by Linda Regan
When she came off stage Stephen was nowhere to be seen. She carefully laid her glittering wand down in the corner so it would be there for her final entrance in the Palace scene. Then she dropped her head and body forward so her long hair brushed the floor, bent her knees and took a couple of deep breaths. Calmer now, she straightened up and walked to the back of the set.
The dancers were performing the harem belly dance the audience always loved. Backstage, the two boys were still pushing the palace scenery around. It was a big scene change, and Sophie decided, as she often did, to stay out of their way and cross under the stage via the two spiral staircases.
In the company office, Banham was looking down at a large box full of what looked like bric-a-brac collected for a white elephant stall. There were bits of crockery, glittery wands and crowns, several swords and knives and a whole jumble of kitchen equipment.
‘What on earth is all this rubbish?’ he asked helplessly.
Alison looked across from the mirrored wall, where she was examining the contents of Sophie’s strawberry pink towel. ‘Props, guv. He probably keeps a roomful of stuff at home – saves buying new for every show.’
Banham shrugged, and moved to the filing cabinet, where he began opening drawers and speedily going through their contents. Alison gazed at the shelf in front of the mirror; bottles of glitter sprays, silver false eyelashes and three open pink lipsticks lay next to a lip brush smothered in cerise colour. Long blonde hairs hung from a plastic hairbrush, next to which stood a stand-up shaving mirror. A mauve and pink shoulder bag hung on the back of chair; Alison quickly unbuckled it and pulled out a thick diary with a zebra-print plastic cover.
‘She keeps a diary,’ she said, flicking through the pages.
There was a faint rap at the door. Alison’s gaze locked with Banham’s, but neither spoke.
Sophie walked quickly down the winding staircase. The bottom was in almost total darkness now the juveniles’ dressing room wasn’t being used; the basement light switch was the other side of the passageway, and the small worker light was a few feet in, on the right wall, above the costume skips. But she was familiar enough with the area; if she took care, she wouldn’t collide with anything.
Her foot hit the concrete floor with a small shock; she hadn’t realised she was on the last step. She lifted her foot and rubbed her sole through her flimsy white ballet pump. No harm done.
The darkness was creepy, and she thought about going back into the light. Don’t be silly, she told herself crossly; you’ve worked in this theatre every year since you were a child, you know the layout down here with your eyes closed.
She had never known the basement so silent and dark; it felt eerie. A few steps in she froze; was that a noise?
‘Is someone there?’ she asked the darkness.
No one answered.
She began to hurry, desperately feeling in the darkness for the wooden skips; the worker light switch was just above them, and she’d feel much happier with its blue glow around her.
She jumped with fright as she bumped into one of the skips – then another sound turned her blood to ice. Someone had got to the worker light switch before her.
Sophie slowly turned to face the shaft of light now stretching blue and thin across the basement, and came face to face with a tall figure. It was another second before she saw the large knife in the leather-clad hand. Her heart thudded against her chest as she turned to hurry back the way she had come, her arms outstretched, grappling desperately for the iron banister.
In her panic she missed her footing, and in that same second the leather-covered hand clamped itself firmly over her mouth and dragged her backwards into the dimly lit passageway. She pulled and clawed at the hand, fighting for breath. Another strong hand gripped both of hers together and pulled them away, then the grip on her face tightened and an agonising pain shot around the inside of her head. A ghastly crunch told her that her nose was broken.
The pain overwhelmed her and she nearly lost consciousness. But she had to fight to stay alive; she tried to kick out, but to no avail since she only wore a satin ballet shoe on her foot.
She felt herself being shaken like a rat caught by a dog. She could taste her own blood now, and almost choked as it slid down her throat. Her eyes were closing against the pain; then the hand moved from her face. And she heard that laugh. She tried to stand up, but fell back against her assailant.
She felt the razor-sharp edge of the knife, heard the grisly sound like a zip being fastened. The knife sliced the soft white skin of her throat, and the last thing she felt before she dropped to the ground was a jet of blood shoot high into the air like a cork from a bottle of champagne.
Then there was darkness.
