by Linda Regan
For a few seconds, anger almost overwhelmed him. Then a small part of his mind realised she was right. It took guts to say that to her superior officer; she had guts in abundance, and he admired her for it.
He turned to face the crime scene and shouted to Isabelle Walsh, ‘When forensics have finished with Mr Hogan and bagged his clothes, can you get him a dressing gown and bring him through to the children’s room? Sergeant Grainger and I will take his statement.’
Alison was still eyeing him apprehensively. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s get on with our job.’
Max Pettifer, the scene of crime manager, walked over to Banham. He pulled off his rimless glasses and rubbed his eyes.
‘It would have been a lot easier if that clown hadn’t picked her up,’ he said, throwing a black look in Michael’s direction.
‘Wouldn’t it just?’ Banham replied. The skin under Max’s chin was getting flabby, he thought – probably something to do all the malt whisky he consumed. ‘And the quicker you can get his clothes bagged up, the better. I want to talk to him first.’
Banham studied Michael Hogan in the mirror. The producer was still sobbing as Penny Starr and other forensic officers scraped at the dirt on the sole of his shoes. Isabelle stood by with a dressing gown as a blue-gloved forensic officer bagged his clothes. Hogan’s body started to jerk and shake. Banham recognised the symptoms: he was going into shock.
Alison brought Michael into the children’s dressing room. She offered him a hard-backed chair and sat opposite him, beside Banham. The laundry basket served as a table between them, and she took Sophie’s zebra-print diary from her bag and laid it down. Michael did not react.
‘What was your relationship with Sophie?’ Banham asked him.
‘I was in love with her,’ Michael said, lowering his head.
‘So she was your mistress?’
Hogan looked up. ‘She was the love of my life.’
‘And your adopted daughter?’
He shrugged. ‘That too.’
‘Where were you when Sophie made her last entrance? And when the dancers were on stage?’ Banham asked.
‘I had to make an important phone call.’ Hogan spoke in a quiet, flat tone. ‘I went to the stage door phone.’
‘There’s a phone in your office,’ Banham said. ‘Why didn’t you use that?’
‘People come in all the time. I didn’t want to be overheard.’
‘Not even by Sophie?’
‘Especially by Sophie. I had to phone my bank. I’m very overdrawn and I didn’t want her to find out. She would have worried.’
‘You’ve got a mobile,’ Banham said.
‘The battery was flat. I forgot to charge it last night – hardly surprising, with everything that happened.’
Banham tapped the side of his face. ‘Exactly when did you go out to the phone?’
‘As the harem dance started. Alan had just come back from the Feathers; he settled back on the stool to run the show so I took the opportunity to make the call.’
‘And when did you realise Sophie was missing?’
‘As I put the phone down, Alan came up and asked if I knew where she was. He said the dancers had come off stage and Fay was just going on. Sophie was always in the wings standing by, but she was missing. That’s when I went upstairs, and found you in my office.’
That could all be checked; Crowther could phone the bank to confirm Hogan’s call. Banham decided to go in another direction.
‘Why did you lie about the wages you pay your actors?’ he asked.
Michael opened his mouth to speak but seemed to think better of it.
‘You said you didn’t pay Vincent Mann,’ Alison reminded him coldly. ‘But according to your accounts you pay him three thousand pounds a week.’
‘Only on paper. I don’t actually give it to him. It was his idea, and it suited me just fine.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘I took it out in cash, pocketed two thousand to pay off some debts and gave Barbara an extra grand a week in cash, on top of the thousand on paper.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘None of it matters without her.’ He began to shake violently and pulled the dressing gown around him. Banham stood up and moved the fan heater closer to him.
‘Why give Barbara an extra thousand pounds?’ Alison asked.
‘I feel responsible for her,’ Michael said flatly. ‘She was my wife and I treated her badly. She never remarried and her career is all she’s got. The least I can do is give her work, and help her financially.’
‘It’s still a lot of money,’ Alison said. ‘For someone who’s going bankrupt.’
