Finally, at just after 12:45, the bus turned into Seacroft Road, Mablethorpe, rumbled on past a large supermarket and drew to a final halt.
“Don’t go no further, ducks,” the female driver told them, and they got off.
They stepped out into another small, seaside town wrapped in its winter, off-season shroud. The supermarket looked busy, but not so the shops along the opposite side of the street and round the corner on the High Street as it led them to the sea front. Staff in a jeweller’s shop stood yawning at the windows, as if their empty stares might tempt buyers in, cafés were only half full, and even the cheery, welcoming front of a pub, going by the unlikely name of The Reading Room, looked as if it could not generate enthusiasm.
“One or two places are shut already,” Brenda observed.
“They probably only open during the holiday season,” Sheila speculated.
As they reached the bottom of the street, close to an amusement arcade, Joe stared ahead at a sharp hill beyond which, he knew, was the beach.
“Is this place below sea level?”
“I don’t think so,” Sheila replied. “It’s a long time since I was last here, but I seem to recall, the ground drops away again over the hill and down to the beach.”
“Have you never been here, Joe?” Brenda wanted to know as she cast one eye on a small, covered arcade named Spanish City.
“Once,” he admitted. “It was shut then, too.” He signalled around the corner. “I’m headed up the theatre along here. You coming or do you have other plans?”
“We’ll take a walk round the shops,” Sheila decided for the pair. “Keep your phone on so we can catch up later.”
Joe nodded and turned north into Quebec Road, a long, straight thoroughfare which according to his map, led away from Mablethorpe to the village of Theddlethorpe a couple of miles to the North. Thirty yards along, he came to the front doors of the Bijou Theatre, which like its larger counterpart in Skegness, was a low-rise, flat-roofed building that looked as if it could be anything other than a theatre.
There was some negotiation with the woman in the ticket booth who insisted that Mr Dempster would be preparing for the two o’clock performance, but Joe stood his ground, insisting that it was matter of great urgency and he would take only a few minutes of the actor’s time.
She made a couple of phone calls and at length, he was shown through the main auditorium, which like the Rep in Skegness, had seating for only about 500, and behind the stage, where a corridor as barren as that in the Skegness theatre, led them along to the dressing rooms. The woman knocked on the door, received a grunted response from within, and pushed the door open for Joe. As he stepped in she closed it behind him.
The moment she did so, Joe wished she had not.
Cleanliness and tidiness had been drilled into him from an early age. “It’s vital when you’re running a café, lad,” his father had often told him, and the lesson had gone home. The Lazy Luncheonette was neat and spotless and in the old building, his living apartment had had that same orderliness.
This dressing room was nothing less than chaotic. The armchairs were strewn with clothing and empty, fast food trays, and the dresser, set before a large mirror, was littered with what Joe assumed were the necessary accoutrements of theatrical preparation: makeup, tissues, prosthetics such as wigs, and odd items of garish clothing. What he assumed to be a lamp shade turned out to be Aladdin’s hat… or certainly a hat belonging to a supposed Chinese.
In the armchair alongside the mirror, Raif Dempster swilled drink from a beer can, and looked up at Joe with half-open, red eyes. He stank of stale beer and tobacco and the whole atmosphere made Joe feel nauseous as he took the chair opposite.
“Make it snappy, pal. I’m due on in less than an hour.”
“In that state?”
“I’m sober… ish. Now what do you want?”
“To talk to you. If you’re soberish enough to understand me.”
Dempster shrugged. “Critic, are you?”
“Nope. Private investigator.”
The announcement had an effect on Dempster, and it was precisely the one Joe expected. The bleary eyes narrowed to fine points of disdain bordering on hatred. “I don’t know who’s told you what, but it isn’t true. I was nowhere near there and anyway, she wanted it.”
Joe’s patience began to wear thin. “Have you always been this much of a shambles?”
