1

The alleyway to the back of the theatre building was cordoned off with the usual blue and white tape. Two police cars, silent flashing lights signalling the emergency, were parked either side of the road. The female officer standing guard gave Banham a shy smile and lifted the tape to allow him through.

He walked up the alleyway and opened the stage door. Half a dozen girls, none older than twelve, stood in the passageway. All were dressed identically: black leotards, black tights, black shoes. Some were crying, others looked dazed and bewildered. Banham’s eyes were drawn to a very pretty blonde girl who looked about eleven years old.

Another blonde, this one attractive and middle-aged, appeared behind the group. “Can I help you?”

He flashed his warrant card and asked the woman where the stage area was.

“I’ll take you.”

She led him down the short corridor and turned left. A sign in the shape of a large hand with a pointing finger read STAGE LEFT. NO UNAUTHORISED ADMISSION DURING PERFORMANCE.

“It’s through the swing doors,” she said. “We’ve been told to wait in the Green Room, but I’ll take you through if you like.”

“I’ll find my way, thanks.”

“You don’t think it was anything other than an accident, do you?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” he said abruptly.

“How long will we have to wait? Only, there are children in the show, and their parents…”

“I’ll get someone to let you know as soon as I can,” he told her. “I’m sorry, you are?”

“I’m Maggie, Maggie McCormak. My daughter’s in the show, she’s one of the principals.”

Banham nodded. “Did you…?”

“She plays the cat,” Maggie carried on. “My husband’s the stage manager and I do the wardrobe…”

Her voice died away as he fixed his eyes firmly on her. “Did you see what happened?”

“No, I was watching the show from the audience,” she said lowering her gaze and brushing her eye with a finger. “I knew something was very wrong when they brought the curtain in. So I rushed back. Everyone was crowded around at the edge of the stage. Barbara Denis told me she wasn’t breathing and Vincent had gone to ring for an ambulance.”

Banham nodded. “Thank you. Could you look after the children?”

He pushed open the swing door and found himself at the left-hand side of the stage, as the sign had indicated.

The house lights were turned on full and light flooded the stage area and auditorium. But where he was standing large and cumbersome pieces of scenery blocked both the light and his access to the stage. He found himself face to face with a tall, oddly-shaped and brightly painted piece of plywood, which he couldn’t manoeuvre around.

Alison – Sergeant Alison Grainger – was on the other side of the stage with her back to him, talking to one of the forensic team. She was wearing an ankle-length grey military-style coat, with a maroon woollen scarf. A matching maroon cap with a hanging bobble covered her head, allowing her long mouse-coloured hair, frizzy from the December night air, to tumble freely down her back. He thought she looked beautiful. He recognised the officer she was talking to: Penny Starr, his young detective constable’s current date; Afro-Caribbean hair peeped out from under the hood of her blue, head-to-toe plastic overall. She held a magnifying glass in one latex-gloved hand and a pair of tweezers in the other.

Max Pettifer, the senior SOCO officer, was there too, deep in conversation with Heather Draper, the police pathologist. They blocked Banham’s view of the dead woman; he could see long, dark hair fanned out on the floor, but no face. Banham was glad; he hated looking at young female victims.

Banham put a foot on the piece of scenery to climb over it, but his foot slipped on the painted surface and he caught his leg on something sharp. “Fuck,” he cursed loudly, feeling about for the offending object. It was a loose, sharp nail.

Alison looked up. “Don’t try to climb over that ship, Guv, it’s not safe,” she shouted. “Best to walk round the back.” She pointed to the area at the rear of the stage where a black cloth hung from ceiling to floor. “There’s a thin passageway behind that black curtain, it’ll bring you round this side. But be careful, there’s scenery everywhere and very little light back there.”

“Right,” he said, looking around for the ship and realising that she meant the large piece of scenery. He picked his way around it and manoeuvred carefully around several smaller pieces before he found the passageway. Easy to have a fatal accident here, he thought. Perhaps the killer knew that – if there was a killer, of course. The health and safety officers would have a field day, especially with children working here.

He noticed a spiral staircase to his right, leading downward. So there was a basement too.

The passageway at the back of the stage was extremely narrow, and a solitary low-wattage lamp lay on the ground to help steer his way. If the actors had to squeeze down here every time they needed to cross the stage, he was glad he wasn’t one. At the far end he bumped against a wobbling wooden trestle table, edged carefully around it and found himself next to another spiral staircase. So, two staircases leading to a basement area under the stage. The actors probably used that to get across.

The trestle table was another accident waiting to happen. Two identical long swords lay side by side on it, both blades blunt and rusting with age. Beside them was a large, furry black cat’s head, with erect ears and large, green plastic eyes. The poster at the stage door read The Wonderful Colourful, Star-Studded Pantomime – DICK WHITTINGTON and his VERSATILE CAT. This cat didn’t look versatile; it didn’t even look appealing.

Someone poked him in the arm and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Thought you’d got lost,” Alison Grainger said.

He turned to face her, and into the light. A few feet away at the side of the stage the dead girl lay, her head against a piece of scenery, next to a block of concrete about five inches square. Banham stared at the corpse.

“Guv, you may not want…”

Sometimes he thought Alison could read his mind. “May not want what?” he snapped before he could stop himself.

She took a breath before answering. “I was just going to say, there isn’t a lot to be gained from looking at the body. Either she either banged her head against the concrete block as she fell, or someone lifted it and hit her with it. We can’t do much until the forensics report comes back. It may not even be a murder case.”

He looked over her shoulder again and studied the angle of the corpse. Alison spoke again.

“That new forensic officer, Penny Starr, was with DC Crowther when he got the call. She’s offered to take the concrete block and do a light-source test…”

“Who’s running this investigation?” he asked her. “You or me?”

“Sorry?”

“You heard me.”

“You are, Guv. I was just… here, that’s all.”

There was a few seconds silence. He knew she had his best interests at heart, but he was the senior officer.

“As long as we’ve got that straight.” He nodded his head in the direction of the corpse. “Is that the exact spot where she landed when she supposedly fell and hit her head?”

“No, one of the actors, Vincent Mann, has touched her. She was wearing a black balaclava and he pulled it off in the hope that it might help her breathe, so she’s been moved. But only slightly, according to him.”

Banham walked towards the body and crouched beside it.

“Evening, Guvnor,” said Penny Starr, holding a magnifying glass over the concrete block. “It’s tricky, this one; the girl apparently hit her head on this, but I can’t get anything from the concrete here; I’ll have to take it away and do a light-source treatment.”

“Yes, Sergeant Grainger mentioned that. How long?”

“Three days. Sorry, can’t go any faster – the reagents need to develop.”

Banham looked up at Alison. “We’ll need DNA from all the actors, to eliminate them.”

As he straightened up he heard a woman’s laugh. Heather Draper, the pathologist, was standing a few feet away with Max Pettifer, head of the SOCO team. The smile left his face when he noticed Banham staring at him. “She died from a blow to the temple artery,” he said. “It was very quick and she was dead before the paramedics got here.”

“She died instantly, I suspect,” Heather Draper agreed. “But that’s off the record – as usual I’ve said nothing until the post mortem’s done and you’ve had my report.” She lifted the girl’s head so Banham could get a good look at the blow.

“She must have hit the stage weight with a lot of force if she fell,” he said.

Heather pointed to the girl’s cheek. “Someone has been knocking her about too. Those bruises aren’t fresh, a few days old at least.”

Banham rubbed his hand across his face. “When can I have your report?”

“Hopefully tomorrow. I know the mortuary’s free. I’ll get it to you as soon as I can.”

He knew she would do her best; they always worked well together.

Not so Max Pettifer, overweight and too fond of the sound of his own public school voice.

“I know it’s urgent, old son,” he said. “I’ll do my best, but I didn’t invent Christmas, nothing I can do if the laboratories are shut.”

Penny Starr looked up from where she was examining the area around the corpse. “I’m happy to give up my Christmas leave,” she said. “Colin is on the case anyway, so it’s not as if we’d see much of each other. I’ll give a couple of the technicians a ring - they’ll be glad of the overtime.”

“Thank you, Penny.”

They might make some progress after all.

Alison Grainger was still beside him. “How far have we got?” he asked her.

“Her name is Lucinda Benson,” Alison said. “She was the principal girl in the pantomime. Uniform called us; they were told she fell against that stage weight, in the middle of a routine that took place in pitch black and included most of the cast.”

“In pitch black? No wonder she fell! This place is a deathtrap. And what was that stage weight thing doing there?”

“It’s supposed to hold the scenery up.”

“But it’s not; the scenery is falling down. How easy would it be to lift that concrete block in the middle of a routine that took place in the dark?”

“You’d have to be quick, and strong, and know where to aim,” Alison told him. “In the dark, that might be difficult. But all the people on stage with her know the backstage area extremely well, and they’re used to the lighting.”

“Have we got a list of the actors who were on stage yet?” he asked.

She pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket. “I got this from the producer. They’re all waiting in the Green Room upstairs. DC Crowther got here first; they told him everyone was on stage when it happened, except the pantomime dame who was changing his costume. Crowther said he couldn’t understand their technical jargon.” A sheepish expression flicked briefly across her face. “I’ve… been in a few pantomimes myself… when I was a child, of course, not recently. So I told him to ask me if there was anything he didn’t understand.”

Banham suppressed a smile. “Good thinking, sergeant.” A sudden thought struck him. “You haven’t told anyone else, have you? That you’ve worked in pantomime?”

“No, Guv.”

“Good. Keep it to yourself. We may need that card up our sleeve. Where’s Crowther, by the way?”

“I sent him out front with DC Walsh to take statements from the pianist, sound engineer and usherettes - not that any of them saw much. I said we’d all meet up in the Green Room when you arrived. I hope that’s OK?” She looked at him apprehensively.

“Do we know who was standing where on stage, at the time of the death?”

She shook her head. “All the children, and the actors except the dame, were walking on and off the stage carrying different coloured ultra-violet fish.”

Banham blinked in bewilderment as Alison continued, “The routine is very precisely staged, so I’m sure the choreographer will know who was where in the scene.”

“Good.”

Alison began to walk off stage; he caught her up as she reached the wings. “Um, why were the fish ultra-violet?” he asked.

“It’s called the underwater ballet scene. There’s a storm at sea, and all the cast fall overboard and land in the ocean. They’re all dressed from head to toe in black, and the stage is in darkness too, so the audience can’t see them. When the actors walk across the stage holding the ultra-violet fish in the air, it looks as if the fish are swimming about on their own.”

“Right,” he said, completely bemused now. “So how do we know who was next to her when she fell?”

“According to the producer, she fell at the end of the routine. He said the actress who plays Dick Whittington, the star of the show, Barbara Denis, should have been standing next to her.”

“Should have been?”

“He said we’d have to double check that with the choreographer. He told me all the cast have said the same – they heard a bump at the end of the routine, just before the lights came up, and they thought someone had fainted or fallen over. Then when the lights did come up Lucinda was lying in a heap on the floor. They all knew something was seriously wrong, so they dropped the curtain.”

“How many actors were there on the stage?”

“According to this list, there are five actors, four adult dancers and six children in the cast. Plus the choreographer, and the stage manager who’s mostly in the wings.”

“So DNA swabs from all the adults if they’ll give them, and bag all the costumes for forensics.”

“Crowther was already doing that when I arrived. He’s been here a while.”

“And there I was thinking you were the one trying to take over the investigation,” Banham said dryly. “How did he get here so quickly? He lives the other side of town.”

Alison grinned. “Penny Starr doesn’t – she lives around the corner from here, and he spent Christmas with her.”

Crowther always managed to pull the women, Banham thought. The DC was no oil painting; what was his secret? He stole a glance at Alison; he’d managed to mess that up before it started.

He dragged his hand across his face wearily and walked over to the high desk at the corner of the stage. A copy of the script lay on the stool beside it, open at a page headed Underwater Ballet. He flicked through it, but made no sense at all of the different coloured underlinings and other marks.

“They call that the prompt corner, Guv,” Alison said.

“Does someone sit there during the show?” Banham asked.

“The stage manager should,” Alison told him. “Apparently tonight he was in the pub. And yes, uniform are checking on that.”

“So who brought the curtain down? Isn’t that his job?”

“He didn’t say. I’ll make sure I ask him.”

“What’s up there?” he asked her, pointing to the rows of lights and twisted ropes hanging from the ceiling over the stage.

“They call it the flies. Sometimes the sound engineer and the electrician operate from up there, but in this show the sound engineer is at the back of the auditorium. So there wouldn’t have been anyone up there today.”

“Shouldn’t,” Banham corrected. “Something else to check.”

“Everyone involved in the show backstage is in the Green Room.” Alison handed him the notebook she was holding. “This is a list of the whole cast and crew, made up by the producer.”

She was still wearing her gloves, maroon wool to match her cap and scarf, with pom-poms dangling from the wrists. He reached out and grabbed her hand.

“What’s with the pom-poms?” he asked.

She pulled away. “A Christmas present from my mother.”

Her embarrassment was almost tangible. “We do need to talk,” she said lowering her voice.

“About what?”

“About last week?”

He looked down. “There’s no point, Alison. It was my fault, I shouldn’t have tried to mix business with pleasure. It won’t happen again.”

His heart was in his boots. Why couldn’t he be honest with her, and tell her how he felt? What he really needed was to move more slowly.

But he’d said it now, and blown any chance he had of trying again.

“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” she said after an agonising couple of seconds. “It wasn’t a crime scene. But never mind; if you think business and pleasure don’t mix, I won’t say any more. End of chapter. OK?”

The black flecks her eyes turned blacker when she was angry. He had once told her that her eyes were a shade of sludge. That had made her furious; the flecks had turned jet black and she had told him to go to night-school and take a course in romance. Everything he said came out wrong.

She was waiting for him to speak. OK, business, not pleasure. “Right, sergeant, let’s get on with this enquiry. Start with the children; take their statements and let them go. I’m going to see what Crowther has found out, and then I’ll talk to the producer.”

“Yes, Guv.”

He looked up and found himself staring into shiny black flecks in her sludge-coloured eyes. She turned away and headed for the swing door that led to the corridor. He followed. She pushed the door wide open, walked through it, and left it to fly back and hit Banham in the face.

 

2

No matter what Detective Constable Colin Crowther was wearing he always looked as if his clothes belonged to somebody else. Today his jeans were a little too baggy and his grey jacket a touch too long in the arms. The front of his short, over-gelled brown hair stood erect from his head, and the rest with its natural curl lay flat against his skull. He had a boyish face with big brown eyes, a wide smile and a cockney accent.

Crowther was ambitious. Banham knew he was desperate to make sergeant, so it came as no surprise when the young officer hailed him loudly and launched into an account of everything he had done in the hour that he’d been at the crime scene.

The DC had arranged a liaison officer to go round and break the news to the dead girl’s parents, then organised the available uniform officers, supervised by DC Isabelle Walsh, to secure the area. He had personally labelled each of the black outfits that were worn by the actors and bagged them in evidence bags, all ready for Penny to take away to test for fragments of concrete. Then he had spoken to the staff in the pub next door, who had confirmed that Alan McCormak, the stage manager, had been in there at the exact time that the accident happened.

Crowther reminded Banham of a spaniel waiting for a rewarding bone.

“You take a lot on yourself, don’t you, lad? The post mortem won’t be done till tomorrow. Until then we don’t even know if we’re looking at a murder enquiry.”

The young constable’s face fell. “I kept Sergeant Grainger in the loop, Guv. I just thought…”

The truth was he’d done extremely well. Banham relented. “OK – just wait for instructions from now on.”

Crowther tapped the side of his nose and lowered his voice. “I’ve found out a little something of interest, Guvnor.”

Banham lifted his eyebrows.

“I had a quick word with the girl who set the dance routines,” Crowther said. “Sophie Flint. She explained what happened at the time of the death.”

“Go on.”