Michael’s eyes rested on the diary. He looked at Banham. ‘I need to ring Valerie, Sophie’s mother.’
‘A family liaison officer will take care of that.’
‘It’ll be better coming from me.’ Michael spoke quietly but insistently.
Banham shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry.’
Michael banged his fist on the table. ‘She’s her daughter, for Chrissakes.’
Banham stood up. ‘That’ll be all for now, Mr Hogan,’ he said formally. ‘Sergeant Grainger will escort you upstairs. I have to ask you to wait with the rest of your cast while we finish here. I’ll keep you informed, but I will be asking you to accompany us to the station for further questioning.’
Banham walked upstairs, round the side of the stage and into the ground floor corridor, where sniffer-dogs and their handlers were searching for Sophie’s scent, or something else that might lead them to the murder weapon.
After taking Michael to the stage Alison walked into the corridor and joined Banham. ‘I’m speaking as a friend now,’ she said gently. ‘You handled that interview really well…’
He bristled. ‘I’m the senior officer here…’
She ignored him and continued, ‘You’re a great detective, but you’re in danger of letting your personal life take over.’ She glanced around to make sure no one could hear. ‘I know why young female victims get to you – but it’s been eleven years, Paul. If you want to survive in this job you’ve got to move on.’
He didn’t answer. How did she know how hard it was for him? He thought he was doing a good job of hiding the turbulent feelings this case was stirring up.
‘You have stop feeling everything’s your responsibility. The murder’s happened, so let’s find the bastard responsible. That’s our job – that’s what we do.’
Banham took a deep breath. ‘I know the murders were very different, but I believe it’s the same killer,’ he said. ‘And it was definitely an inside job.’ He paused. ‘It has to be one of five people, and they are all sitting on that stage. It would help enormously if we could find the weapon.’
She touched his arm briefly. ‘We’ve got the dogs. We’ll find it.’
Max Pettifer approached Banham. ‘Ah, there you are. I knew you wouldn’t want to hang around down there, under the circumstances.’
Alison gave a gasp, and Banham found himself fighting an urge to hit the thoughtless SOCO man. ‘What have you got?’ he asked.
‘Haven’t found the knife yet, have you?’
His superior tone that was starting to irritate Banham.
‘I’d say the blade was between six and eight inches. It wasn’t a clean slicing, either; there are bits of torn muscle and the edge of the oesophagus is splintered. That’s a very ragged cut. I’d say your killer wasn’t experienced with a knife.’
‘And in a hurry,’ Banham suggested.
Pettifer left, and Banham looked at Alison, who was flicking through Sophie’s diary. ‘When we solve this murder, will you let me buy you dinner?’ he asked her.
She avoided his eyes, focusing on a page of the diary. ‘No. I want us to work together and be friends. There’s no room for anything else.’
‘And if I agree, can I buy you dinner as a friend? To say thank you for keeping me in line?’
‘No.’
Her eyes met his for a moment and he saw determination in them. May
be best not to push it, he thought sadly.
‘There’s an entry in this diary for the day before the show opened,’ she said briskly, flicking the pages. ‘Sophie threatened to tell Vincent Mann’s wife about his affair with Lucinda if he hit Lucinda again.’ She turned another few pages. ‘And a couple of days ago Stephen hit Sophie when she intervened in an argument between him and Barbara. She didn’t tell Michael because he might have sacked Stephen, and they needed to keep the show running. They couldn’t have replaced him easily. Apparently pantomime dames don’t come cheap – certainly not at the rate they were paying him.’
‘What does it say, exactly?’
Alison began to read from the diary. ‘Stephen’s temper is out of control. He is showing signs of violence again. Those are her exact words.’
Banham rubbed a hand across his mouth. ‘Did she write anything last night or this morning?’
‘No, unfortunately.’
‘Time we did some background work. Get Isabelle to run a check on Stephen for previous convictions.’
‘Will do, Guv.’ She headed in the direction of the basement.