“Now listen, pal—”
“Why don’t you listen, instead? You’re a bloody disgrace. You’re supposed to be entertaining children, aren’t you? Look at the state you’re in. Half cut. And you’re going on stage in less than an hour.”
“They won’t know the difference.”
“No, but I do, and if I interpret what you’ve just said correctly, you’re already halfway to a charge of sexual assault.”
Dempster turned his head away, caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, and turned the other way instead. “Get out.”
“No way. Not until I have what I came for.”
“I told you—”
“I’m not here to listen to you answer for your behaviour. I’m here to find out what you know.”
“What about?”
“About what,” Joe retorted, taking a leaf from Sheila’s grammatically correct book. “I saw you and Malcolm Sedgwick fighting in Skegness yesterday.”
Dempster waved a limp, dismissive hand but still did not look at Joe. “Handbags.”
“Schoolboys don’t usually carry handbags,” Joe snapped. “It gets them a reputation. And you two were behaving like schoolboys.”
“So we had a bit of a barney. Who cares?”
“You will when the cops come to see you to find out what you know about last night.”
“What about last night?”
It occurred to Joe that Dempster was leading the debate by asking all the questions. Time, he thought, to bring the matter full circle.
“Malcolm Sedgwick collapsed on stage at about five to ten, last night. He died a few minutes later. He’s been shot or poisoned. They’re not sure which, yet. Now where were you?”
Whatever disinterest, genuine or feigned, Dempster had shown, dissipated quickly. He sat upright. The sore eyes were suddenly wide open, and his right hand, still holding the beer can shook almost uncontrollably.
“This is nothing to do with me. I can prove where I was at five to ten. In this very dressing room getting ready to go to the pub round the corner with the rest of the cast.” Dempster smiled, baring his nicotine-stained teeth. “We didn’t come off stage until about quarter to ten.”
Joe shook his head. Inside, he was smiling, too. Control had suddenly come back to him. “According to the cops, the gun he’d been using for weeks had been switched. It could have been you.”
“No way. I haven’t seen him for yonks. Not until yesterday afternoon when he started getting his wig off at me.” Anger burst through Dempster’s words. “Anyway, what does it have to do with you? You said you’re a private eye, not a cop.”
“It’s complicated,” Joe said, unwilling to let this half drunken fool know the truth. “Let’s just say whatever I learn goes straight back to the filth, and if you don’t answer me, I tell them, and they turn up to ask. And trust me, they’ll be a damn sight less generous than me.”
“It’s nothing to do with me. I’m telling you.” Dempster put down the beer, and the shaking hands picked up a tobacco tin. He spent a minute rolling a cigarette, muttering as he did so. “I mean, I didn’t like the tosser, but I’m no killer.”
With growing interest, Joe watched him roll the cigarette, put it in his mouth and light up. It called to mind the days when Joe, too, enjoyed hand-rolled smokes. He no longer missed it, except for odd occasions like now, when he watched someone else carrying out what was essentially a fiddly, dextrous action.
“I thought that was illegal inside public buildings,” he said, gesturing at the cigarette.
“You’re mistaking me for some
one who gives a hoot.” Dempster offered the tin and papers. “You want one?”
Joe was sorely tempted but resisted. He had been smoke free for over a year now, but he was acutely aware that only one cigarette would be enough to drag him back into the nicotine trap. “No thanks. You were saying you didn’t like Sedgwick. How long have you known him?”
“Years,” Dempster confessed. “We were in drama school together.”
“RADA?”
Dempster laughed: a long, throaty and sarcastic cackling. “Do me a favour. Tyneside School of Speech and Drama.”
Joe was puzzled. “Tyneside? Newcastle? You don’t sound like a Geordie.”
“I’m not. I come from Hull originally. But Tyneside was the only school where I could get a place.”
“And Sedgwick?”
“A true black and white striper of the Toon Army. Born and bred in Newcastle. The posh end, mind. Somewhere Gosforth way. Snooty git. Always was.”