Chapter Ten
The knock on the door took them by surprise. Alison swiftly replaced Sophie’s Filofax in the handbag, and Banham moved the pile of unpaid bills back into the drawer and sat back in the chair. The door opened and Vincent Mann’s head appeared. He became noticeably flustered when he saw the two detectives.
‘Oh … Is … er … is Michael not around?’
‘He should be on the side of the stage with Alan,’ Alison said.
‘Right … Sorry … I … er … I didn’t see anyone on the side of the stage, but then it’s very dark down there.’ He looked uncomfortably from Banham to Alison. She noticed his voice sounded unsteady.
‘Anything else?’ she asked curtly.
‘No, no, nothing.’ He withdrew from the room, closing the door behind him.
Banham opened another of the desk drawers and found a laptop. He opened the lid and fired it up. Nothing happened; he let out an impatient sigh. ‘Damn. It needs a password,’ he muttered.
Alison was reading the December pages of Sophie’s diary. ‘Try “pantomime”,’ she suggested.
Banham did, and the computer whirred into life. ‘What would I do without you?’ he said.
She looked at him, confused. His eyes met hers for a couple of seconds, then he turned back to the computer. He clicked on a file marked Actors’ Wages, and scrolled down the list of figures.
Why these little comments, she asked herself. Perhaps he enjoyed leading her on then shutting the hatches; perhaps he felt that was part of the chase. Well, he’d chosen the wrong woman. Whatever she felt, she had no intention of exposing it again. There was a new year approaching and she’d made resolutions: she was giving up her occasional cigarettes, and getting involved with a man was a no-no. She was going to be like Crowther – keep them casual and focus on work.
For now, Sophie’s diary was the priority.
After a few moments she looked up, straight into Banham’s eyes. ‘This is interesting,’ he said.
‘So is this.’
‘Didn’t he say he wasn’t paying Vincent Mann a wage?’
She nodded.
‘According to the salary records, he pays him three thousand pounds a week. And Barbara gets the same as the McCormacks – one thousand a week.’
‘Now that is interesting. Why does he pay Maggie so much?’
‘You tell me.’ He looked back at the computer. ‘Stephen Coombs, five hundred pounds.’
There was another knock and Stephen Coombs appeared in the doorway. Large, yellow papier, maché flowers decorated the fuchsia pink hat that bobbed on his large head. His shoes and the stripes on his gaudy dress matched exactly. Perspiration ran down his heavily pan-caked face to his neck.
His eyes travelled from Alison to Banham. ‘I’m looking for the boss,’ he said, frowning.
‘As you can see, he’s not here,’ Alison said dismissively.
‘What are you doing then?’ he asked, suspiciously eyeing the laptop lying open in front of Banham.
‘The same as you – waiting for Michael.’
‘Right.’ Stephen hesitated for another second before backing out and closing the door.
‘Sophie is keeping a diary,’ Alison said to Banham. ‘Listen to this.’ She turned back a page and read
, ‘Stephen’s temper is the worst I’ve ever seen it this year.’ She turned another page. ‘It’s been a really difficult day. Stephen and Vincent Mann have been fighting, and Vincent and Lucinda were rowing. Lucinda was crying again in the lunch break.’ She turned more pages. ‘Stephen was very angry after the rehearsal. He threatened me again. Michael had to threaten to sack him. He apologised, but I could tell he didn’t mean it. Then he accused Lucinda of standing in his light. Barbara stuck up for Lucinda and Stephen gave Barbara a load of verbal abuse. He seems even more unstable this year … Lucinda was crying a lot today.’
Alison looked up. ‘And I’ve only got as far as the rehearsals. I’ll sneak back up here when they are doing the finale and …’ She didn’t have time to finish the sentence. The door flew open and Michael Hogan stood in the doorway.
‘Isn’t Sophie up here?’ he asked urgently.
‘No.’
Hogan noticed that his laptop was open but made no comment. ‘Where would she be?’ he said, turning to Alison. ‘She follows this dance number. Did you hear a call on the tannoy?’
‘Yes, I did.’ Alison flicked a worried glance at Banham. ‘But she hasn’t been up here. She must still be downstairs.’