“Apparently, the geezer who plays the pantomime dame, Stephen Coombs is his name, isn’t on stage in that part of the show because he has to change his costume during that routine. But tonight, when the routine was over and…” Crowther screwed the side of face up as he often did when in thinking mode… “Vincent Mann, that’s the feller, rang for the ambulance, Sophie Flint said Stephen Coombs was standing in the corridor – and he hadn’t changed his costume.”

“She told you this?”

“Yes, Guv.”

“We’ll need an official statement.”

They started to climb the stairs to the first floor. “Have you spoken to anyone else?” Banham asked.

“I had a quick word with the chorus dancers, Guvnor.”

“All young and pretty were they?”

“The three girls are a bit gorgeous, I’ll admit, Guvnor,” Crowther said with a grin. “I daresay the black bloke is somebody’s type; not mine though.”

Banham couldn’t help liking Crowther. He had too much confidence and not enough experience, and his enthusiasm was inclined to run away with him unless he was kept on a leash; but he worked hard, and had a good future.

“Keep your eye on the ball,” Banham told him, stopping as they reached the top of the stairs. “Don’t for goodness’ sake start flirting with any of the women. At the moment they’re all suspects.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Guv.”

“Besides,” Banham added, “I’m relying on you not to upset Penny. She’s offered to work through her leave and keep us ahead on the forensics side, but only because you’re here.”

Crowther lifted his lapels and pulled his shoulders back. “I train ’em well, Guv.”

Banham fought the urge to smile. How did Crowther do it? He couldn’t get it right with one woman, but this lad managed to juggle two or three at once.

“Sergeant Grainger is taking statements from the children,” he said, “so you and I will make a start up here. How many…?” He looked down the list he had torn from Alison’s notebook and started to count the names.

“Just four actors, Guv,” Crowther prompted. “There’s also four adult dancers, and the dame who wasn’t on stage at the time. Sophie Flint said she also plays the fairy.”

Banham looked at the list again. “Vincent Mann, the comic. He’s the one who rang for the ambulance. He pulled the girl’s balaclava off, leaving his sweaty handprints all over her.”

“DNA. Don’t help matters,” said Crowther.

“Barbara Denis plays Dick Whittington,” Banham read, “And Alan McCormak, the stage manager, also plays Alderman Fitzwarren - and was in the pub this evening.”

Crowther shook his head. “How can you be on stage playing a part, if you’re in the pub?”

“And also be at the side of the stage keeping an eye on things,” Banham said. He looked back at his list. “Fay McCormak, she’s Alan’s daughter. She plays the cat.”

They were now standing outside a door bearing the sign:

OFFICIAL COMPANY OFFICE

SOPHIE FLINT (Choreographer)

MICHAEL HOGAN (Producer)

“What happens in the official company office?” Banham asked.

“Don’t know, Guv.”

“Is it unlocked?” Banham asked.

“Let’s find out.” Crowther turned the handle and the door opened.

The man at the far end of the office nearly jumped out of his skin. He was tall and middle-aged with longish dark hair streaked with silver. He reminded Banham of a seventies pop-star, with his lived-in face and long grey-green cardigan over dated green corduroy trousers finished with scuffed black cowboy boots. The bags under his eyes were very prominent, and he clicked an electric kettle off and on nervously.

“This is Michael Hogan, the producer of the show,” Crowther told Banham. “Mr Hogan, you were asked you to wait in the Green Room with everyone else.”

“I just spoke to your sergeant,” Hogan said. “She’s taken the children down to the basement to interview them in their dressing room. It’s getting cold down there now the heating’s off, so I’m making a pot of hot coffee for her. Would you gentlemen like some?”

“White, two sugars,” Banham said with a thin smile.

“One sugar for me,” Crowther added.

“How is your enquiry progressing?” Hogan asked, taking a packet of fresh coffee out of a cupboard and spooning some into a pot which stood beside the kettle.

“It’s hardly started yet.”

“But it was an accident, wasn’t it?”

“We can’t say anything yet, we need to make some enquiries.”

Michael poured boiling water into the coffee pot. The rich smell filled the air, and Banham suddenly felt in desperate need of a large cup to keep him going.

“I’m going to sound callous,” Michael said concentrating his attention on the coffee. “But as all the seats for tomorrow’s matinee are sold, I have to ask.” He looked sheepishly at Banham. “This won’t have any repercussions on the rest of the pantomime run, will it, Inspector?”

Banham eyed the man for a second before replying. “I can’t answer that yet. We’ll have to wait to see how long forensics need the area. I’ll try and let you know how things are progressing in an hour or so.” He folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Were you in the building during the performance this evening?”

Hogan’s attention was back on the coffee. “I’ve been in the building all night.” He looked back to Banham again. “The cast didn’t know that, though. I arrived after the show had started.”

Crowther took out his notebook and started scribbling.

“I wouldn’t have come in at all, except that the show needs to be cut. Sophie, my assistant, is the choreographer. She said there were too many ad-libs creeping in, and the show was getting longer. I have to keep the running time down to two and a half hours, to give the front of house staff time to get the afternoon audience out and clear the sweet papers and ice cream cartons before the evening performance.”

“So you came in this evening?”

“Yes. To watch the show, and look for cuts.”

“You were in the audience?”

Hogan nodded.

“So someone could vouch for that?”

He nodded again, then shrugged. “Actually, only the first half of the show. I had a drink in the bar at the interval, to give me a bit a bit of Dutch courage.” He smiled and gave a nervous laugh.

Banham noticed how straight and white his teeth were. Probably all capped: expensive job! So he hadn’t always been so desperate for box-office profits.

Michael continued, “I had to go and see my ex-wife, Barbara Denis, the star of the show.” Another nervous laugh. “She can be a force to be reckoned with if she doesn’t get her own way – and I had decided to cut her love duet with Lucinda. It wasn’t very good.” He paused again and then stretched his mouth down like a scolded schoolboy. “I needed a drink first.”

He slowly pressed the filter downwards on the steaming coffee. It smelt delicious.

“So did you tell Barbara and Lucinda you were cutting their song before the second act started?” he asked.

“No. I intended to, but I got sidetracked.”

“Who by?”

“First I bumped into Maggie McCormak as I came through to the backstage area. She’s my wardrobe mistress, and my stage manager’s wife. And general all-round helper.”

“Was your stage manager there at that time, or had he gone to the pub?”

“He was on the stage. He’s in the show too. He plays the part of Alderman Fitzwarren.” Hogan looked slightly embarrassed. “It’s a bit of a tight budget this year, I’m afraid. Everyone is doubling up.”

Banham nodded dismissively. “How soon was this before the scene in the dark?”

“The ultra-violet scene, you mean? About ten minutes. It starts approximately twenty minutes after the curtain goes up on act two, and the second act was about ten minutes in when I left the bar.”

“So when, exactly, did he go to the pub?” Crowther asked.

“Then, actually. He walked off stage during the scene. He’s always doing that. There’s a clash of personalities between the dame and the comic, and they argue on stage. That happened tonight, and Alan hates it. He walked off and went to the pub.”

“You saw him?”

“Yes.”

“And you let him go?”

Michael shrugged. “It’s complicated. I’ve employed him for years, and I’m used to it.”

“What did you do then?” Banham asked.

“I put the head-cans on and spoke to the lighting and sound director. He works from the box at the back of the auditorium. I told him that Alan had buggered off and asked him to take his own cues from the stage. He’s used to it. He’s used to Alan too, he just gets on with it. So are the other actors, they just say his lines and no one notices.”

Crowther and Banham exchanged glances.

“And when was the last time you saw Lucinda?” Banham asked.

“Actually at that moment,” Michael answered. “As I finished speaking to Robert. Lucinda came off stage and saw me in the wings. She came straight over to me. She’d been crying.”

“You must have good eyesight,” Banham said. “Isn’t it dark backstage?”

“I could tell by her voice,” he said quickly.

“What did she say?”

“She said she wanted to talk to me, before Barbara did. She said Barbara had been picking on her for days, accusing her of singing flat. They’d had a terrible row over it.”

“Was Barbara jealous of Lucinda?” Crowther asked.

Hogan gave a little laugh. He reached up to the top of the metal filing cabinet in the corner of the office and took down three mugs and a tray. “Barbara is over fifty. She’s in the menopause and riddled with insecurities.” He set the mugs on the tray and sighed loudly. “Lucinda is…” He shook his head and corrected himself quietly. “Lucinda was a beginner. Sometimes she did sing flat, and Barbara shouted at her. It’s not personal, Barbara’s very professional, she needs the show to be good, she needs to get other work, she wants to relaunch her career! So she gave Lucinda a hard time, but she wouldn’t have murdered her for singing off key.”

“Did Lucinda argue with anyone else?”

“Not that I know of.”

“What did you say to Lucinda?”

“I told her I’d try and sort it out. Then she went back on stage.” Hogan put his hand to his face. “Then Vincent Mann, the comic, came off the stage and made a beeline for me. He was furious. He told me to do something about Barbara. He said I was to tell her to stop picking on Lucinda, or he would do something about it himself.”

“What do you think he meant?”

Hogan shook his head. “I’ve no idea. He made things worse by telling Lucinda to stand up for herself. The rest of us have worked with Barbara before, we know her well, and we know it’s best not to argue with her. Her bark is much worse than her bite.”

The producer was visibly upset. “Take your time,” Banham said.

“That wasn’t the time to tell Barbara I was cutting the duet,” Hogan continued after a brief pause. “It would have made things worse. So I decided to wait until the end of the show, then call the whole company together for a pep talk. I just wanted them all to do their jobs. I need to make as much money as I can this season.” He closed his eyes. “My debts are closing in on me. I’m fighting not to go bankrupt.”

Banham gave him a moment to compose himself before asking, “What happened then?”

Michael Hogan shook his head. “I walked away from Vincent Mann.”

“And went where?”

“Oh, up here. Sophie wasn’t on stage, I knew she’d be here, changing into her black costume for the ultra-violet scene. I wanted to ask her what she knew about the arguments.”

“While she was changing?” Banham asked.

Hogan turned back to the tray and busied himself with the cups. “Or doing her hair.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said she thought Vincent Mann was behind it all.”

Banham watched him, but said nothing.

Michael turned to face him. “Sophie told me Barbara was behaving even worse than usual this year, picking on everyone. She thought it was because Barbara wasn’t getting enough attention; the audiences liked Vincent more than her, and she was terribly insecure. She told Sophie she wanted all her solo numbers re-choreographed.” He smiled. “Sophie refused of course, and Barbara threw a terrible tantrum. It all went in one ear and out the other with Sophie.” He smiled again, like a proud father. “She’s very good at handling people. She’s also very shrewd. She knew we had a serious problem.”

Crowther scribbled in his notebook. Hogan looked from Banham to Crowther and back again. Banham said nothing.

“Sophie suggested I sack Vincent,” Hogan continued after a few seconds. “She thought that would sort out all our problems.” He lifted the top off a tin and picked up a spoon. “I told her that wasn’t an option. Vincent is a well-known television presenter and the audiences were buying tickets to see him.” He pulled a sideways expression. “Sophie had already thought about that. I might have known she’d have worked it out.” He spooned sugar into a mug of coffee which he handed to Banham. “She said I should play the role.” He turned his back and Banham watched him adding sugar to another cup as he explained. “She said we didn’t need him to pull in audiences any more, as the tickets were already sold for most of the run. Barbara would be less insecure if I was playing the comic, and I could sort out Lucinda and Barbara’s differences.”

“Could anyone have overheard this discussion?” Banham asked him.

“Everyone else was on stage at the time.” Hogan handed Crowther the coffee. “And by then it was getting near the ultra-violet scene and Sophie had to go down herself. But I agreed to give it some thought.”

“And did you?”

“Yes. I walked Sophie to the stage, then I went down to the basement, into the juveniles’ room; the kids were all on stage so I knew I would have ten minutes of peace and quiet.”

Crowther looked up from his notebook. “So you were on your own in the juveniles’ room when the UV scene took place?” he asked.

“Actually no.” He paused. “Maggie McCormak came in.”

“I thought you said you saw her earlier going out through to the auditorium to watch the show,” Banham said quickly.

“Yes, yes I did. But she came back… for her binoculars.”

Crowther was having trouble writing; his pen seemed to be running out of ink.

“And I stayed there, thinking, right through that scene,” Hogan said.

“Did you come to any decision?” Banham asked.

Hogan lowered his eyes again. “Yes, I decided that I would go with Sophie’s suggestion and get rid of Vincent Mann.”

The only sound was from Crowther’s biro scribbling on the corner of the note-pad. Banham pulled a pen from his pocket and handed it to him.

“Is there anything else?” Hogan asked. “Only I want to take this coffee down to your sergeant.”

“What alerted you to the incident on the stage?” Banham asked.

“The tannoy was on in the children’s room and I heard the curtain being brought in. So I ran upstairs and… well, Sophie said there’d been an accident, and the ambulance was on its way. I made the announcement to the audience, I told them they could all have tickets for another show. Not that there are many left.”

Michael indicated the coffee. “Yes, go ahead,” Banham said.

“And you’ll let me know if I can run the show tomorrow?”

Banham tried not to let his irritation show. A nineteen-year-old girl had just lost her life, yet the man only seemed interested in keeping the ticket sales going. “I can’t make a decision on that just yet,” he said. “The forensics team have a lot to do.”

“Will I know tonight? Only I’ll have a lot to sort out.”

“You won’t get the costumes back by tomorrow,” Banham said abruptly. “Forensics will need them for quite some time.”

Hogan gripped the tray more tightly. He looked at Crowther and then back to Banham. “I see,” he said hesitantly.

Banham opened the door for him. “I’ll keep you informed,” he said.

Hogan still didn’t leave the room.

“The cast are planning to stay here tonight,” he said apprehensively. “The roads are pretty bad, and the last buses and trains have gone now. They’ve all slept on the floor many times when the weather’s been too bad to travel. I hope that’s all right with you.”

Banham nodded. “As long as they stay away from the stage.”

Banham had been looking forward to the coffee, but screwed his face up after the first mouthful. “Not enough sugar,” he said as soon as Michael Hogan was out of earshot.

“I’ll drink it, Guv,” Crowther said. “There’s a machine in the Green Room. As it’s the season of goodwill, I’ll treat you to a plastic cup of instant.”

“I’d sooner you treated yourself to a biro that works,” Banham told him.

The door to the Green Room was next to an enormous mirror that took up three-quarters of the wall at the end of the corridor. The door was ajar, and the mirror reflected the inside of the room. Banham stopped a few feet from the open door and took the opportunity to study the cast members who were gathered there.

In one corner of the Green Room stood the vending machine, and beside it a lopsided plastic Christmas tree had been carelessly planted in a black bucket with torn Christmas paper round it. The tree was bare, apart from a grubby white fairy who had slipped and now hung sideways from the dusty top branch. On the floor beside the tree sat three young blonde women and a large black man.

“The chorus?” Banham asked Crowther in a low voice.

Crowther nodded, and pointed to another blonde girl, wearing a pink velour track suit and pink trainers with flashing lights on the sides. Her hair was pulled off her face and secured with a raspberry pink velour scrunchy, into a long ponytail that trailed down her back. She was sitting on her own, sipping from a plastic cup.

“Sophie Flint, the choreographer, Guv. And that –” Crowther pointed to an enormous man sitting a few yards away, his large bulk overhanging both sides of his canvas-backed chair. “That’s the man that plays the dame, and hadn’t changed his costume when he should have.”

Banham studied the fat man, then turned his attention to a tall, handsome woman who sat in the next chair. “Presumably the older woman is the formidable Barbara Denis,” he asked.

Crowther nodded.

“Now why did I know you’d have spoken to all the young women, but not the older one?”

“Not on purpose, Guv.”

“Good! You can interview Barbara Denis now. I’ll talk to the fat man. That just leaves Vincent Mann, the one who dialled 999.”

“And took the balaclava off the dead girl,” Crowther reminded his boss.