“Was he any good?” Joe asked. “Only you didn’t sound too impressed with him yesterday.”
Dempster shrugged, dragged on his smoke, and reached for the beer again. Taking a wet, he said, “Not that good or he’d have got into RADA or The Central in London.” The eyes narrowed on Joe. “You any good as a private dick?”
“The best, but I don’t do it full time. I run a café in Sanford. What does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s about knowing your limitations. You’re not tall and you’re scrawny. Can you handle it if I decide to cut up rough?”
“Probably not, but I have two friends outside who can. And they’d make mincemeat of you.” Joe decided there was no point telling him the two friends were female and ‘outside’ meant at least hundred yards away. His warning had its effect anyway.
“That’s not what I meant because, Mr private eye, I know my limitations. Sedgwick never did.”
“Explain.”
Dempster put the beer can down, took a long pull on his cigarette and doused it in a saucer on the dresser. “It’s like this. You go to drama school with all these grand plans. You’re gonna take the theatre by storm. You’ll be a hit in provincial rep, then the West End, then Broadway. You’ll do the odd movie, and the occasional cameo on TV, but you’ll spend most of your time picking up gongs and jacking up your worth until you can command fees in millions. That’s what we wanted. Me and Sedgy and all the others in our year and every other year for all I know. Pretty soon you learn what you’re good at and what you’re not. I learned I was no use on stage. Couldn’t always remember me lines or me prompts, see. I’m better at it now, obviously. But that comes with experience. Early on, I got bit parts on telly where it wasn’t such a problem. If I fluffed it, the director threw a paddy and we went again. I also learned I was good at comedy. I have perfect comic timing. Since I came out of drama school, I’ve done a few straight roles and a couple of sitcoms, but these days I’m mainly stand up and panto. I make a good living. Enough to keep me in booze and baccy. The dreams of conquering the world are long gone, but I’m not unhappy with my lot.”
“What does all this have to do with Sedgwick?” Joe asked.
“I’m getting there. Sedgy was different. He was a thespian – or so he thought. He wanted the stage and nothing else. He would be the next Olivier or Gielgud. Now don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t bad, but he was never gonna be in their class, and that lesson soon struck home, so he hit on a different idea. Let’s update Shakespeare. Again, it’s not a bad idea, but the brainless prat never thought of updating the lines, only the setting. Picture this. Juliet dressed like a cheap tart, hanging around a street corner. She’s all angst, looking at her watch every five seconds, cursing up at the stars. So instead of her saying, “Romeo, why are you a goddamn Montague’, she says, ‘Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo’.”
Joe frowned. “Why would she ask if he’s a Montague? I thought she was looking for him.”
“Bone up on your Shakespeare, pal. The word ‘wherefore’ doesn’t mean where, and despite Sedgy having her looking at her watch, it doesn’t mean Romeo is showing up late. It means, where are you at, you jerk. Why did you have to be someone I can’t shack up with?”
Joe nodded his understanding. “This kind of conflict between Shakespearean dialogue and Stan Barstow setting has already been pointed out to me.”
“Good. Because it runs all the way through his work. Did you see Hamlet last night?”
Joe nodded. “Yep. I thought it was a farce.”
“So does everyone else. Everyone except Sedgwick. I saw it in Stockton earlier in the tour and I couldn’t stop laughing.” Dempster paused to let his words sink in. “But that was Sedgwick all over. The man is a complete banana.”
“Was. He’s dead.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
“How well did you know him in drama school?”
“Too well.”
“Did you graduate?”
Dempster shook his head. “Nope. I think he did, but I wouldn’t swear to it. I was in my third year and I landed a part in a kid’s programme about sixth formers.” He held out his hand and rubbed the forefinger and thumb together. “Making plenty moolah playing the school prat. When that finished, I did a bit of rep, more TV, and in my late twenties, I landed a plum part in a Channel Four sitcom. Great for three series, but then it slid and before you knew, I was a has-been. I got into stand up instead.”