‘And Alison…’
She turned her head.
‘You’re a great detective too.’
Vincent was wearing a red, white and blue, striped dressing gown, and no glasses. He paced the dressing room floor, his agitation coming out as aggression.
‘I told you Lucinda was murdered,’ he shouted. ‘This wouldn’t have happened if you’d listened to me.’
‘Sit down, please, Mr Mann,’ Banham said sternly.
Vincent stood still, and leaned against one of the mirrored walls. ‘I’d rather stand.’
‘Whatever. Talk me through your movements after you left the stage, just before Sophie went missing.’
‘I left the stage and went to find Michael.’ There was still an edge of hysteria in his voice. ‘You were in the office, you saw me yourself. I’d just had another run-in with Stephen Coombs on stage.’ He blew out a gusty breath. ‘I came to tell Michael that I’d had enough. That whatever he threatened, I wasn’t putting up with any more. I was walking out.’
Banham folded his arms and studied the man. Vincent couldn’t look him in the eye. For a few moments neither of them spoke, then Banham asked, ‘Did you go straight up to Michael’s office after leaving the stage?’
‘Yes, you saw me yourself. You were in the office when I got there.’
‘You went straight from the stage to the company office?’
‘Yes.’ Vincent narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘You had your glasses on when you came upstairs,’ Banham told him. ‘When did you put them on?’
Vincent shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘I presume you leave your glasses in your dressing room?’
Vincent opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again as the door opened. It was Alison.
‘Was Mr Mann wearing his glasses when he came to the company office earlier?’ Banham asked her.
‘Yes. Yes, he was,’ she answered.
‘So where did you leave them while you were on stage?’ he asked the comic.
Vincent shook his head like a dog flicking away water. ‘I’m sorry. I’m in a bit of a state. I’m not sure, but I think I left them on Alan’s desk and picked them up as I left the stage.’ He screwed up his eyes and sighed. ‘I can’t think straight. It’s the shock…’
‘Was Alan at his desk?’ Banham asked.
‘No. No, I’m sure he wasn’t,’ Vincent said.
‘You remember that, then.’ The tiny smile on Banham’s mouth didn’t reach his eyes. ‘So where did you go when you left this office?’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve gone blank. Back down to the dressing room, I think.’
‘Did you see anyone, or notice anything unusual?’
He lifted a finger. ‘I saw Michael on the public phone, the one by the stage door. He was getting quite heated, so I decided against approaching him. I do remember thinking that it was unusual to see him on the public phone.’
‘Then where did you go?’ Banham pursued.
‘To the dressing room.’
‘Was anyone in there?’
‘Stephen wasn’t. And Alan’s never in there during a show. When he’s not on stage he should be at the side of the stage running the show. But as you know, he’s more often in the pub next door.’
‘Did you see anyone else in the corridor on your way to the dressing room?’ Banham continued.
Vincent laced and unlaced his fingers in a repeating pattern. ‘Trevor. I saw Trevor, the boy dancer. He comes off halfway through the dancers’ spot to change into the King Rat costume.’ He exhaled and looked at Banham. ‘To be honest, I think I saw him. But we do this show twice a day, and I normally see him at this time, so…’
‘He normally changes in your dressing room,’ Banham reminded him. ‘Today he was changing with the girls.’
Vincent laced his fingers and held them still. ‘Yes, he was. I’m sorry, my brain won’t work properly.’
‘How did you know Stephen Coombs was going to complain about you?’ Alison asked him. ‘You said you didn’t see him when you came off stage.’
‘He told me on stage. He swore at me.’
On stage, in front of a theatre full of children, Banham thought, exchanging glances with Alison.