Vincent Mann was easy to spot in the mirror, even though his head was buried in his hands. He wore a bright yellow, blue and red jacket and bright buttercup yellow shoes. Another man sat in the chair next to him, holding a half-full glass. He was older, with flyaway grey hair, and a red, blotchy complexion. Alan McCormak, Banham thought, the stage manager who had been in the pub.

“Make sure uniform takes a statement from the stage manager,” he told Crowther.

“So are we releasing the actors after we talk to them?”

Banham rubbed his fingers across his mouth. “They’re staying in the building tonight. If possible, I’d like to let the show go on. It’ll keep the suspects together while we gather information.”

Crowther took his notebook from his pocket. “All right if I hang on to your biro till the morning, Guv?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You know, I reckon that pathologist woman fancies you.” Crowther gave Banham a cheeky wink.

“Whatever gives you that idea?”

“She’s going to get the post mortem done in the morning. It’s holiday time – that’s a favour she’s doing you.”

“She’ll get paid,” Banham said crisply, to cover his embarrassment. “And you said yourself, it’s the season of goodwill.”

“True.”

“I’m glad you agree.” Banham smiled. “In that case, you can stay here for the night with the actors.” He lowered his voice. “This wasn’t a freak accident. You know it, and I know it. Someone in this building has committed murder.”

Alison tried to push her hurt feelings to the back of her mind and get on with her job. She and Paul Banham had been friends as well as close colleagues for years, and he always asked for her to be assigned to his murder enquiries. He had spent months dropping hints, and when she finally agreed to an evening out they’d had a great time – then he came out with the business and pleasure don’t mix number.

Despite her confusion and anger she wanted to be here working with him. He was a great detective, and her work was her life. She had six shivering children to interview in the freezing basement under the stage. So she had to put the personal issues out of her mind.

As she entered the children’s dressing room a sudden flood of childhood memories hit her. Nothing seemed to have changed since her own days as a pantomime juvenile. White ballerina costumes, silver lurex finale dresses, sailor costumes, coloured peasant skirts, chiffon harem outfits were all bunched on a sagging clothes rail on the far side of the long room. In a tidy row at the base of the rail were rows of tiny ballet slippers, black tap-dancing shoes and small black flippers.

Chairs spread with brightly coloured towels marked each child’s territory. On the towels stood bright lipsticks and black eye pencils, and photographs of Robbie Williams or Will Young, and one of a beautiful chestnut pony mounted in heart-shaped, pink fluffy photo frame.

Suddenly the face of Simon le Bon jumped into Alison’s mind. He was the one who smiled down from the mirror beside Alison’s place in the dressing room and got the plump teenager through the endless costume changes and teasing.

She had been a chubby tomboy who liked nothing more than playing football with her army sergeant father. But her mother had sent her to a local dance academy, telling her it would help with her weight and posture.

All the children in the class were expected to be babes in the pantomime at the local theatre every Christmas, and they all loved it. All except Alison. She had been a fish out of water. But she said nothing; her mother so enjoyed being backstage, sewing sequins and making costumes that made Alison look slimmer. It was then, at the age of nine, that she began to watch what she ate, and her weight started to drop.

The dance classes continued till she was fourteen. Then one of her classmates ran away from home, and she was allowed to help with the search; once involved with the local police she was hooked, and told her parents she wanted to be a detective. Her mother offered self-defence classes in place of dancing school, and she happily swapped pink leotards and tap shoes for judo kit. She was a natural; even now she would happily barge into a fight, and could always hold her own with the boys.

But she continued to count calories, and feel guilty every time she ate a large meal. Even now, aged thirty-four and five feet seven, she weighed less than nine stone. She still sometimes swallowed too many laxatives, and often fasted for a couple of days. The rest of the team often joked about how skinny she was, and secretly she enjoyed it.

She stared at herself in the huge mirrors, despising the two extra pounds that clung to her body after Christmas, and wondering if Banham might find her desirable when she shed them.

She rubbed her gloved hands together to keep her circulation moving. It was far too cold in here to keep children hanging around. She left the dressing room and made her way along the under-stage passageway, where the little girls were sitting with their parents, huddled into their coats and scarves.

“I won’t be a minute – I’m going to look for some heaters,” she told them.

“They’re not allowed,” said one of the mothers. “Fire regulations.”

“If they’re so keen they should put in a fire escape,” Alison retorted. “Those spiral staircases aren’t much good in an emergency.”

“It’s there.” The mother indicated a large double door with a fat double lock on the inside, only just visible behind three heavy wicker skips, overflowing and piled high with dusty costumes.

Alison tried to pull one of the skips back and the mother jumped up to help. “Sorry,” she said as one of the dads joined her and dragged it away from the exit. “It’s my fault, I’m in charge of the costumes. We’re so short of space down here.”

“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 like a secret cellar.

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?” she called.

 

3

“What do people call you?” Crowther asked, following Barbara Denis through a door adorned with a large, white plastic star and the words NUMBER 1 DRESSING ROOM.

“Quite a lot of things, and some of them not very nice,” she said with a laugh.

He 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. Over the black wool leggings she wore a black Bardot-style boat-neck jumper, which bared part of a 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 it. 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 the older ones. Even from several feet away he could see that the crow’s feet around her eyes came from the biggest bird in the flock. And she wasn’t a real blonde either; tell-tale 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 show business, 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 is 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 ultra-violet 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. Everything 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 McCormak,” 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 split 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 ultra-violet 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 coffee 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 McCormak; 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 hot 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 the pantomime dame was trying to get comfortable in an upright chair too small for his bulk. Stephen was late middle-aged 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 and 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 large, 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. “The 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 place. It happens all the time.”

Banham raised his eyebrows.

Stephen carried on talking at top speed.

“Nobody knows who is 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 packet.”

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.

“Well, not me it don’t,” he said. “No skin off my nose. Pantomime dame is all-consuming, see. If I’m not on stage, I’m changing. I have ten full changes, tights, knickers, eyelashes, all that sort of thing. So I don’t have a minute’s peace from curtain up till curtain down.”

“And you were in your dressing room, changing, during the ultra-violet scene tonight?”

Stephen nodded.

Banham scribbled in his notebook. “Could anyone vouch for that? Was anyone with you?”

“Well, no, as I explained, he’s a penny-pinching bastard. He won’t even pay for me to have a dresser, and I really need it. I mean I have to change tights, and…”

“Yes, understood,” Banham broke in quickly. The last thing he needed at midnight was this petty whinging.

“So no one to confirm your alibi then?”

“Such as who?” He seemed to be getting worked up. “There was no one. They were all in the scene.”

“Apart from the stage-hands?”

“The stage crew was very thin tonight. It was just two work experience boys, and they were busy changing the set.”

“How long does it take you to change?”

“I didn’t do it,” Stephen blurted.

Banham looked up from his notes. “I didn’t say you did,” he said mildly. “I asked how long it takes you to change.”

“About three minutes for that change into the Island costume. I’m supposed to be shipwrecked, so it’s a minimal change, you see.”

Banham didn’t. “And no one else was around.”

Stephen shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. He brought his fat hand to his mouth and bit on a nail like a hungry squirrel who had found a nut. Banham noticed how dirty his hands and nails were.

“How well did you know the dead girl, Lucinda Benson?”

“Not well. I only met her this year. She was new to the business, like. She was very young.”

“Did you get on with her?”

“Actually, I thought she was a bit naïve and too inexperienced for the job. She had a nice voice, but you couldn’t hear it past the footlights. What bloody good’s that? She bored the arses off of the kids ’cos they couldn’t bloody hear her. Then the likes of me then has to go on and work bloody hard to get them back, see. That’s why he books me every year, like, ’cos I know how to get the audience going.” He moved in closer to Banham. “She only got the job because she was the producer’s bit on the side, if you really want to know. So no one dared to say much to her. But she got right on everyone’s nerves, I can tell you.”

Banham studied his notes again. “You’ve worked for Michael Hogan for the last thirteen pantomimes?”

“That’s right. I do dame for him every year.”

“So you know him very well?”

Stephen nodded. “I do, yes.”

“Is he married?”

“Not now. He was, though – twice. The last one’s the mother of the girl what plays the fairy and choreographs the show. The marriage only lasted for a few years.” He curled his mouth. “She wouldn’t put up with his infidelities, so she threw him out.”

“What about his first wife?”

Stephen removed a bit of fingernail from his mouth. “His first wife was Barbara Denis. She’s our star – plays the title role, Dick Whittington, the principal boy. It was years ago, mind, and the marriage hardly lasted. She made a record called Oh Ho, You Know. You might remember it?”

Banham had been a follower of pop music in the eighties. He searched his memory. He couldn’t remember ever having heard the song. He shook his head.

“Does she work for him every year? Or is it just this one?

“He usually gives her a pantomime at Christmas. He must feel sorry for her. It’s hard to get work when you’re a woman in your fifties, and let’s face it, over the hill.”

“How did she get on with Lucinda Benson?”

Stephen pulled a pained face and scratched the inside of his ear. “She bloody hated her. They argued all through rehearsals. They had to work closely together too, sing love duets an’ all. Barbara kept saying Lucinda was singing flat, which she was. Michael wouldn’t get involved. He’s afraid of Barbara, she’s a monster, see, and Lucinda had him well wrapped around her finger too. He never could resist a pretty girl. Barbara tried to get me involved, but I said it didn’t matter how bloody flat the girl sang, seeing that she couldn’t project neither; even with a microphone you couldn’t hear her past the footlights.”

“And the rest of the cast? How did they get on with Lucinda?”

He shrugged. “No one said much. The producer was giving her one, and they all wanted to work next year. But no one really liked her. Except for Vincent…”

“Vincent Mann,” Banham said studying his piece of paper. “He plays Idle Jack, the comic.”

“That’s right. Well, I know for a fact they were having a bit of a fling on the side too. I’m sure Michael didn’t know. He wouldn’t have been pleased. Vincent works very closely with her in the show. He has to pretend to be in love with her. And you know, in this business, one thing leads to another.”

“So she was having a fling with Vincent, and with Michael?”

Stephen nodded solemnly.

“Do the rest of the cast know?”

Stephen opened his fat arms and shrugged. “I couldn’t say for sure. I’m not one for gossiping you see…”

Banham chose to ignore that remark. “How do you get on with Vincent Mann?” he asked.

Stephen scratched his ear again. “Well, I’ll tell you straight, the man’s an idiot. He doesn’t know comedy. He presents a children’s series on morning television so he thinks he’s a star. Pantomime is an art, it takes experience. I’ve been working with live audiences all my life…”

Banham was getting tired of this. “How do you get on with him?” he snapped.

Stephen blinked. “Like I say, he has a lot to learn, he thinks he knows comedy, but he don’t and I do. So, not well at all.”

Banham said nothing. Stephen carried on, “He is a married man, with two daughters. And he’s giving a nineteen-year-old girl a length. The man is an arsehole of the first degree, ain’t that a bloody fact.”

Banham look back at his notes. “Right, thank you, that’ll be all for now,” he said.

“Can I go?” Coombs said uncertainly.

“You can.” Banham looked up at the man. “But I believe you’ll be staying here tonight. There’s no public transport at this time and the roads are terrible. I might need to ask you some more questions, but that’s all for now.”

“The show’s on tomorrow then?”

“We’ll see about that.”

Stephen stood up, and Banham noticed he was shaking. He paused as if about to say something else, but appeared to change his mind.

“You don’t have to worry about anything you say to me,” Banham said. “Everything is in confidence.”

Stephen nodded, seeming reassured, but said no more. Then he left the room.

Banham dragged his hands over his face. It was going to be a long night. The packet of fresh coffee stood on top of the fridge by the kettle, but the coffee-pot was downstairs. He picked up his vending machine cup and drained the remains of the cold, muddy liquid. It tasted disgusting. He wondered if there might be another coffee-pot.

A grey metal filing cabinet stood in the corner of the room. He opened each of the three drawers in turn. Nothing in the first; some papers in second. When he pulled open the bottom one he found himself gazing at a black leotard, black gloves, and a pair of black tights.

 

4

Crowther said he had personally name-tagged, counted and bagged up all the black costumes the actors were wearing at the time of the suspected murder, and given them to Penny to take away for forensic testing. The young DC sometimes got above himself, but Banham was confident he was thorough. This was the company office; they probably kept a spare costume here for emergencies.

He quickly took an evidence container from his briefcase and pulled on the latex gloves he kept in his pocket. He bagged the costume and dropped it back into the case, which he locked again right away.

When he left the office a man was standing at the top of the stairs. Banham recognised the thick-rimmed black glasses, red, blue and yellow jacket and bright yellow shoes. It was Vincent Mann, the television presenter.

“I have to talk to you, alone,” Mann whispered desperately.

“No problem,” Banham said. “One of us would have got round to you before the evening was out.” He turned back towards the company office.

“Not up there, it’s not safe.” Vincent raised his hand and shook it nervously. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s had that office bugged. That’s probably why he offered it to you.”

The man seemed unable to keep still; his whole body was shivering. Banham wondered if he took drugs. “OK, where is safe?” he asked him.

“Nowhere backstage.” Vincent turned and hurried down the stairs. “Follow me.”

Banham followed him – down the stairs, along the corridor, through the swing doors to the stage, where Penny Starr and the police exhibits officer were still working. Camera bulbs flashed and a video camera was trained on the area around the body. Banham lifted a hand to get Penny’s attention and pointed at his briefcase, mouthing, “Another evidence bag.”

Vincent Mann was disappearing through the pass door into the auditorium. Banham followed him into the stalls, scanning the area to check where the exits were.

The auditorium wasn’t large; Banham’s sharp eyes estimated there were about five hundred seats. Apart from the pass door, there were two exits at the back, both leading to the foyer, but no emergency access to the street.

Vincent Mann was hurrying up the aisle towards the back of the stalls. In those bright clothes the man looked like a clown, but Banham had the impression he was the exact opposite.

Mann pulled down the scarlet velvet seat next to the end of the back row and covered his face with his hands. “Lucinda’s death wasn’t an accident,” he said, his voice only just audible.

“OK. Tell me everything you know,” Banham said noncommittally.

Two tears fell from Vincent’s eyes and he lifted the back of his hand to catch them as they rolled down one side of his nose.

Banham sat very still.

Vincent sniffed loudly and said, “She’s been murdered. I know that for sure.”

“How do you know for sure?” Banham asked.

“Lucinda was new to all this, and Stephen and Barbara were jealous of her.” He felt around in his pocket, for a handkerchief, Banham assumed. He didn’t find one. “They bullied her,” he said. “And she couldn’t stand up for herself, so I decided I would.” He paused, sniffed again, and more tears fell. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. Banham waited in silence.

“I went to Michael and threatened to walk out if he didn’t deal with it,” Vincent said. “Michael needs me because the children know me – I’m on television every Saturday, so I pull the audiences in.” He brushed his hands down both cheeks in an attempt to control his tears. “When Michael offered me the job, he told me he had very little money, that he was going bankrupt, so I said I’d work for free if he employed Lucinda as principal girl.” He felt in his top pocket and found a tissue, which he used to wipe first his glasses then his eyes before putting it, practically disintegrated, back in his pocket. “If I hadn’t done that, she would still be here today.”

“Were you having a relationship with her?” Banham asked him.

“Yes, I’m in love with her. We’ve been together for two years.”

Banham rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “Go on.”

“If I walked out Michael would have to pay someone to take my place, and I knew he wouldn’t want to do that. So I believed he’d sort it out.”

“What did Michael say when you told him to sort it out?”

“He said he’d tell my wife about Lucinda. Then he dismissed me as if I was an old sock.” His voice rose, and Banham had to concentrate to understand what he was saying. He retrieved the crumpled tissue and rubbed one eye with what was left of it.

“Take your time,” Banham said, watching him roll the tissue into a ball.

“I was furious. I followed Michael upstairs to his office. He slammed the door in my face. So I stood outside and listened.” He paused and clenched his teeth. “I heard him tell Sophie that Lucinda had to go. I assumed he meant that he would sack her. I was going to have it out with him after the show.” He put his hand to his mouth. “But then… they murdered her.” He shook his head and stared at the floor.