Michael hurried away, leaving the door open; Banham closed the computer and they followed. Fay and Maggie were standing at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Where is she? Barbara’s going berserk,’ Fay said. ‘She should be in the wings, waiting to go on.’
Maggie was still wearing the cat costume, complete with the large, furry head. Her own green eyes were just visible through the thick black mesh under the large plastic ones protruding from the top of the head. Her voice sounded strangled as she spoke through the half-moon-shaped, bright red mouth. ‘Has someone checked the toilets?’ she suggested.
Banham headed for the ground floor toilet. As Alison ran back up the stairs she heard Michael calling to Alan, ‘Get Sonia to say the fairy’s lines over the mike.’
Both cubicles in the upstairs loo were empty. Alison hurried along the corridor to the Green Room. The two work experience boys, one short with red hair and freckles, the other tall and dark with enormous feet, stood by the vending machine sipping canned drinks.
‘Shouldn’t you be downstairs?’ she said.
‘We’ve finished,’ the red-haired one told her, a mottled blush creeping over his freckly face. ‘After we push the scenery on for the Sultan of Morocco scene, there’s nothing else for us to do.’
‘Have you seen the fairy anywhere?’
Both shook their heads. The red-haired one added, ‘She went under the stage after her last entrance. I don’t remember seeing her come up the other side.’
Banham walked swiftly down the corridor, opening each door in turn. Trevor was in the chorus room, in front of the mirror, getting ready to play King Rat. He wore the full costume except the rat’s head, which faced him from the dresser.
Sonia’s voice sounded through the tannoy: ‘Our hero has been captured, but never fear, Dick’s beloved cat will save the day.’
Trevor looked up at the tannoy in bewilderment. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked. ‘Where’s Sophie?’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Not since the Only Man on the Island scene.’ He frowned and his frog-like eyes moved from side to side. ‘Jesus! That’s so unlike Sophie. She never misses a cue.’
Alison, Banham and Isabelle Walsh arrived at the foot of the stairs at the same moment.
‘Isabelle, you come with me to check the basement,’ Banham said. ‘Alison, you stay up here and keep looking.’
Alison unclipped the torch from her belt and handed it to Isabelle, then went back into the wings. Banham and Isabelle walked to the bottom of the haunted staircase and found the light switch. Something wasn’t right. The children’s dressing room should have been in total darkness, but there was a light at the far end of the room. He quickly crossed the room and opened the door. The sight that greeted him made him stagger back.
‘When did you last see her?’ Alison asked Crowther.
Crowther drummed his fingers against his thighs. ‘I don’t even remember her coming off after her last bit. The girls were next on stage, and to be honest, Sarge, I was talking to them and didn’t take much notice of Sophie. I’m pretty sure she went off on the other side, though.’
Trevor, in his rat costume, appeared at the side of the stage. ‘She would have gone off on the opposite side,’ he said. ‘It’s pantomime tradition: the good character goes on and off stage right, and the bad guy goes on and off stage left. So I’m here, stage left.’
Crowther looked puzzled.
‘King Rat,’ Trevor added. ‘The bad guy.’
‘Well, you live and learn,’ Crowther said.
‘Did the dancers do a quick change in the wings before they went on?’ Alison asked Crowther.
He nodded, grinning broadly.
Alison narrowed her eyes. The whole of the British army could creep unnoticed past Crowther while three sexy girls were changing their clothes; duty had no chance against his testosterone.
On stage nothing was going well. Barbara Denis was trying to stay calm. There were no little rats running around, and Michael’s furry toy hedgehogs hadn’t materialised. Barbara bent towards down to Maggie and whispered, ‘Eat some invisible rats, for God’s sake. Let’s keep the show going.’
Maggie didn’t respond. She crouched in a cat position, unmoving. Barbara was anything but pleased. She walked downstage to address the audience. ‘Don’t be afraid. My faithful cat and I will rid the island of these rats for you.’