“So you never worked with Sedgwick again?”
This time Dempster held up a single finger. “Just once. A BBC production of Oliver Twist about five, six years ago. He got the part of Fagin and I played Bill Sykes. That bombed, too. Hammy. That’s what the critics said, and that was Sedgy all over. He had no end of arguments with the director, and other cast members. Even the kid playing Oliver didn’t like him. He was playing Fagin like Raffles, a gentleman thief, instead of a bum Jew in Victorian London. But what can you expect if you cast a cokehead in that kind of role?”
“Yeah, I wanted to ask about that. Was he on drugs in drama school?”
“Wasn’t everyone? Listen, pal, most of us were doing a little weed, some went onto coke, others, me included, found other substitutes.” Dempster held up his can of beer. “It helps keep the depression at arm’s length.”
“Depression as in lost ambitions?”
“No. Depression as in living next door to flat broke most of your life.”
“Well I can’t see panto paying that much, and isn’t the season a bit restricted?”
“The panto runs out of steam at the end of February. At that stage, I usually have enough dosh for a flight to Alicante and a season working the bars in Benidorm. I rent a caravan there from March to October, and even at twenty-five euros a spot, I make a good screw out of it. I do three bars a night, six nights a week and I live well on it. The beer and snout are a lot cheaper over there and I can survive on a full English breakfast every morning and burger later in the day.”
Joe could visualise the scene quite well, even though it would never appeal to him. “You never fancied putting down permanent roots?”
“Tried it once. She cleared off with the estate agent when we put the house up for sale.”
It occurred to Joe that with contacts abroad, this man may very well be the importer, or go-between the police were seeking, but he would need more than just a suspicion based on his thin knowledge of drug trafficking.
“How well do you know the other members of the Hamlet cast?”
“Fair to middling.”
Joe remembered his discussion with Sheila and Brenda on Teri’s worries. “Nat Billingham?”
“Now there’s a kid who should be going places. How the hell did he end up working with Sedgy?”
“What? He’s talented?”
“One of the best. Not just treading the boards, but a good all-rounder. He can write, he can direct. He must have been hard up to take on Laertes in this production.” Dempster shrugged. “It happens.”
“You ever work with h
im?”
“Not so you’d notice. He was in that same production of Oliver Twist, but he played Noah Catchpole. Even so, I may be a drunk but I can recognise talent and that boy has talent. As for the others in the play, well Irma Karlinsky and Edgar Anderton have been around forever. Good friends of Sedgwick’s, too, which is probably why he cast them. She was in that same production of Oliver Twist, too. She played Nancy.” Dempster chuckled. “She was a bit old, but I got to give her one, and I beat her brains in later.”
“That kind of interpretation, was it?” Joe asked.
Dempster laughed again. “Nah. Not really. It went out late afternoon on a Sunday.” His brow knitted. “Come to think, Anderton was in it too. He played Brownlow. A bit part, really, considering the main thrust of the story. Shouldn’t wonder if Sedgy used a bit of influence to get them in the show.”
“Was this the same show where Michelle Arran was the wardrobe mistress?”
“Wardrobe assistant,” Dempster stressed. “Yeah. That was it.”
Joe had to pause for a moment to work his way through Dempster’s disjointed thinking. He racked his brain to think of more questions, but none readily presented themselves.
“I think that’s it for now, but the cops may want to speak to you.”
Dempster sniffed, disdainfully. “They know where to find me, and I don’t have anything to hide.”
Chapter Eight
“You know what we need, don’t you?” Brenda asked as she came out of the changing cubicle, a plain, dark blue dress in her hand, and a marked scowl on her face.
Sheila giggled. “Larger cubicles?”
“Very funny. If that’s a size twelve, I’ll show my… never mind.” Brenda hung the dress back on the rail where she had found it. “No, Sheila. What we need is some serious pampering, and I think I know just the place. Trust me, it’s not Mablethorpe or Skegness.”
A Theatrical Murder Page 9