“What exactly did he say?”

“His exact words were, Lucinda has to go, at any cost!” He looked up and almost shouted at Banham. “At any cost, she had to go. That’s what they said.”

He wiped his face in circular movements with one of the cuffs of his coloured jacket, reminding Banham of a cat washing itself.

“They didn’t mention murder?”

Vincent shook his head. “Of course not.” His face crumpled like an unhappy child’s. More tears rolled down his face, and he lifted his sleeve to wipe them again. “I know they’ve murdered her,” he whispered.

Banham gave him a couple of seconds to compose himself. “Tell me about the ultra-violet scene,” he said. “The scene where she was killed.”

Vincent ignored the question. “I got her the job. If I hadn’t got her the job she’d still be alive. They murdered her.”

“How?”

“They hit her with that concrete block. She was standing next to it at the end of the routine.”

“Michael isn’t in the ultra-violet scene,” Banham said. “He isn’t in the show at all. How are you suggesting he murdered her?

The man was becoming hysterical. “Everyone is covered from head to foot in black; anyone could have been there.”

“Could they?” Banham asked.

Vincent didn’t answer.

“Do you know who is behind and in front of you in the scene?” Banham asked him.

“I don’t know anything. I’m useless at all that movement stuff. I don’t dance, I’m a television presenter. Sophie blames me, she says it’s my fault that people bump into each other all the time. I pick up the wrong fish too, but that’s because there isn’t anyone to help, and you can’t see much in those black balaclavas.”

“When you bump into people, do you know who they are?”

He seemed to be calming down. “No, I don’t.”

“Do any of the others?”

“Sophie does, she choreographed it, she always knows exactly who went wrong.”

Banham became thoughtful. “Is everyone about the same height in the routine?” he asked.

“I think so, apart from Sophie and Fay and the children, but the children are in a different line, in front of us.”

“Is it just the children in that line?”

“The professional dancers are with them, supposedly to help them. The children don’t need help though – they don’t go wrong. It’s us lot that picks up the wrong fish and bumps into each other.”

Banham had heard enough. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll let you if I need to speak to you again.”

Vincent turned to face him. “That’s it?”

“For now, yes.”

“You’re not arresting anyone?”

Banham looked him in the eye. “We are making further enquiries. Meanwhile, I believe Michael has arranged for you to stay here tonight. The weather is bad and you have a show tomorrow.”

“Will there be a post mortem?”

“Yes.”

“I want to know the results!”

Banham said nothing.

“What about her parents? Has someone informed them?”

“A liaison officer has gone to see them.”

Mann stood up and clambered past Banham. “I’m not staying here,” he said defiantly. “I’m driving home to my family.”

Banham returned to the stage and gave Penny the forensic bag containing the black costume, imploring her to get a result as soon as possible. Then he decided to check on Alison. He wondered if she would have turned out as neurotic and theatrical as the people in this show if she had pursued a career in the theatre. He was glad that she hadn’t and even gladder she was on this case with him; other things aside, her knowledge of theatre and pantomime would be a great help.

At the bottom of the spiral staircase he had to manoeuvre around about a dozen battered wooden skips overflowing with dusty costumes. He could hear Alison’s voice, and followed it toward a room at the side of the basement, with JUVENILES written on the door. He hesitated outside the door; there were no children waiting to be interviewed, so she must be taking the last statement. His reflection glared at him from a full-length mirror on the wall next to the door; normally he avoided them, but this building was infested with them. At least now he understood why performers were so image-conscious; they were forced to spend most of their lives looking at themselves. He turned his head to get a view of his crown; the patch of thinning hair was more prominent than he had hoped. As a child he’d hated his baby-fine hair; the way the ends curled in the rain had earned him no end of teasing from his schoolmates and the nickname ‘Girly-whirly.’ Suddenly that curly fine hair didn’t seem so bad, compared with none at all. The big four-oh was fast approaching, and he smiled to himself as he realised that it wasn’t the age that life began, especially not for hair!

He undid the button of his heavy sheepskin coat and turned sideways, quickly pulling his stomach in. His denim shirt was crumpled – and he’d only bought it because the label had stated clearly Non Iron.

That was when he saw the toy bunny rabbit, stuck to the top of the mirror with Blu-tak. It wore a white sash bearing the words Good Luck in large red letters. He turned sharply away, but the memory was back: his tiny daughter Elizabeth, her head unrecognisable, on her yellow bunny blanket. Her little body was covered in blood, and one hand reached out for help from her already dead mother.

He took three deep breaths and the image receded. A few minutes went by before he felt able to open the door behind which Alison was working.

She was sitting behind a large laundry basket, opposite the attractive middle-aged blonde woman he had met when he arrived. Beside the woman on a child-sized bench sat a slightly built girl with long dark hair.

Alison looked up as he walked in. He leaned against the wall and folded his arms; she held his eyes for a moment, and when he didn’t speak she lowered her head and carried on writing her statement. “Was anyone with you, Maggie, when you were watching the show from the audience?” she asked the woman.

“No, I was alone.”

“Where did you sit exactly?”

The woman took a couple of seconds to think. “In the front stalls, row D, at the end. It’s an usherette’s seat.”

“Which side?”

“Stage left, the same side as the pass door, but from the auditorium it would be on the right. Does that make sense?”

“Perfectly,” Alison nodded curtly. “It says here that you do the wardrobe and look after the children and generally help backstage.”

“Yes, that’s right.” The woman’s smile was as artificial as her nails, Alison thought. “I’m married to the stage manager who also plays Alderman Fitzwarren. So I help out if he’s on stage, or…” She paused. “Or not around.” A frown spread across her forehead. “I thought they could manage in the UV scene, they normally do, so I popped out to watch the routine from the front.”

“Could the usherettes vouch for you being there?”

Maggie lifted a beautifully manicured hand and raked her fingers though her highlighted hair. A thick gold watch was evident, and her nails were painted to match the maroon sheepskin jacket she wore over brown leather trousers.

Alison waited, pen poised.

“Yes,” Maggie said. “If they were down the front they would have seen me.”

“And you saw the entire ultra-violet routine?”

“Yes. I knew something was wrong at the end, because they don’t usually bring in the curtain. That’s when I ran back.” She swallowed and paused to compose herself. “That’s when I saw poor Lucinda.”

“How did the routine appear to you, up until then?” Alison asked her.

“No different from usual.”

“Go on.”

Maggie turned to her daughter. “Fay would be the best person to ask. She’s in the show – she plays Dick Whittington’s cat.”

Fay should have been in the Green Room with the rest of the cast, Banham thought. But he let Alison continue.

Alison’s eyes remained on Maggie. She put her hand up to hush Fay before she could speak. “I was asking you how the scene looked from the audience.”

“You don’t notice the bad choreography from the front,” Maggie said after a beat. “I only know because I was a dancer, and Fay knows because she is in it. But the audience ooh and aah in all the right places, so they obviously enjoy it.”

“OK, what do you think?” Alison asked Fay.

“I’m in the row in front of the other principals,” the girl said. “We can’t see the row behind, but ours never goes wrong. We don’t make mistakes.”

Banham interrupted. “Do you ever hear them bump into each other?” he asked her.

She threw him a look of pure disdain. “We can’t hear very much, we’re wearing balaclavas over our heads and ears.”

“But you heard the bump at the end of the routine when Lucinda fell?” Alison asked.

“Yes. You can hear a bit. Sometimes I hear Barbara telling people to fuck off. She goes wrong all the time and blames everyone else.”

“Fay! Language!”

Maggie gave her daughter’s shoulder a little shake and Fay tossed her head. “Well, she does.”

The girl lapsed into sullen silence and Alison looked from mother to daughter and back again. “The show’s only been open for what, a week?” she asked.

They both nodded, Fay with a show of reluctance.

“So what do you mean, she goes wrong all the time?”

“Oh, we do this routine every year,” the girl said.

“Which of the principals have done it before?” Banham cut in.

“I have,” Fay said quickly. “I’m a principal now.”

Alison smiled, remembering how desperately her young dancer friends wanted to be principals. The thought had filled her with horror.

“Anyone else?” she asked.

“Sophie.” Fay’s mouth twisted into a scowl. “She’s in it every year, and she’s choreographed since she was eighteen.”

“Don’t you like her?” Alison asked.

“They were juves together, it’s just childish competition,” Maggie said with a shrug. “They get on fine really. Barbara’s the unpopular one, everyone hates her.”

“Is Barbara unpopular with all the cast?” Alison asked Fay.

Fay looked at her mother; Maggie nodded.

“Yes, we all hate her. She picks on everyone. She’s always telling us that she is the star. I play her cat, so I have to trail around by her heels right through the show. She’s always telling me I go wrong in the dances, but it’s her that goes wrong, not me.”

“Fay has been dancing all her life,” Maggie said.

“Is she the star, or is Vincent Mann?” Banham interrupted.

“Oh, the audiences love Vincent,” Fay said. “He’s really famous, he’s on television. But Barbara has her name on top of the poster and is in the star dressing room, so she thinks she can pick on everyone.”

“Did she pick on Lucinda today?” Banham asked.

Fay nodded. “She made her cry.”

“Why?”

“Because she said Lucinda was messing up the love duet and singing flat.”

“What did you think of Lucinda?” Banham asked Fay.

The girl looked sad. “I felt sorry for her. She was always crying.”

Banham spoke gently. “Did she talk to you a lot?”

Maggie frowned at her daughter and Fay shook her head.

“Who picked on her the most?”

Maggie and Fay spoke together. “Sophie Flint.”

Alison’s eyes widened.

“Sophie is Michael’s adopted daughter, and she thinks she’s the bee’s knees,” Maggie said. “She isn’t even very good, which is why the dances are a mess, but she’d never admit that. She walks around wearing a t-shirt with I’m a Choreographer, Call Me God written across it. That just about sums her up.”

Banham picked up a plastic chair and placed it beside Alison. “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Paul Banham, I work with Alison. He looked at Fay. “So Sophie blamed Lucinda if things went wrong?”

“Well, she couldn’t pick on Barbara,” Maggie cut in quickly. “Barbara’s even tougher than she is. So she took it out on Lucinda. There wasn’t anyone else.” She faced the two detectives. “She knows my Fay doesn’t make mistakes.”

Alison lowered her eyes. Nothing changes, she thought. In her day all the mothers including her own believed their little girls were stars in the making. They were so seldom right.

“Tell me about the male members of the cast.” Banham said to Fay.

Again Maggie answered. “Stephen Coombs has got a terrible temper, so Sophie stays out of his way. And Vincent Mann is terribly neurotic so Sophie wouldn’t want to upset him. He’s the one pulling in the audiences.”

“Did any of the men pick on Lucinda?” Alison said.

Again Maggie looked at Fay.

“She irritated Uncle Stephen,” the girl said. “He was always telling her off, and they had a terrible row on the first night.”

“What over?” Banham asked.

“He said she killed one of his laughs.”

Banham looked puzzled and Alison explained. “She spoke her line without waiting for the audience to react to his, so he missed getting the laugh on one of his jokes.”

“You are well informed,” Maggie said.

“I read a lot. And it’s fairly obvious!”

“How were the other men with Lucinda?” Banham asked Fay.

“Vincent liked her a lot. He stuck up for her when Barbara and Stephen picked on her.”

“Is that all the men?” Banham asked.

“Apart from Alan, my husband,” Maggie said.

“And there’s Trevor, the black dancer,” Fay said. “But he’s only chorus, and dancers always keep themselves to themselves.”

Alison scribbled in her notebook as Banham asked Fay, “What about tonight? Did you see Lucinda fall at the end of the routine?”

Fay’s voice rose a notch, and she started to get distressed. “No, I heard scrambling behind me. That was the principals trying to get into their places. I’m in the line in front with the children, not because I’m a juvenile, but because I’m small. Then I heard a crash on my right.”

“Where exactly were you standing?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “I’m centre stage at the end of the routine of course.”

Alison fought the urge to smile. The girl was so proud of being centre stage, in the dark, in a black costume that no one would see.

Fay continued, “I looked over in the direction of the noise but I couldn’t see anything. I assumed someone had fallen getting into position. Then we got up, and the children walked off ...” She paused. “Lucinda didn’t move,” she said, fighting back tears. “Someone shouted, ‘Bring the curtain in.’ Lindsay, one of the dancers, ran off and started to bring the curtain in. Vincent was kneeling beside Lucinda; he was pulling her balaclava from her head and trying to wake her.”

Banham and Alison made eye contact.

“Then Trevor, the black dancer, ran to help Lindsay. The curtain is so heavy, it’s impossible to do on your own. It always gets stuck.”

“And was Stephen around?” Banham asked.

“I didn’t notice,” Maggie answered quickly.

“Did you notice?” he asked Fay.

“No, we had balaclavas on, it’s hard to see anything.”

“But you saw Lindsay and Trevor pull in the curtain and Vincent run to Lucinda?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Thank you,” Alison said. She lifted the untidy bundle of statements and tapped the edges together on the laundry basket.

“Can we go?” Maggie asked. “It’s freezing down here.”

Banham huddled into his sheepskin coat. He couldn’t argue with that.

“I’ve spoken to all the juveniles,” Alison said when Maggie and Fay had gone.

“I thought that young madam was a principal. Why wasn’t she in the Green Room?”

“Her mother was down here sorting out the children’s costumes. I suppose she was helping.”

Banham sighed. “Not very good as doing as they’re told, are they?”

“Anyway,” Alison went on, “she reckons the principals often go wrong in that UV routine.” She looked at Banham. “If that’s the case, it could mean not everyone was where they should have been when Lucinda fell.”

Banham picked up her train of thought. “And no one is sure who is who, with everyone from head to toe in black, and no lighting.”

Alison nodded, and they said almost in unison, “So someone could have been trying to kill someone else.”

In the pause that followed Alison pulled off her woolly cap and shook her long, crinkly, mousy hair free. It fell over her face, and she lifted it with the cup of her hand and pushed it back over her head, then squashed the cap into her coat pocket.

Banham loved her hair. It reminded him of an Airedale dog.

She saw him looking at her. “Something on your mind?” she said.

He cast about for something to say. “I hope you enjoyed the coffee,” was the best he could come up with. “The vending machine stuff was disgusting.”

“I think Michael Hogan was trying to get round me. He kept asking if the show would be able to carry on. His year’s income depends on what he makes at Christmas apparently.” She looked him in the eyes. “I told him I was only a sergeant, and you make all the decisions.”

Banham opened the coffee pot and smelled the dregs of the coffee. “I’m letting the show continue,” he said. “We can’t do anything until we get the results of the post mortem. And if we keep it running, we’ll know where all the suspects are.” He rubbed his hands to warm them. “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning for a briefing. Hopefully we’ll have the post mortem result around lunchtime. You can come back here before tomorrow’s matinee, and take DNA swabs from everyone.”

She nodded, and he gazed at her for a moment.

“What?” she said with a small smile.

“I like your hair loose,” he said quietly. “And I am sorry for last week,” he added after a pause.

He turned and left the room. She followed, and found him by the fire exit. “That’s it, is it?” she said. “You lead me on, let me down at the last minute then say sorry and it’s all forgotten?”

“I don’t know what else to...”

“Oh, leave it,” she said sharply. “We’ve got a job to do.”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought he gave a small sigh of relief.

Her throat thickened and she coughed to clear it. “There’s something else you should know about.” She turned back into the juveniles’ room. “There’s a door, behind that clothes rail.” She pointed to the corner of the room. “Michael Hogan brought the coffee through it. There’s another of those spiral staircases – according to Michael, it comes out next to the dressing rooms on the ground floor. Then if you go up another staircase, there’s another door next to the mirror by the Green Room. He said no one ever uses it. It’s rumoured to be haunted.”

Banham stepped behind the clothes rail and examined the wall. “The weather’s getting worse,” he said. “Do you want a lift home?” He took a deep breath. “You could leave your car here; we’re coming back after the morning meeting.” He rattled the door handle as an excuse to keep his back to Alison.