Vincent pulled a pair of glasses out of his pocket and started cleaning them with a red handkerchief. ‘He whispered to me on stage – called me a foul name and said he was going to Michael about me. I’d had enough. If anyone heard and told the press, that would be my career as a children’s television presenter down the Swanee.’ He rubbed the glasses vigorously and held them up to the light, then started rubbing all over again. ‘He said I was speaking across his laughs. In comedy if someone says a funny line everyone on stage stays still and waits for the audience to laugh before carrying on with the next line. It’s called comic timing.’ He glimpsed his reflection in the mirror opposite and gazed at it for a moment. ‘You could wait for a herd of donkeys to pass, and Stephen’s lines still wouldn’t get a laugh.’
His shoulders slumped and he stopped fidgeting with his hands. ‘Without Lucy, everything seems … irrelevant. I wasn’t even concentrating.’ He put his glasses on and stuffed the hanky in his pocket. ‘But I can’t stop myself ad-libbing when there’s an audience in front of me. I’m a comic. I do it without thinking. Anyway, I really don’t care. I’ve had enough of this damned show.’
‘Did you leave the stage at the same time as Stephen?’ Alison asked him.
Vincent shook his head. ‘No, Stephen made his exit stage right today. The same way as Sophie. I took advantage and scooted up to Michael’s office to tell him I was leaving there and then.’
Suddenly there were raised voices outside the dressing room. Banham raised his eyebrows, but Alison was as puzzled as he was.
‘I’ll have to ask you to wait back on the stage until further notice, Mr Mann,’ Banham said in his formal tone. ‘And I will need you to accompany me to the station for further questioning.’
Alison opened the door to find DC Crowther in the corridor trying to fend off a hysterical middle-aged woman. Banham had no idea who she was, and as he approached her, she tried to push him aside. Her eyes were firmly fixed on the cordoned-off area leading to the basement.
Chapter Eleven
Alison would have known the woman was Sophie’s mother even if Valerie Flint hadn’t been screaming her daughter’s name; the likeness was uncanny. Michael Hogan’s attempt to comfort the hysterical woman confirmed her identity.
‘Mr Hogan, you were asked to wait on the stage,’ Banham almost shouted. ‘This is a murder enquiry. Please do as I ask and leave the police to deal with police business.’
Alison managed to detach Valerie Flint’s clawing hands from Crowther’s lapel. Crowther dusted himself down and led Michael back to the stage.
Valerie was still demanding to see her daughter
. Alison stepped in; Banham wasn’t good at handling these situations. She introduced herself and spoke soothingly, taking the other woman’s arm and pulling her away. For a small woman, Valerie was certainly strong.
Eventually she allowed herself to be led through the pass door and into the empty auditorium. Alison settled her in one of the red velvet seats in the front row, and Valerie started to compose herself. Banham had followed them and sat on the other side. He looked thoughtful but not upset by the woman’s behaviour; his mind was firmly on the job. Alison was glad. Her pep talk had worked.
The actors were now sitting on stage in their street clothes or their dressing gowns as Penny Starr bagged up their costumes and shoes, labelling the plastic evidence containers with blue-gloved hands. She put the containers side by side and walked into the wings to ask Crowther to have them driven to the lab.
Maggie McCormack had settled herself back on the chaise longue beside Barbara. Fay was sitting on the floor in front of them. ‘Go and give Michael a cuddle,’ Maggie said to her.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea under the circumstances,’ Barbara said.
Stephen looked up from the large canvas chair into which he had squeezed his bulk. ‘It’s none of your business, as it fucking happens,’ he said to Barbara a little more loudly than necessary. ‘You ain’t in charge of everything, see.’
The four dancers looked away, obviously hoping there wasn’t going to be another scene.
Crowther gave the stage his full attention. Barbara stared coldly at Stephen, taking her time before answering – a little unsteadily, Crowther noticed.
‘I’m just suggesting,’ she said, ‘that as we’ve been told to sit here and wait, we should do just that. And I think that considering the circumstances, Michael would prefer to be left alone.’
‘That isn’t ’cos you’re considering the fucking circumstances, lady. It’s ’cos you can’t fucking bear anyone near him except yourself,’ Stephen snarled.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Barbara turned away.