was given a costume change. A tactful way of keeping him out of it.’
‘Whose idea was that?’
‘Michael’s.’
‘Kind of him.’
‘He’s a very kind man.’
‘Surprised you let him go then.’
The smile dropped from her face, and for a moment Crowther glimpsed the real Barbara Denis, nervous, insecure and vulnerable. He was pleased with himself. He was getting somewhere.
Alison’s fumbling hands found the light switch. She found herself facing Michael Hogan, a tray of coffees in his hands.
‘Sorry if I gave you a fright,’ he said. ‘I had my hands full, but I know my way down in the dark.’
She followed him into the dressing room.
‘You poor girl, it’s freezing down here,’ he said. ‘This coffee will soon warm you up.’
‘Thank you. So where does that passageway lead to?’
‘It comes out near the ground floor dressing rooms, then another staircase to the first floor comes out next to the mirror by the Green Room. Hardly anyone uses it, though.’ He grinned. ‘The theatre ghost is rumoured to be walled up in there, and supposedly gets violent if you disturb her. That’s if you believe that sort of rubbish.’
Alison didn’t return his smile. As he put the tray down on the laundry basket she noticed the elbow of his cardigan was worn through.
‘I’ve been putting shows on here for thirteen years now,’ he told her, ‘and I’ve never met the ghost.’
Alison cupped her hands around the coffee pot. ‘Whose dressing rooms are on the ground floor?’
‘Everyone is on the first floor. Oh, except Sophie. She plays the fairy, and she’s my assistant and my choreographer so she shares the company office with me.’
He lifted the milk jug to pour. ‘No milk,’ she said brusquely. ‘I take it black.’
‘I’ll leave you to help yourself.’
The coffee wasn’t too hot and she downed a full cup quickly, glad of its warmth. Michael had disappeared into the corridor, but she heard voices and went to investigate. He was talking to Maggie McCormack; they both fell silent when they saw Alison.
‘I was telling Michael we must move the skips and keep the fire exit free,’ Maggie said quickly. ‘We don’t want the fire officer after us.’
‘Yes, and I’d check the obstructions the scenery is causing in the wings upstairs while you’re at it,’ Alison said. ‘I’m sure Health and Safety will be paying you a visit very soon.’
There was an awkward silence, then Michael Hogan said, ‘Would you like some more coffee?’
‘No thanks.’
She turned back into the dressing room and he followed her.
‘Look, I know this sounds bad under the circumstances,’ he said, ‘but I’m kind of desperate. I have to keep this show running. I rely on the pantomime for most of my income. Nearly all the tickets are sold for the matinee tomorrow, and I’ll lose a lot of money if they all have to be refunded.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she told him, ‘it’s not down to me. Detective Inspector Banham is in charge of the case.’
Banham was upstairs in the company office, sitting in front of the mirror where there was enough space to lean and write on the dresser. Beside him, Stephen Coombs was trying to get comfortable in an upright chair too small for his bulk. Stephen was in late middle age and balding badly. Smudges of black make-up mixed with perspiration sat in the bags under his eyes, and the blotchy remains of a dark foundation streaked his neck. He either wasn’t aware or didn’t care that he hadn’t fully removed his stage make-up.
Banham found the aroma of the man’s stale sweat and cheap deodorant offensive. His fingers rubbed his mouth as he studied the cast list Michael Hogan had supplied.
‘You play the part of Sarah the cook,’ he said.
Stephen Coombs blew his nose on a greying, overused handkerchief. ‘I do, yes. I’m the dame. So I wasn’t on stage in the fatal scene,’ he answered defensively. ‘I don’t have to do that scene because I’m the dame, see.’ The words spilled nervously and hurriedly from the man’s thick mouth. ‘I have to change my frock, see. I change every time I come and go on stage. It’s what dames do. I have to wear wigs an’ all, so I couldn’t be in those chorus scenes. I need the time to get changed and ready for my next entrance, and to do my wig. The others, they have to wear balaclavas over their heads so they can come and go unseen. So the audience think the fishes are flying across the stage on their own, instead of the actors waving them about like mad things, see.’
It was the second time that someone had explained the scene to him, but Banham still didn’t see. He made no reply, but leaned his elbow on the table and stared at the large man.
Stephen bit a nail then pulled his fat thumb from his mouth and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Th
e choreographer works out the staging for that scene, that’s the steps that the cast have to do when they are going from one side of the stage to the other in the dark with the fishes,’ he said. ‘That’s to stop the actors bumping into each other, see. Mind you, we have so little rehearsal time, no one really knows where they’re supposed to be, so they do bump into each other and get in the wrong places. It happens all the time.’
Banham raised his eyebrows. Stephen carried on talking at top speed.
‘Nobody knows who’s beside them, or who bumps into them, because the stage is in darkness. Someone knew that, somebody bloody knew they could creep on stage and not be noticed.’
Banham thought the man’s brown eyes were like a frightened animal’s. He let a few seconds go by before saying, ‘So you don’t think it was an accident?
‘No, I don’t.’
Banham looked at him expectantly, but Coombs looked away. He pulled the grubby handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose again. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a cold coming.’
There was a small patch of greasy blackheads at the side of the man’s nose. Banham wondered if that was the result of plastering layers of make-up on his face every day. He was suddenly glad that he was a policeman.
‘Anyone in the cast could easily have hit her with that stage weight, you know. Except me,’ Coombs added quickly. He moved his head nearer to Banham’s and lowered his voice. ‘I wasn’t on stage in that routine, see. It’s chorus work really. But work is so scarce nowadays, no one would dare refuse to do it. The producer’s a cheapskate; he makes the principals do chorus work and muck in far more than usual to earn their pay packets.’
Banham didn’t reply.
‘Something else that might interest you,’ Stephen Coombs said after another short silence. ‘Michael Hogan is going bankrupt.’
Banham’s shrewd blue eyes remained fixed on the man. ‘Does it make you angry that all the principals have to muck in?’ he asked after a moment.