“No, thank you. I’d sooner take my own car.”

He turned the handle and felt for the light switch. The passageway was filthy, but the centre was noticeably less dusty. “Either ghosts walk up and down this passageway or else it is used quite a lot,” he said. “I’ll get forensics to have a look in here after they finish on stage.” He paused. “It’s snowing hard out there. It makes sense to take one car.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll know you got home safely. And I need you on this case. And... you’re tired.”

“Yes, I am,” she agreed. “I’m tired of being patronised. You’re a bad driver.”

He smiled. “I thought for a minute you were going to say I was a bad lover.”

“How would I know?”

 

5

The full investigation team was gathered around the video machine watching footage taken the previous night by the police photographer. The camera shot showed Lucinda’s body lying at the side of the stage with the concrete weight beside her head, then widened out to take in the area that surrounded the fatality.

The fact that the very pretty DC Isabelle Walsh had seated herself next to Banham hadn’t gone unnoticed by Alison Grainger.

DC Crowther entered the incident room and the aroma of fried bacon, freshly baked bread and tomato sauce followed. He handed a bap overflowing with bacon and a greasy fried egg to Banham.

“Good man,” Banham said unwrapping the serviette. “How was your night in the theatre?”

“Very interesting,” Crowther said with a mischievous wink. “I slept on a chair in the chorus room, with three blondes huddled together in sleeping bags on the floor and a six foot black poof next to them. Sarge?” He offered the leaking paper carrier bag to Alison. She would have loved a bacon and egg roll but she shook her head. She intended to shed those two pounds that she had put on over Christmas as quickly as possible. She buried her nose in the cardboard cup of black coffee she was nursing, to stop herself inhaling the scent and giving in to the temptation.

“Only Know-all Col could find a café open on Sunday morning two days after Christmas,” DC Isabelle Walsh said, taking a sandwich from him without so much as a thank-you.

Crowther had earned his nickname Know-all Col in the murder squad because he always seemed to know where to go for what was needed, and at the exactly the right moment. His dad was a scrap metal dealer, and his consequent connections with some of the most notorious gangsters in the area accessed some useful contacts. He was still in his twenties, and, like DC Walsh, desperate for promotion.

He had tried his luck with Isabelle many times, but always got turned down. Alison knew Isabelle was too ambitious to settle for a DC; she had her sights set much higher. She had been in CID for two years; Alison still remembered sourly how stunning she used to look in uniform. She was like a young Vivien Leigh: perfect features, delicate ears and a cute button nose, and no matter how she wore her shoulder length dark hair, the hat always flattered her. Most of the men in the station fancied her, and she made full use of it to get what she wanted in the force; it hadn’t taken her long to make the jump to Murder Division.

Alison’s own morale was low after the time she had been forced to spend staring at her reflection in the theatre’s wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She was only too aware that her own nose was anything but cute, and her wide face far from perfect. She watched Isabelle bite into the sandwich and hoover the bacon into her mouth. The amount of carbohydrate the girl could eat seriously irritated her. She’d have to starve herself for a waist as tiny as Isabelle’s.

Suddenly she was aware Banham was looking at her. She immediately took a large swig of the black coffee. It tasted less than exciting.

“Not hungry?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “I’ve eaten,” she lied.

He stood up to start the briefing. She noticed he hadn’t shaved, and found that a turn-on. She gave herself a shake; business only, she reminded herself firmly.

“At this moment, we have nothing but gut instinct to tell us this is a murder enquiry,” Banham said. “We should have the results of the post mortem by midday today; that will tell us whether there was brain movement after the blow and before the fall. If there was, we have a case.”

DC Crowther, keen to let everyone know he was pulling strings, interrupted through a mouthful of BLT. “Penny is at the lab, working her holiday to try to get us something.”

Banham nodded. “She’s light-source testing the concrete block for fingerprints, skin cells and maybe some hair. But we’re looking at least forty-eight hours for some results, so...”

“What was the concrete block doing there?” one of the older detectives asked.

“It’s supposed to weigh down the scenery,” Alison told him.

Crowther interrupted again. “Penny’s also got all the black costumes the actors were wearing at the time of the fatality.”

“Plus another one I found in a drawer in the producer’s office,” Banham added. “We’re hoping fibre from the concrete will show up on one of the costumes, and Alison will take buccal swabs from every member of the cast today.” He looked across at her. “You can do that during the lunchtime show.”

“Guv.” She nodded.

“If we’re lucky we’ll get skin cells from the light-source treatment and match them to the perpetrator’s. Meanwhile I’ve decided to let the show continue, because I can’t hold any suspects...”

“Until we have concrete evidence of murder.” Crowther burst out laughing at his own joke, and everyone else groaned.

Banham glared at him and carried on. “And also because it keeps them in the theatre, and we know where they all are.”

“There were two young work experience boys moving the scenery at the back during that scene,” Alison said. “So whoever killed Lucinda couldn’t have walked in at the stage door and round to the other side without passing them. The only other way was across the stage during the routine. So that narrows it right down. It has to be someone who was either on the stage and in the routine, or knew it well enough to join in, unnoticed by everyone on the stage.”

“That wouldn’t be difficult if everyone on stage could barely see or hear,” Isabelle argued.

Alison shook her head. “They’d still have to know the steps. It has to be one of the actors.”

“Sergeant Grainger understands the theatre,” Banham announced to the room. “She used to be in pantomime.”

“Blimey!” Crowther put the end of his sandwich into his mouth and wiped his lips on the cuff of his yellow shirt. “Did you wear those arse-length skirts and thigh-boots?” He fanned himself with the remains of the greasy brown paper bag. “I’d have paid to see that.”

Alison was lost for words. An older DC came to her rescue. “How many actors is that in the routine?”

Alison walked to the large white-board at the front of the room and started to draw the stage, and the placing of the suspects during the routine.

Some of the men were still sniggering; Alison felt herself flush.

“Just ignore them,” Isabelle Walsh piped up. “They’re jealous ’cos they can’t wear arse-length skirts. If they did we’d see how small their cocks are.”

Silence descended, and Alison decided it was time to take control again. She pointed to the board. “Here’s the stage, with two lines of actors in the routine where the fatality happened. Lucinda was here, at the end of the back line, with just three others. It isn’t possible that anyone in the row in front row could have hit her; that would have thrown the routine out of sync, and according to everyone we spoke to, that row didn’t go wrong and never has. It was mainly children anyway.”

“Plus the four chorus dancers,” Banham added. “So that eliminates all of them, plus Fay McCormak, who plays the cat. She was in the front row too.”

“Barbara Denis, Vincent Mann and Sophie Flint were in the back row with Lucinda,” Alison said. “They have to be our main suspects. And the dame, Stephen Coombs, who was supposed to be changing his costume at the time, but – according to Sophie Flint – didn’t.”

Banham jumped in. “There’s also the black costume I found in the producer’s office. With the stage manager in the pub and the stage unguarded, someone could have slipped into that costume and gone on stage...”

“But only if they knew the routine,” Alison added. “Or they would have been noticed.”

“So add Michael Hogan, the producer, to the list of suspects,” Banham said. “He could know the steps in the routine, just like Stephen Coombs.”

Alison thought for a moment. “The wardrobe mistress, Maggie McCormak, claims she was in the audience during the show and came backstage after it happened.”

“But Michael Hogan said he saw her backstage, just before the UV routine started and again during it,” Banham said. “So one of them is lying.”

“Could she know the routine?” Crowther asked.

Alison nodded. “Definitely. She told me she used to be a dancer.”

“She had very little time to get up to the office and get into the costume unnoticed,” Crowther said.

“No one was around,” Banham pointed out. “The stage manager was in the pub next door, leaving the coast conveniently clear.”

“But it wasn’t clear,” Crowther argued. “Michael Hogan was in the company office just before the routine started.”

“The routine is about ten minutes long,” Alison said. “That’s ten minutes to slip into a black leotard and pull a balaclava over her head, come down and join in the end of the routine, pick up the scenery block and hit Lucinda, walk back across the stage behind the actors – and it was pitch black, remember, so the stage hands wouldn’t have noticed an extra person – then go upstairs and change while everyone is fussing around the dead girl. It’s pushing it, I grant you, but it could be done.”

The list of potential suspects was growing.

Banham gave the squad a chance to absorb Alison’s points, then added, “A few other things came out of the interviews too. Vincent Mann claims that just before the routine started he was listening outside the company office door and heard Michael Hogan and Sophie Flint saying they were going to sack Lucinda. But Michael Hogan’s version is that he wanted to get rid of Vincent Mann.”

“What do we think about Michael Hogan sharing a dressing room with his adopted daughter?” Crowther asked. “Seems a bit of an old perv to me.”

“I thought that,” Isabelle Walsh said, rolling her paper napkin into a ball and throwing it at the waste-paper bin. It missed. Alison picked it up and dropped it in the bin before she could stop herself. “They’re not short of dressing rooms,” Isabelle went on. “Barbara Denis has a room all to herself. Why doesn’t Sophie share that?”

“The star always has a room to herself,” Alison pointed out. “Barbara wouldn’t take kindly to sharing.”

“Besides, it’s an office, not a dressing room,” Banham shrugged. “Sophie Flint is the assistant director as well as the choreographer. Where’s the problem?”

“Colin does have a point, though,” Alison said. “He was discussing business matters with her while she was changing.”

Banham shrugged again. “Maybe, but it doesn’t seem of any consequence at the moment.”

Did he really believe that, or was he being naïve, Alison wondered, a little irritated.

“Listen up, everyone,” he continued. “Time we made a move. Forensics have finished with the area, so the theatre is open for business. They have a show at lunchtime, and Crowther, Isabelle, Alison and I will be there. Mickey Hutchens is on liaison duty with Lucinda’s parents; I’ve asked him to get her phone records, and let me know if anything else turns up. And I’m hoping we’ll have results of the post mortem by about one o’clock. The rest of you can take a break till then.” He turned to Crowther. “Did all the actors stay the night at the theatre?”

“All except Vincent Mann, Guv. He drove home. Didn’t please Michael Hogan, they had words over it. But Vincent said he wanted to get home to his wife and children, and no way would he sleep in the same room as Stephen Coombs.”

“Perhaps Stephen Coombs wore the other black costume,” the older detective piped up, “and meant to murder Vincent but got the wrong person.”

“Good point.” Banham said. “It would be hard to tell who was who in those outfits in the pitch black, especially if they aren’t standing in the right place.”

“And Vincent is only five foot seven,” Alison added.

“As soon as the afternoon show is over,” Banham said, “I want Sophie Flint brought to the station to make an official statement about Coombs not changing his costume during the UV scene. Meanwhile we’ll be at the theatre, keeping our eyes and ears open. Alison, can you drive me?”

“So what’s all this with you and the boss?” Isabelle asked Alison as they were washing their hands in the locker room.

Alison was tired and hungry and not in the mood. “Because he asks me for a lift to the theatre?” She noticed again how small Isabelle’s waist was, as the other woman fastened the buckle on her brown leather trousers.

“No – because the whole department knows you bought him a CD of greatest all-time love songs for Christmas,” she said, lifting her perfectly shaped eyebrows.

Alison opened her mouth to argue, but Isabelle got in first. “It’s all right, he hasn’t been telling tales. Crowther saw the card.”

“And Crowther decided something was going on between us, and told the whole department? Well, it’s not true.” She was tired and upset, and this was the last thing she needed. “I don’t mix business with pleasure,” she snapped. “And I’m not looking for a leg up the promotion ladder; I can get there on merit. I bought him a CD, yes, but not Greatest Love Songs. It was Phil Collins, who happens to be his favourite singer. He’s a friend, and I felt sorry for him – Christmas is the anniversary of the murder of his wife and baby and...”

The shrill of the phone in her handbag left her floundering. She pulled the phone out and flipped it open, aware Isabelle was staring at her.

“Mickey, yes.” She turned away and groped in her bag for a pen. Isabelle handed her one silently, still staring.

“Her parents... Vincent Mann’s mobile...” She scribbled on a scrap of paper. “And outgoing calls? Michael Hogan’s mobile... few to Vincent Mann... one to Sophie Flint. Good work, Mickey; thanks.”

“So why did she keep ringing her boss?” she said, more to herself than to Isabelle.

“To complain she was being bullied by Barbara Denis?” the other woman suggested.

“But why keep ringing him? We know she went to talk to him in the wings, but he implied that was the first he’d heard of it.”

“Perhaps she wanted a leg up the promotional ladder?”

The quip broke the tension; Alison smiled. “And Sophie Flint found out? It’s possible. That’s a lot of secrets in that company.”

Isabelle laughed. “Affairs are always secret ones,” she said. “No one ever admits they are happening – more exciting that way.” She raised her dark eyebrows. “You don’t need a CID badge to know that.”

 

6

The headline on the board outside the newsagent made Banham’s heart sink.

OH NO IT ISN’T! OH YES IT IS! MURDER!

Alison had just come out of the building. He waved to her and pointed towards the shop.

As he took his wallet out to pay, the appointment card from the sex therapist slipped to the floor. He bent down to retrieve it, just as Alison walked in.

“So how did that leak out, Guv?”

He swiftly pushed the card back into his pocket, hoping she hadn’t noticed it. His stomach tightened; the thought of Alison knowing he really cared about her but couldn’t do anything about it was too awful to bear.

Suddenly the image of baby Elizabeth flooded his mind again, her body covered in blood.

“Are you all right, Guv?” Alison asked with great concern. “You’ve gone a funny colour. I wouldn’t trust Crowther’s bacon and egg butties.”

The image receded and he managed a smile. “No one would sell Crowther duff butties,” he told her. “They wouldn’t dare mess with him.”

She picked up a paper and flicked the pages. “Good publicity for the show,” she said. “Big picture of Vincent Mann on page two. Small ones of Stephen Coombs, Barbara Denis, and Sophie Flint.” She blew out a breath. “Now, that could make for bad feeling.”

He relaxed; she hadn’t seen the card. “I’d like to know how the press got the story,” he said.

“Someone in the cast rang them?”

He nodded. “It certainly wasn’t us!” He picked up a couple of reduced price chocolate Christmas puddings from the counter in front of him and paid for them.

“Do you want one?” he asked as they made their way back to the car.

“No, I don’t,” she snapped.

He was still in her bad books, then. He unwrapped a chocolate pudding from its coloured paper.

“So who stands to gain from the publicity?” he asked. “Surely not Michael Hogan? It could have the reverse effect on the ticket sales.”

Alison shook her head. “There’s a very old saying: all publicity is good publicity.”

“I’ll bow to your knowledge.” He crunched into the chocolate. “Who would the publicity help?”

“All of them! Barbara Denis wants to make a comeback, she needs all the publicity she can get.” She tutted irritably. “You’ve already eaten an enormous fried breakfast bun, wasn’t that enough?”

“What about Sophie Flint? And it wouldn’t look too good for Vincent Mann – a top children’s presenter, involved in a murder case?”

Alison tried not to look at the chocolate pudding. “Sophie is assistant director and choreographer,” she said. “She’s probably on a percentage of the takings. Vincent Mann... well, if he’s convinced she was murdered, he might care more for her than the bad publicity, and it’s going to get out eventually.” She flicked the automatic unlock on her dark green Golf a few paces away. “The same goes for Stephen Coombs,” she mused. “Actually the only person it could reflect badly on is the stage manager Alan McCormak. Don’t get chocolate on my car seats.”

Banham put the rest of the chocolate pudding in his mouth. “He’s the only one with a cast iron alibi,” he said, opening the passenger door. “Three of the pub staff saw him drinking in the Feathers.”

Alison grimaced. “Didn’t your mother tell you it’s rude to speak with your mouth full?” The ignition fired; she indicated and pulled out, blowing her horn at another driver. Banham took a deep breath. Her driving was bad enough under normal circumstances, but when she was in a foul mood he feared for everyone she came into contact with. He didn’t understand; she was all right at the briefing, and since then all he’d done was bought her some chocolate, which he’d ended up eating himself.