‘What rats?’ shouted someone in the audience. Barbara looked furious. She raised her voice and tried to speak over the laughter. ‘The rats don’t scare us,’ she told them. ‘My faithful cat will rid the island of them.’ She gave Maggie a little shove. Maggie ignored her. Barbara addressed Sonia, now dressed in a long white robe and playing the High Priestess of Morocco. ‘And in return, you will give us our freedom.’ Barbara held her hand out and took Fay’s. ‘Then I can wed my Alice.’
Trevor stepped on the stage in the full King Rat’s costume. Barbara looked out front and gave a theatrical gasp, then drew the prop sword from her waistband. ‘I’ll fight this one,’ she told the audience. ‘I am not afraid.’
The audience started cheering in true pantomime tradition.
Trevor pulled out his own prop sword.
‘Prepare to fight to the death,’ Barbara shouted to Trevor. He lifted his sword and swung it toward Barbara. The two swords crashed together and the fight leapt into action. It was very well choreographed, Alison thought – probably the best bit of the show. Barbara and Trevor were completely in sync; blow followed blow, one ducked as the other jumped, the swords met and the pace and excitement started to build. The audience were loving it. Barbara ducked again as the sword flew past her head, then jumped back up and rushed at Trevor, aiming her sword at his chest. Trevor shielded himself and stretched his sword arm toward Barbara. The audience screamed and cheered on Dick Whittington.
‘Jesus,’ Banham said.
Michael Hogan was kneeling at the bottom of the spiral staircase on the opposite side of the basement, holding Sophie in his arms. Her head was hanging back over his arm. Blood dripped from a gash in her neck, down her face into her long blonde hair and onto the sparkling fairy tiara lying beside her on the floor. Her arms hung limply by her side.
Within one hour the whole of the theatre was cordoned off with blue tape.
The murder squad, a full forensic team, uniformed police and a couple of sniffer-dogs now swarmed through the building. The show had been brought to a close and the curtain dropped just as Dick had defeated the King Rat in the famous sword fight. The actors sat in stunned silence on the stage waiting for forensic officers to take their costumes. The three girl dancers, shivering in their harem outfits, huddled against Trevor’s warm, furry rat costume, and DC Crowther sat on a chair near them.
Vincent Mann stood on the opposite side of the stage facing the wall. Every few seconds he lifted his hand and hit the wall. Stephen Coombs was a few yards away, perching uncomfortably on a canvas upright garden chair barely wide enough for his bulk. The cheery yellow and cerise hat lay on the floor by his large pink stiletto shoes. One dirty foot rested on his lap, and he whiled away the time picking at it.
Maggie and Barbara sat on the chaise longue used as the high priestess’s throne, with Fay by her mother’s feet on the floor. Alan had brought the stool from the prompt corner, and sat next to them, his hand covering his mouth. The only sound came from Stephen, rubbing his corns and picking his toenails.
Forensic officers, dressed from head to toe in plastic overalls and gloves the colour of bluebells, scoured the basement and the surrounding area. Penny Starr was scraping spots of fresh blood from the dirty floor, while another officer rubbed at the steps which had led Sophie to her death. Flashbulbs were popping more frequently than at a star-studded film premiere; the exhibits officer was photographing the dead girl and the pattern of bloodstains from every conceivable angle.
Another female forensic officer knelt on the ground and used a pair of tweezers to lift scrapings of a substance around a shoe print a few feet away from the body. She dropped them into a small transparent evidence tube and quickly closed the rubber cap.
Banham was now at the far end of the basement, looking at the mirror outside the children’s dressing room. The brown Good Luck bunny still hung from the mirror.
Alison and Isabelle both wore protective forensic suits to search the skips and overflowing crates in the basement. The three skips blocking the fire exit were only a few feet away from Banham; when Alison reached them she lowered her mask and whispered, ‘Are you OK, guv?’
‘We let this happen,’ he said in a low, dull voice. ‘Four of us in the building and this happened under our noses.’
She moved closer to him. ‘Get a grip,’ she said firmly. ‘We’re not clairvoyant. We were doing our job and investigating another murder.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And frankly, guv, if you think your personal history will get in the way of this enquiry, you should stand down and hand it over to someone else.’