“I want you to talk to the terribly young and terribly bossy choreographer when we get to the theatre,” he told her. “You may not charm her the way Crowther would, but you’ll have more idea of what she’s talking about.”

She said nothing for a few seconds, then returned his smile. “OK, boss.”

He wiped the front window to make sure she could see clearly, then clicked on the rear window heater. “Crowther is driving her to the station after the show to take an official statement,” he reminded Alison. “So see if you can get any more relevant info out of her first.”

“I’ll tell her we’re doing her a favour waiting until this show finishes,” Alison said. “Then I’ll grill her.”

The rest of the journey passed in silence. Banham gazed through the window at the Christmas decorations still hanging across the streets. He opened his mouth to tell her how much he enjoyed her company, and that he’d like to see her again, but lost his nerve and closed it again. Women were very complicated.

They entered the theatre from the front and walked into the auditorium. Michael Hogan and Sophie were both leaning against the orchestra pit talking to the cast, who were spread out around the auditorium, apart from the four chorus dancers who sat huddled together.

Alison and Banham slipped quietly into the back row and listened.

“Both teams of juveniles have left,” Michael was telling the cast. “Red Team’s parents all pulled them out of the show last night, and I’ve had calls from the mothers of five of the Blue Team kids this morning. I couldn’t say anything under the circumstances. So you’ll need to spread out and use the stage. Fay is taking over as principal girl, and Maggie has kindly offered to play the cat.”

The end chorus girl sat up. “I’m Lucinda’s understudy,” she said indignantly. “I’ve learned the part and I know the songs.”

“Sonia, darling, I can’t spare you from the chorus,” Michael pleaded. “I’ve lost my juvenile dancers and you four have to make up for ten. Maggie’s too old for the chorus, but she’ll be fine in the cat’s skin.”

Sophie stifled a little laugh, and Maggie tossed her head. “Charming!”

Michael smiled placatingly at Maggie and turned back to Sonia. “This is the best way,” he said. “Please bear with me.”

Sonia’s disappointment was clear. The black boy put his arm around her.

Sophie noticed Alison and Banham for the first time. “Anything we can help with?” she called. “Or are you just watching?”

“I’d like a few words with you, Sophie,” Alison said politely. “But no hurry – after you’ve sorted your rehearsal is fine.”

“We can do it now. Come through the pass door; we’ll go up to my office. You can take the rehearsal, Michael.”

As if she was the producer and he the employee, Alison thought.

Sophie was wearing the sugar-pink track suit she’d had on the night before, her waist-length, silky blonde hair pulled off her face into a ponytail twisted and secured with a large zebra-print clip. Half the hair had slid from the clip and hung down her back. Alison often dealt with under-age prostitutes, and knew untidy ponytails were all the rage. Sophie’s hard front was reminiscent of those girls, but she felt sure it wouldn’t take too much to knock her off her perch and find a way into her insecurities and fears.

Alison sat on the flip-up chair in front of the Formica shelving. Sophie leaned against the shelves and folded her arms. Her eyes were an unusual colour, a clear, bright indigo, like Elizabeth Taylor’s; but unlike the star’s, they were small, hard, and calculating.

“Sorry to pull you away,” she said. “I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Fire away.”

Alison managed a small smile. “You told DC Crowther that Stephen Coombs hadn’t changed his costume after the ultra-violet scene last night.”

“Correct.”

Alison hadn’t been in the best of moods to start with, but this girl’s clipped and patronising tone was irritating her.

“OK. We need you to come to the station and make an official statement about that.” The girl opened her mouth to object. “But it can wait until after the afternoon show. DC Crowther will drive you there and get you back in good time for the evening performance.”

Sophie swallowed hard and her mouth began to tremble. Good, Alison thought; the hard edge is crumbling. “Oh, and we’re a bit confused,” she added casually. “Does everyone pick up the same fish in that routine every night?”

Sophie hesitated.

“You should know; you choreographed that scene,” Alison pressed her.

“Yeah, yeah.” Sophie pushed a tendril of hair behind her ear with her forefinger. Diamante studs were stuck to the edge of each nail.

“The truth is, sometimes it goes a bit awry. I know I told the other detective it works fine, but, well, I turn a blind eye, because it don’t really matter what fish go on when, as long as the audience enjoys the scene.” The nervous finger wound around another tendril and slid it behind her ear. She gave a tiny false laugh. “The actors aren’t good with steps. I may as well be talking to a brick wall.” She paused. “But I’m there, hands on, so we get through, even when Alan doesn’t turn up.”

“So the order of the line varies from show to show?”

She shrugged and curled her mouth. “Yeah, it can. Not by much, though.”

“It couldn’t, with only four in the row.”

Sophie fixed Alison with her unusual eyes. “It don’t make no odds. As I say, as long as ultra-violet fish move across the stage and the audience get to see them all, it doesn’t matter to me.”

“It matters to our enquiry,” Alison said briskly. “Did you know who was where in the line last night, and who was holding which fish?”

Sophie shook her head and dropped her gaze for a fraction of a second, then lifted it again. “No, I’ve said, it went a bit awry last night,” She shook her head again. “I don’t know who was holding what.”

“Could anyone have been holding a stage weight?”

Sophie took her time before replying. “Only if they could lift it.”

“I can lift it,” Alison said. “And doesn’t dance training build up your muscles?”

“I suppose.”

Neither spoke for a few seconds. Sophie’s hands gripped the shelf behind her. The girl’s discomfort was almost tangible.

“Is that it? Only I’m needed downstairs.”

“No, not quite,” Alison said. She let another few seconds pass, then asked casually, “Are you and Michael Hogan lovers?”

Sophie straightened up and folded her arms in front of her. “I don’t have to answer that question,” she said. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” Alison kept her tone friendly.

Sophie didn’t take the bait. “Up to you. I ain’t answering the question. Look, I need to...”

Alison cut in, “Just before the UV scene last night, were you and Michael discussing sacking Vincent Mann?

Sophie lowered her gaze again. Alison could practically see her razor-sharp mind working. She looked up. “Did Michael tell you that?”

“No, Sophie, you don’t ask the questions.” Time to get tough, Alison decided. “This is a suspected murder case. I ask, you answer. Now – were you and Michael discussing sacking Vincent Mann before the UV scene last night?”

Sophie’s eyes once again pierced Alison. “Yeah, we were discussing it.” She started to make for the door.

“I haven’t finished yet,” Alison rapped.

Sophie stood still, her back to Alison.

“First I need to take a DNA swab from you.” She opened her bag and took out a pack.

Sophie turned to face her, panic spreading across her face. “What for?”

“For elimination, that’s all.”

“But Lucinda wasn’t murdered; it was an accident.”

“We’re waiting on the results of the post mortem. I just need to brush the inside of your cheek with this.” She held up the little tooth-sized brush. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Sophie opened her mouth. Alison took the sample and sealed the swab in its pack. She started to feel sorry for the girl. It hadn’t taken much. Now those hard eyes looked like a terrified little bird.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” she said to her. “I said I was happy to wait until after the show for you to come to the station and make an official statement. My boss is less happy. But if you tell me about your relationship with Michael Hogan, I’ll talk to DI Banham and make sure we don’t interfere with your lunchtime performance.”

Before Sophie had time to protest, Alison continued. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it had anything to do with our enquiry.”

Sophie stared at the floor. “He’s my stepfather.”

Banham was looking around the little sound booth at the back of the stalls. The electrics were turned on and Michael’s voice was coming through the speakers.

“It was a tragic accident,” Michael told the cast. “Tragic, and I still can’t believe it’s happened. He paused and gave a painful sigh. “The police will be around backstage today. There’s no need to let them bother us; we’ll do our jobs and they’ll do theirs. There will be a plain clothes policeman in the wings...”

“We’d rather have the blond bloke from The Bill,” one of the dancers quipped.

“I’m glad you find it such a huge joke, Tanya,” Vincent Mann shouted angrily across the auditorium. “I don’t agree that it was an accident, nor that we should carry on. I’m very glad that the police are here, and if you had any sense you’d take it very seriously indeed.”

There was a long silence, eventually broken by Stephen Coombs. “Don’t fret, Tanya. You meant no harm, pet.”

Banham watched through the glass as Stephen looked across the auditorium at Vincent Mann. “God knows we’re short of jokes around here,” he said bitterly.

Michael quickly raised his hands. “OK, let’s keep it together. We are all edgy, and that’s understandable. But let’s not fight. One accident was enough.” He looked directly at Vincent. “And of course it was an accident.”

“Please!” Barbara Denis’s voice boomed out. “Can we just do our jobs and keep personal feelings to ourselves?”

Everyone mumbled their agreement.

“Alan has faithfully promised that he’ll be at the side of the stage every moment that he isn’t actually on it today,” Michael said.

Alan pulled up the collar of his overcoat and shuffled uncomfortably.

Michael’s voice started to crack with emotion. “No one need feel threatened or frightened,” he said. “It won’t be easy, but we’re professionals and we’ll get through.”

He walked off, through the pass door into the backstage area, towards the steps that led to his office.

He hadn’t got further than the foot of the stairs when he heard the clacking of high heels behind him. He turned to face Sonia, the tallest of the three dancers. “I’m sorry if you’re disappointed not to be playing principal girl,” he said flatly. “But I’ve had to do what’s best for the show. I really need you to dance today.”

“You said I was her understudy. I learned it all.” She was angry. “You promised...”

“Keep your voice down,” he urged her, looking around to make sure no one was close by. “Please, Sonia, don’t do this. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

She made no reply.

“Sonia, I can’t give you that part. Wait another year, get some voice lessons, learn to project. Then I’ll keep my promise and cast you next year.”

“Lucinda hadn’t any experience,” she spat. “She hadn’t had voice lessons, and you couldn’t even bloody hear her. What did she do for you that I haven’t?”

Michael froze for a second then turned away towards the stairs. “I’m sorry you feel like that. I will keep my promise – next year.”

Sophie Flint was on the landing. She had heard every word. When she heard Michael approach, she quickly slipped behind the door of the toilet along the corridor. Michael went straight into their shared office; Sophie watched Sonia follow, and stand hesitantly outside the door for a few seconds before retracing her steps.

Sophie checked the cubicles to make sure she was alone, and she settled herself in the one farthest from the door. She flipped her phone open and stabbed in some numbers.

The phone the other end rang only twice.

“I’m not going to play games with you,” Sophie said when it was picked up. “I know what you did to Lucinda. And I know it was you.”

There was no response.

“You must have known I’d work it out,” Sophie said.

Still no response.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry,” she said sweetly. “I’m not the type to tell tales.” She waited a beat. “But I need to be rewarded.”

The voice at the other end raged for a few moments.

“No, it’s not blackmail,” Sophie replied, her voice still sweet as sugar. “Let’s call it a late Christmas gift...”

Banham was feeding coins into the vending machine in the Green Room. Alison leaned against the side of the machine, reading the paper. She was dressed in heavy donkey brown corduroy trousers, a beige polo neck jumper, and a grey wool tunic which reached her thighs, if you included the twelve inches of tassles that hung from the hem. The arm-holes seemed to go half way down to her ribcage and did precious little to keep out the cold. A russet coloured ribbon and tortoiseshell slide held her long, crinkly, light brown hair in a ponytail.

“Coffee,” he said, holding out the plastic cup.

She wore very little make-up, but he noticed she had put on fresh lipstick in a soft brownish shade. He thought she looked beautiful. He turned back to the machine and fed more coins in. Some man was going to very lucky, he thought with a smile, despite that terrible temper.

He was still smiling as he took his own sugared, white coffee from the machine.

“Is something funny?” she asked.

“Is smiling a crime, Sergeant?”

“You don’t do it very often, that’s all.”

He wished he was brave enough to tell her what had made him smile.

“How can you drink that stuff without sugar?” he said. “It’s disgusting enough with!”

“Can we talk about the case?”

She was definitely still angry with him.

“Sophie has confirmed that the fish don’t run in the same order every night. So if a fish was missing last night, it wouldn’t help – we wouldn’t know who should have been holding it.”

She had a rim of coffee froth around her mouth, making her look clownish. He fought to keep a straight face, glad when his phone rang to distract him.

“That was the mortuary,” he told her after ending the call. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “Take a look at your face in the mirror.”

She glanced in the mirror and quickly wiped her mouth. “I didn’t tell you that you had chocolate on your teeth this morning,” she said defensively.

“You should have.”

“What did the pathologist say?”

“Lucinda wasn’t pregnant, but she’d had sex within a few hours. And they need forty-eight hours for the results of the brain trauma. So we’ll have to play for more time.”

“She must have had sex between the shows,” Alison said. “I suppose that proves she and Vincent hadn’t been rowing.”

“There are marks on her face,” Banham said. “She’s been slapped around quite a bit, and there’s heavy bruising to the tops of her arms, a few days old.”

“Perhaps he likes rough sex,” Alison said.

Banham looked shocked. “Or perhaps someone else hurt her,” he offered. “You finish the buccal swabs, and get Isabelle to drive them over to the lab. I’ll go and have a good look around the building, and check all the nooks and crannies in the so-called haunted passage. Crowther can stay on duty in the wings.”

“That’ll make him a very happy bunny,” Alison said. “Watching the dancers doing their quick changes.”

“He’s a bloke,” Banham shrugged.

“He certainly is.”

“We’ll all gather there for the second act,” Banham said. “That’s when the UV scene is.”

“They’re still doing it, then?”

“Oh yes. Hogan has managed to get more costumes.”

She swallowed the last of her machine coffee and nodded. “I’m going to track down Stephen Coombs. He never seems to be in his dressing room – I don’t know if he’s avoiding me or Vincent Mann.” She tossed her cup into the bin and headed for the door.

Just as she reached the door he called to her. She turned back. There was still some froth on the side of her mouth but he decided against mentioning it. “What’s your instinct on this?”

“I haven’t got one yet, Guv. You’re the one with the reputation for instinct; what’s yours?”

“We need to find a motive,” he said. “That’s what bothers me most. Lucinda had only known these people about a month. Who would be driven to kill someone they have only known for a few weeks?”

Alison didn’t reply. He went on, “I’ve got a full team on this, because of my instinct. But it’s not even confirmed as murder until the brain trauma report comes through.”

“Go with your gut, Guv,” Alison said. “I agree with you, this wasn’t an accident. The light-source test should come back from Penny tomorrow – that might turn something up. And have you noticed, this company is unusually incestuous? They are all involved with each other or have been. Only Stephen Coombs seems to have no romantic link with any of them. Yet at the moment he is our main suspect. So why? is a good question?”

Banham rubbed his mouth thoughtfully. “And how?”

 

7

Stephen Coombs walked purposefully into the Feathers and looked around, craning his head to peer into each alcove. After a few moments he spotted the stage manager. As Alan McCormak lifted his first pint of the day with a shaking hand, Stephen slid quickly into the bench beside him.

“That sergeant who looks as if she’s got a carrot stuck up her arse is after me for a DNA sample,” Stephen said careful to keep his voice low.

Alan licked spilt beer from his dirty hands. “Damn you, you nearly gave me a heart attack, sneaking up on me like that,”

Stephen ignored him. “They’re checking everyone out. They’ll want yours too.”

“I’ll take what’s coming.” Alan held his palm up defensively. “I killed her.”

“Don’t give me the fucking theatricals,” Stephen shouted. He looked around to check no one was in hearing distance before continuing, “You didn’t kill her. There are witnesses who saw you in here.”

“Oh, I killed her all right, and won’t I feel the guilt of it now until they lay my bones in the brown earth,” Alan said. His head bobbed up and down like a nodding dog, and Stephen grabbed his scrawny arm.

“Get a grip, man. And listen up. I’ve had to put my thinking cap on. A DNA test might bring a few things to light, right?”

Alan nodded nervously.

“And we can’t afford any complications. Am I making myself quite clear?”

“Whatever you say, boy, whatever you say.” Alan dipped his mouth over the rim of his glass and gulped greedily. The scattered broken veins over his reddened complexion made him look a lot older than his fifty-five years.

A few feet away Sophie Flint pressed her slim body tightly against the large beam that ran from ceiling to the floor behind the alcove.

“Come in.”

Vincent Mann hesitated before walking in and pushing the door shut behind him. He watched Barbara gaze into the mirror to see who had entered her dressing room; confusion mingled with fear when she saw it was him. A flowery bandeau held her hair off her face, and dots of dark make-up spotted her face. She held a small triangular sponge in one hand and a stick of old fashioned pan-cake in the other.

“What do you want?”

“Just a chat.” He leaned back against the door and folded his arms across his chest. She turned back to the mirror and dropped the sponge on the dresser, then quickly rubbed the spots of make-up into her face before tapping a small black cigar out of her tortoiseshell cigarette case. Their eyes met in the mirror as she took the holder between her teeth and flicked her lighter. Then she turned back to face him.

“I am devastated about Lucinda,” he said quietly.

“We all are.”

He nodded, and a beat passed. “You didn’t exactly get on.”

She inhaled on her cigar. “We had strong professional differences, but nothing personal. I’m sorry she’s dead.” She inhaled again and blew smoke out of the side of her mouth.

“Michael won’t release me from this contract,” he said quietly. “He said I have to finish the run.”

“That’s only right.”

“Maybe.” He paused. “It’s tough having to work under these circumstances.” Her face seemed to soften, and he continued. “So... I’d like to try to work together. Can we bury the hatchet?”

“Unfortunate choice of words,” she said with a flicker of a smile. “But yes. Let’s try.” She lowered her eyes and blew out more smoke. “I understand how bad you must feel. I knew about the deal you made with Michael to get Lucinda a job.”

“I’d prefer that wasn’t made public,” he said quickly.

She gazed at him squarely. “Vincent, I’m a perfectionist and a career woman, so I get short-tempered when the show isn’t good. But I’m not a gossipmonger, and your affair with Lucinda is nobody’s business but your own.”

He pulled his mouth into a small smile. “Thanks.”

“Nor will I say anything about the row you had with her after the first night. Unless it turns out not to have been an accident, of course.”

The smile dropped from his face immediately. “That was just a tiff.”

“You hit her across the face. I saw you.”

“I...” Vincent took a deep breath.

“But I don’t see any point in mentioning it to the police. Unless, as I say, it turns out to be a suspicious death. Then I wouldn’t have any choice.”

“Thank you.” His heart dropped into his boots.

“Nothing to thank me for. I want the show to continue. So let’s try to work together.” She balanced the cigar on the glass ashtray in front of her and held out her hand. He took it and they shook. “But in return I’d like a little respect,” she told him. “I know you’re on television every week, but I am very much more experienced than you in pantomime. That’s why it’s my name on the poster.”

He gave her a tight smile and adjusted his glasses. The posters had already been printed when he signed the contract, but Michael pointed out that everyone in the country knew who he was, and the local press would only be interested in him. So he was the real star. He hadn’t thought it mattered, but he hadn’t figured on a principal boy with an ego the size of a football.

“I know what’s best for the show, you see,” she said, pulling the cigar free of the holder and stubbing it into the ashtray.

“Fine by me,” he answered, keeping the smile pinned on his face.

She laughed politely. “New beginnings.”

“New beginnings,” he repeated. Lost pride was a small price to pay.

Besides, he had other things on his mind.

For a woman in her middle forties, Maggie McCormak still looked great. Her years of professional dancing had given her the discipline and desire to keep her slim body toned and in shape. She also knew how to dress. Today she wore a red figure-hugging angora jumper with the very tightest of jeans that were torn and frayed at the back to show the firm flesh of her thigh. Michael Hogan gazed appreciatively as she perched next to his papers.

“It’s understandable that the mothers won’t let their children carry on,” she said to him.

“I wish that was my only problem.”

“As usual, this is all Alan’s fault.”

He used to find that demure expression irresistible. Now it was rather irritating. “Don’t, Maggie,” he snapped, flinging his pen on to the dresser. “You know he can’t help himself.”

Maggie crossed one leg over the other. “He’s always been your downfall. Yet you employ him year after year.”

A laugh burst from Michael’s mouth. “No, Maggie, you’ve been my downfall.” He reached for the pen and stared at the papers in front of him. “But that’s history.”

“You wouldn’t be without Fay.”

“I wouldn’t be without any of my children,” he answered. “And how would Fay feel if I sacked her father? Besides, I’m responsible for his drinking.”

“I’ve been thinking, maybe we should tell her the truth,” Maggie said.

“Oh no, oh no.” Michael put a hand out in front of him. “The time for the truth is long in the past. Much better she goes on thinking he’s her dad.”

“Better for who?”

“For everyone.” He threw the pen down again. “What’s brought this on? Come on, Maggie, you know as long as I’m in business, Alan will be in work. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to him.”

“Fair enough.” Maggie tugged at the hem of her angora jumper, revealing more cleavage. “But what’s he ever done for her?”

“He only started drinking because of us.”

“He started drinking because his religion doesn’t allow divorce. And I have to live with it.”

Michael sighed. “Whichever way you look at it, we’re responsible. So as long as I have a show, he’ll have a job.”

She raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

He bit on his lower lip. “I know that look. What is it?”

She shrugged. “I don’t want Fay to spend her life in this stinking business. I want her to have a future...”

“Christ, Maggie, I’m broke! My whole life is hanging on the money that I make on this show.”

She raised an eyebrow again. “You’ve enough to keep your little choreographer in a luxury flat.”

“She’s my daughter too.”

“But not your own flesh and blood, like Fay. Yet you spend enough of your money on her.” Her toned soured, “Anyway, we all know the truth...”

“I have given Fay everything you asked for. You have your home, holidays, and I pay the fees at the dancing school.”

“I don’t want her to be a dancer, unemployed most of the time and finished at forty. I want her to go to university and have a decent career.”

Michael sighed. “I’m sorry. I have more pressing concerns at this moment.” He picked up his pen and chewed the end.

“The police have just questioned me again, and I had to give a specimen of DNA from inside my mouth.”

“And?”

“Did you tell them that I came backstage during the UV scene last night?”

He closed his eyes. “Yes, I think I did. I needed a witness to vouch for seeing me backstage. Otherwise it might get complicated.”

“That detective woman asked me why I didn’t mention it last night.”

A muscle under his eye started to twitch. “What did you say?”

“I said when you’re in a state of shock, as we all are at the moment, your brain doesn’t work properly. I told her that after I went into the auditorium I popped back for my binoculars and saw you in the juveniles’ dressing room, but I didn’t think it was important enough to mention last night.”

“Thanks.”

“And obviously I didn’t say anything about how close you and Sophie are.”

They stared at each other, and she was first to look away.

“Anyway, I’d better go and get into that smelly cat skin.”

She didn’t move.

“I’m just doing the wages,” he said quietly. “I’ve made money this week, so I’ll give you a bonus. You could have a late holiday with Fay before she goes back to school.”

Hair curlers, hair straighteners, hair gel, hair lacquer, pots and palettes of different make-up colours, varying sized make-up brushes, magnifying mirrors, chocolate bars, discarded sweet wrappers and bottled water filled every inch of the available space on the dresser in front of the three girl dancers. The six clothes rails were all overladen with identical costumes and positioned at odd angles to allow easy access for the girls’ quick changes.

Trevor Bruce was in the end seat. Less than twenty-four hours earlier Lucinda had sat there. He was dressed in a peasant outfit, ready for the start of the show.

Sonia was curling her hair, Tanya was straightening hers with another gadget and Lindsay was spraying deodorant over her feet and into her shoes. The air in the room reeked of perfume and muscle sprays.

“You’re eager,” Sonia said to Trevor. “We’ve got twenty minutes before curtain up.”

“I wanted to spend some time cheering us all up before the show starts.”

“You’ll need more than twenty minutes,” Lindsay said.

“Oh shit!” Tanya tugged violently at a lock of hair that was stuck in the hot tongs.

“Hey, hey,” Trevor soothed. “Calm, Tans.”

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped. “There may be a murderer on the loose, and all Michael Hogan cares about is keeping the show running so he can make money. Calm, my arse!”

“No.” Trevor shook his head. “It was a freak accident. The police would have closed the show down if they thought there was a murderer out there. They’ve even put a detective in the wings to make you feel better.” He stood up and kneaded Tanya’s back with his strong, light brown hands. “Ease up, babe, I’m gonna be looking out for you.” He felt her relax under his touch, and moved to Sonia in the next seat. He pressed the heels of his hands into her back and slid them sensuously down her spine. She moaned with pleasure.

He did it a couple more times then went on to Lindsay. “Wow, you are one tense lady,” he told her, massaging her shoulder muscles. “Don’t worry; I’m here, and I’m even changing with you. No one’ll get past me.”

The girls looked at each other.

“Not that anyone is going to try,” he quickly added.

“Who are you trying to kid, Trevor?” Tanya said. “You were in that routine. Lucinda didn’t just fall over and bang her head. That stage weight had been moved. Someone had lifted it. ”

Trevor shook his head. “Michael is such a cheapskate. Pieces of scenery blocking entrances and exits, stage weights left where people can trip over them. The stagehands are just work experience – they don’t have a clue what they’re doing. This place was an accident waiting to happen. They’ll sort it now, but it’s too late. And that’s the truth of it.” He kneaded Tanya’s shoulder again. “Now, come on, get a grip. We have to get through this contract, and we can do it if we look out for each other.”

“But we were all standing there,” Tanya said. “I heard a crunching sound, then I heard her hit the floor. You must have all heard the same?”

“We all heard a noise,” Sonia said. “We all thought someone had fainted.”

“I didn’t hear a crunching sound,” Lindsay added. “And I wouldn’t know if the stage weight was in the wrong place. This is my first theatre job, remember?”

“Can we change the subject?” Sonia’s voice developed a tremble. Trevor started massaging the base of her spine. “Come on, babe, it’s going to be OK,” he said softly.

“Wouldn’t the scenery collapse if someone moved the stage weight?” Lindsay asked cautiously.

Trevor shook his head. “No scenery was attached to it. The stage hands didn’t secure it.”

“Please,” Sonia said. “I’m beginning to feel sick.”

“Change the subject,” Trevor said firmly.

No one spoke for a few moments.

“Could someone have sneaked in?” Lindsay asked Trevor.

“Unlikely, darling. Who would know the exact time of the UV scene? Or that Alan wasn’t there? Sorry, babe, I don’t buy that.” He rolled his large brown eyes. “This isn’t helping no one,” he said. “We have to get out there and do a show. Fay and Maggie will be in here to change in a minute, and we don’t want to scare them, do we?”

“I wonder if Vincent’s wife knows he was having it off with Lucinda?” Sonia said.

“Do we know for sure that he was?” Trevor asked. “We all think they were, because they were always together, and he stuck up for her when Barbara and Stephen gave her a hard time, but we don’t have no actual proof they were humping.”

“I do,” Lindsay told him. “I wouldn’t have said anything before. But I caught them at it, after the first show three days ago, and yesterday, before the first show. They were doing it at the back of the stage, where it’s really dark.”

“No kidding?” Trevor said, his eyes bulging like a friendly frog.

“So perhaps the wife done her in,” Sonia said.

Trevor screwed his face in disbelief. “Oh, get a grip, ladies, please.”

“Actually,” Lindsay said, “there’s a spare black costume, in the company office.”

Trevor looked astounded. “Michael has spare costumes?” he joked. “That’s harder to believe than a stranger creeping in and committing murder.”

“No, there is one,” Lindsay insisted. “Only one though. Anyway, Michael’s had to pay out now; he’s had to hire some more because the police won’t release the others.”

Trevor nodded. “And he’s more upset about that than about Lucinda.”

The tannoy in the dressing room suddenly came to life. “This is your fifteen minute call, ladies and gentlemen; fifteen minutes to curtain up.”

“Blimey,” Sonia said. “Alan sounds sober for once.”

“Oh don’t,” Lindsay said. “Imagine how he must be feeling.”

“Serves him right,” Trevor said. “If he’d done his job the stage weight wouldn’t have been loose, the accident wouldn’t have happened, and you lot wouldn’t all be letting your imagination run away with you.”

“You’re right,” Lindsay said decisively.

They all nodded agreement, and silence fell for a few moments. Then Tanya put down her eyelash curlers and said, “I was wondering if the killer had made a mistake.”

All the others stopped what they were doing.

“Lucinda should have been next to Barbara, but they’d all got out of sync again. One of the juves, that tall girl, was next to me.”

“No, I was next to you,” Sonia said. “I was holding the pink sea dragon. When have I ever gone wrong?”

“Never,” Lindsay and Trevor chorussed.

“Well, the back row were all over the place,” Tanya said.

“They always are,” Sonia pointed out. “Except Sophie.”

“Actually I thought Sophie went wrong last night,” Trevor said thoughtfully. “And Barbara...”

“So what are you saying?”

“Everyone hates Barbara, but no one hates Lucinda. So what if someone meant to hit Barbara?”

Sonia shuddered. “It’s best not to think about it. I’m just glad that that detective is going to be around backstage.”

 

8

Through the backstage tannoy came the sound of excited chatter and rustling sweet papers. With only five minutes to go, the audience were in their seats, eagerly waiting for the curtain to rise and the fun to begin.

Banham and Alison walked into the semi-darkness of the wings and stood next to DC Crowther, who was so engrossed in the rehearsal on stage that he didn’t notice them.

Alison found his keen interest in the scantily dressed dancers chauvinistic and annoying. But she was aware that all that had passed her lips since yesterday was too much coffee, and low blood sugar was making her irritable. Tomorrow, she told herself, looking at the slim, shivering girls on the stage, tomorrow she would have shed a pound, then she would feel better; a few more, and perhaps men would find her attractive again.

Sophie Flint was trying to restage the whole show in the few minutes before the curtain went up. The nervous cast stood on the unlit stage, and she pushed them around like chess pieces.

“You’ve got to try and fill the stage,” she reminded them for the umpteenth time, moving Vincent one way and Barbara in the opposite direction. Alison noticed the shove she gave Barbara; the older woman ignored it and stepped back to her original position, right in the centre of the stage.

Sophie turned her attention to Fay, who was dressed in Lucinda’s principal girl costume. Her long dark hair was tied back in a plait and decorated with a pretty red ribbon. Even in the dim lighting, Alison could see her young face was caked in make-up, her eyebrows pencilled heavily, and her lips shining with too much red lipstick.

Fay put her hands out to stop Sophie. “It’s all right,” she said with the authority of a forty-year-old. “I know exactly what to do, and so does Mummy.”

Maggie McCormak’s head peeped out from the oversized, ragged black cat costume. She carried the large, eerie feline head under her arm, and the tail draped across her wrist as she trailed behind Barbara.

Sophie looked from Fay to Maggie and back again. “I wish I was that confident,” she said sarcastically.

Stephen Coombs was standing so far back that Alison hadn’t realised he was there. He moved toward the centre of the stage, dressed in a vast orange tent, with a matching hat, yellow wig and full make-up.

“Why don’t you just let us get on and do it?” he said to Sophie. “It’s going to be hard enough. Everyone’s nervous enough – we don’t need all this fucking staging. Let’s just get through it.”

“Mind your own business, Stephen.” Sophie didn’t even glance in his direction. “It’s very important to know where we’re supposed to stand.”

“But we do know,” Fay argued.

Alan’s voice suddenly boomed out from the prompt corner. “One minute to curtain up. Time’s up, Sophie. Opening positions; stand by, please.”

“No, you’ll have to wait,” Sophie shouted back. “We’re just sorting something out.”

“We’re sorted,” Stephen said defiantly, walking into the wings. Vincent, Maggie, Barbara, and Fay followed him, leaving Sophie on stage with the four chorus dancers. She shouted, “I’m the choreographer, and if I say hold the curtain, we hold the curtain!”

Michael walked on to the stage from the other side, his face thunderous. “Don’t give Sophie grief,” he said angrily. “She’s in charge, and I’d like you to remember that.”

“It’s not possible to forget, boss,” Stephen said sarcastically. He grabbed the supermarket trolley full of sweets and novelties which he threw out to the audience during his first scene, and knocked Barbara in the back with it.

Sophie walked into the wings on the opposite side of the stage and snatched up her fairy wand ready to start the show. Michael followed her and they started whispering.

The four dancers stayed on the stage and spread out as best they could. Sonia, the tallest, moved to the corner nearest Crowther, and waited till she was sure he was watching her before lifting a leg and stretching it straight up in the air and against her shoulder, her lacy white knickers in full view.

Crowther made the most of the opportunity. Aware she had his attention, Sonia told the other dancers how nervous she was about going home alone to her empty flat. Crowther moved in on the girl, assuring her she had no need to feel afraid when he was around, and he would see her home safely. Alison shook her head, half-amused, half-appalled.

“Get off the fucking stage, ye stupid get,” Alan yelled at Crowther. “We’re about to bring the curtain up.”

Crowther stepped back like a chided schoolboy.

“Any word from Penny?” Banham asked him.

Crowther coughed in embarrassment. “She’s working away like a good un, Guv,” said. “Isabelle’s just driven the cast’s buccal swabs over, and she’ll keep us posted.”

“Good.” Banham twitched his nose. “Any reason why you’re wearing so much aftershave today?”

“It’s to drown the whiff of him,” Crowther said, jerking his head in Alan McCormak’s direction. “I’ve got to stand next to him for the next half hour and he don’t ’alf bloody stink.”

Banham was edgy. He knew there was nothing he could do until he got some results back from forensics, or the brain trauma test results from the pathologist. That might mean another day or two. The way he felt now he wanted to close the show and arrest the whole cast. There was a killer among them, and he had a hunch who it was – but he was only too aware hunches couldn’t put people in prison. And if he was wrong, he’d have lost the opportunity to get evidence to trap the real killer. He wasn’t a patient man, but he had to bide his time.

A chord crashed from the piano, and suddenly everything was in full swing: music was playing, Alan and Michael were hauling the curtain, the girls on stage had started to sing and dance.

Maggie McCormak put the cat’s head over her own, rushed on stage, leapt in the air and turned a cartwheel. Alison stared open-mouthed. “I’m ten years younger than her, and I couldn’t begin to do that,” she said.

“You’ve got other talents,” Banham whispered.

“Oh, right, like you’d know,” she snapped.

She turned away and he immediately regretted speaking. He wished he understood women.

The opening number finished and the audience applauded, then Vincent Mann made his first entrance and they went wild, clapping and cheering and whooping. Banham glanced at Barbara Denis, standing in the wings with a face like thunder.

“She’s not a happy bunny,” he whispered to Alison.

“It’s called professional jealousy,” Alison replied.

The dancers ran off and started changing at the side of the stage. The embarrassment of standing so close to half-dressed women was too much for Banham. “I’m sure Crowther can manage here,” he said to Alison. “Let’s go and check out the security backstage. We’ll have a look around the dressing rooms. If anyone says anything, we’re checking the windows.”

The first door they came to was the chorus room. Banham knocked and put his head in. The room smelt strongly of muscle spray and deodorant. No one was around so they walked in. “None of these could possibly be suspects, could they?” he asked Alison. “Not if they were in the line in front of Lucinda?”

Alison shook her head. “What about Maggie and Fay? They’re changing in here too.”

“Fay was in the same line as the children, and Maggie was watching from out front. We’d be better off using the time to look round Stephen Coombs’s room.”

The dressing room Stephen shared with Vincent Mann and Alan McCormak was directly next to the chorus room. The room smelled of stale sweat. Banham swiftly searched Stephen’s pockets and the cheap canvas bag on the back of his chair. He found his cheque book and flicked through it. “Looks like he gets five hundred pounds a week salary,” he said.

“That’s about right,” Alison answered. “A little on the low side, but then he isn’t very good.”

Vincent’s mobile phone was on the dresser next to a photo of his children. Banham scrolled through the numbers. “Texts from Lucinda on here, from yesterday. ‘I love yous’ mostly. So they were on good terms.” He carried on scrolling. “He phoned his wife five times yesterday as well.”

“Sweet,” Alison said sarcastically.

“She’s phoned him this morning twice already. Sophie’s called him once, and so has Michael Hogan.”

“And he went home last night. He was the only one, remember, Guv.”

“Yes, I do. He said he missed his wife.” Banham stared at a pair of enormous black cardboard eyelashes in an old rusty tin next to Stephen Coombs’s tissues. They reminded him of spider’s legs. “I can’t see a mobile for Stephen.”

“Perhaps he hasn’t got one. I can’t imagine him having many friends.”

“Pity. OK, let’s have a quick look next door.”

The next room smelled of expensive perfume. There was a fridge with a kettle and a bottle of gin on the top of it, and a vase of fresh winter flowers stood by the window. Banham read the attached card. “Good luck, darling, with love from Michael.”

He picked up a mobile from the dresser and turned it on. “Just a couple of recent calls – Michael and Sophie,” he said. “Barbara Denis strikes me as quite a lonely woman. Does she live alone, do we know?”

“Just because a woman lives alone, it doesn’t make her lonely, Guv. Some of us prefer it that way.”

“And some don’t,” he said frostily. “Alison, can you cut the snide remarks? We’ve got a killer to find. Let’s just concentrate on the job.”

She nodded, looking a little embarrassed. “Yes, Guv. I’m sorry.”

They closed the door behind them and retraced their steps up the corridor to the stairs. On the first floor, Banham knocked on the company office door and pushed it open. Michael Hogan was perched on the side of the dresser, talking on the phone. He looked surprised to see them and cut the call short.

“We’re checking the whole of the backstage area,” Banham said. “Sorry to interrupt your phone call. Business, was it?”

“Personal, actually.”

“Mind if we sit down?” Banham asked, pulling out the only two chairs in the room. Alison sat on one, and took out her notebook; he settled in the other. “Something I wanted to clear up,” he said.

“That looks official.” Michael indicated the notebook.

“Just routine. You said you and Sophie were in here last night discussing giving Vincent Mann the sack.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Another member of your cast has told us it was Lucinda Benson you wanted rid of.”

“Who told you that?” Michael replied indignantly.

“Just answer the question,” Banham said crisply.

“It could only have been Sophie; no one else knew.”

“So which of them did you want to sack?” Alison asked.

“Vincent Mann,” Michael said, looking her in the eyes. “Sophie said he was the cause of all the trouble. But I said it wasn’t financially viable.” An uncomfortable few seconds passed, then he continued, “It isn’t a crime to sack an actor who is making trouble. Although I still feel responsible.”

Banham stared at him. “Meaning?”

Michael dragged his hand down his face. “I had a thing with Lucinda. Well, more a fling, really, but if someone found out...”

“When?”

“When did I have sex with her?”

“Was it just the once?” Alison asked.

He nodded. “She came on to me and I couldn’t resist. Please don’t write this down,” he asked Alison. She put her pen down, and he looked at Banham. “I’m sure you’d agree know how hard it is to turn down sex when it’s handed to you on a plate.”

Banham took a deep breath but said nothing. Michael turned back to Alison. “I know at forty-eight years of age I’m old enough to know better, but I’m afraid I can’t resist a pretty woman,” he said.

Banham suddenly wanted to hit him. “When did you have sex with Lucinda Benson?” he demanded.

Hogan sighed heavily. “Yesterday. Between shows.”

“Does Vincent Mann know?”

“No, and I hope there’s no need for him to find out.”

“What about Sophie?”

Panic filled Michael’s eyes. “No, and she must never find out.”

“Why?” Alison asked.

“Because she’s my adopted daughter. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Could anyone else know?” Banham asked.

“I doubt it. Everyone was out having tea. She came up here and told me Barbara was picking on her and asked me to talk to her. I said I couldn’t intervene.” He scratched the back of his neck and looked pleadingly at Banham. “She took every stitch of clothing off, right here in front of me. I’m a man, for God’s sake. I’m sure you would have done the same.”

Alison turned away in disgust.

Michael’s forehead furrowed. “God, I hope it had no bearing on what happened to her.”

“Did you notice any bruising on her body?” Alison asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I did. But all dancers collect bruises.”

“Surely not on their faces?”

“I didn’t notice that. But then I wasn’t looking at her face.”

The show was being relayed at low volume through the tannoy system; it suddenly caught Michael’s attention. “I’m sorry, I have to go,” he said. “Alan is about to go on as Alderman Fitzwarren and I have to run the corner until he comes off stage at the interval.” He looked from Banham to Alison and back again. “I hope what we’ve said will remain confidential.”

They followed him back down the stairs and into the wings, where Crowther was still standing. Michael helped the two young stagehands shift scenery, then sat on Alan’s high stool in the corner, put on the head-cans over his head and spoke to the sound and lighting engineer at the back of the stalls.

“Do you believe they only did it once?” Alison said.

“I think so,” Banham said. “Otherwise why tell us at all?”

“So we won’t think he wanted to get rid of her. We already know from the post mortem that she had sex yesterday. The DNA samples will tell us who with.”

The dancers came flying towards the stage for their next cue. “We’re in the way,” Alison said. “Shall I nip down and check the basement, and see if the fire escape is locked?”

“I’ll do that,” Banham said quickly. “I’m not used to all these half-dressed women. I don’t want them to think I’m watching them.”

“I’m sure they’d think you were quite normal if you did,” Alison said. “I’ll check the other side of the stage then, and meet you back here in five.”

If Alison was honest with herself, she was glad of a break from Banham. She knew what a difficult time Christmas was for him, but he hadn’t made it easy to show sympathy and understanding. She was angry with herself, for letting him know she was up for a relationship with him, but angrier with him for turning her down.

That was all history now. Embarrassing though it was, she’d get over it. He was far too complicated for a relationship anyway. But he was a great detective and a good boss, and she didn’t want to jeopardise their working partnership. He had put his head on the block and called out the murder team on a hunch, so the least she could do was back him up. If they did have a murderer to catch, they had to get on with it.

She made her way along the narrow passageway at the back of the stage and checked that none of the stage weights were loose, or where someone could trip over them in the dark. When she was satisfied she returned to the left side of the stage, where the three girl dancers were in the process of another quick change, wriggling into skimpy white leotards. Crowther was watching as they discarded their flimsy peasant dresses, threw them on the floor and stood naked apart from the tiniest of white G-strings. His testosterone level must be at a record high, Alison thought, registering the eye contact between him and Sonia, the tallest dancer.

Banham came up the iron staircase. “It’s pitch black down there,” he said. “I had to use a torch.”

Did you check the fire exit?” she asked.

“Locked from the inside,” he said. Though the dancers who were now fully clothed in leotards and tights, he averted his gaze. Crowther was grinning; if Banham had come up those stairs one minute earlier, he would have passed out with embarrassment.

The lights on stage dimmed, and bells started ringing loudly. “What’s happening now?” Banham asked.

“This is the ballet on Highgate Hill,” Alison told him. “It means the interval is only a few minutes away.”

“Good.” He set off for the corridor and the first floor dressing rooms. “Come on. Barbara Denis will be free at the interval, and I want to talk to her about her ex-husband.”

Barbara was clearly on edge, nervously smoking a small cigar and sipping a glass of gin. “I don’t normally drink when I’m working,” she said, “but the UV scene is twenty minutes away, and I can’t remember ever feeling this afraid.”

Banham indicated the sofa. “May we?” he asked her.

She shrugged. “Sure. Would you like a drink?”

They both declined. “I wanted a little chat, off the record,” Banham said. “If nothing else it’ll keep your mind occupied for a few minutes.”

“What do you want to know?”

“You’ve worked for Michael for a long time, and you must know all the cast. Tell me about them.”

She inhaled heavily on the thin cigar. “Michael and I were married many years ago,” she said, a sad note creeping into her voice. “I know them all, except Vincent Mann and poor Lucinda. I only met them this year.” She sipped on her gin, and her teeth chattered against the side of the glass.

“Do they always argue a lot?” Alison asked. “Or is it just today, because everyone’s nerves are frayed?”

She placed the glass on the dresser in front of her and frowned thoughtfully. “They do argue a lot,” she said. “Especially Stephen and Sophie. Stephen is Alan’s brother, Fay is Alan’s daughter, Sophie picks on Fay, so Stephen stands up to her. I just try and keep to myself, unless I think something isn’t right for the show. I’m unpopular because I fight for high standards of work.”

No one spoke for a few minutes. Barbara picked up a large sable make-up brush and dipped it in a tin of dark powder, carefully powdered the skin between her lips and nose and squeezed her lips together to check the result. Facing the two detectives again, she said softly, “I gave Lucinda a hard time. We had a terrible row yesterday. She got the harmonies all wrong and I lost my temper with her.”

“I heard,” Banham said. “She went to Michael to complain about you, didn’t she?”

Barbara lifted her eyebrows. “Did she? Well, that wouldn’t have done her any good. Michael and I may have divorced eighteen years ago, but he still has enormous professional respect for me.” She turned back to the mirror, untied and retied the bow holding her tiny ponytail in place, then checked the clips either side of it.

“Michael gives me the best dressing room, the best salary, and the best billing. That proves what he thinks of my work.” She lifted her chin. “And he relies on me to keep the show together.”

“How does that go down with Sophie Flint?” Alison asked her.

Barbara laughed nervously and reached for her glass. “Not well. Sophie is Michael’s current favourite.” She took a sip of gin. “Blondes. You must have noticed – every female in the show is blonde, except the McCormak girl. It’s Michael’s little weakness. He can’t help himself, but he doesn’t respect any of them.”

“Them?”

“He’s highly sexed. He can’t help it.” She turned back to the mirror and picked up a dark lipstick. “He had a fling with Alan’s wife, Maggie, a long time ago.” She painted her lips and rubbed them together. “It’s always blondes. He can’t stop himself.” She picked up the sable brush and powdered again over the same spot, stretching her mouth downwards as she did so.

“So are you saying Sophie is his mistress, as well as his daughter?” Alison asked.

“Adopted daughter. Yes. But it won’t last; none of them ever do.”

“Who is Fay’s father?” Banham asked quickly.

“Alan of course. Oh, I see what you mean.” She shook her head. “No, no, definitely not Michael.”

There was another silence as she sipped her drink, and her teeth chattered against the glass again. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said to Banham.

“Did you see Stephen Coombs after the UV scene last night?” Alison asked her.

“Yes, he came on stage just after the accident to see what was happening. He isn’t in the scene.”

“Did you notice what he was wearing?”

“Has someone else told you that he wasn’t wearing the right costume?”

“Was he?”

“I’m not sure.” She put her hand to her mouth. “He has a criminal record for GBH. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, but I expect you’d have found out.”

This was news to Banham, but he replied noncommittally, “Yes, I expect we would. What happened?”

“He attacked someone with a kitchen knife and I believe he got a suspended sentence. He’s hotheaded and acts before he thinks. That’s not to say I believe he hit Lucinda. I still think it was an accident. But for the record he threatened and bullied her all through rehearsals and he has threatened me many times.”

“In what way?” Alison asked.

“Threatened to punch me, nothing more, but that in itself is scary. My face is my fortune, and I need to keep working.”

“And you’re not sure whether he changed his costume during the UV scene?” Banham asked.

“I can’t be sure,” she said. “I was on stage doing the scene. Alan wasn’t there and Maggie was giving out the wrong fish in the dark. It was total bedlam...”

“Maggie was in the wings?” Banham interrupted.

“Only briefly, at the beginning of the routine, just before Michael.”

“Michael? You saw Michael in the wings as well?”

“Yes, but as I said, only at the beginning of the UV. It goes on for eleven minutes. I saw Stephen at the end of it, after the accident. Sophie said he hadn’t changed, but I can’t for the life of me remember what he was wearing. Something dark I think, but I’m really not sure.”

Alan’s voice sounded over the tannoy. “All artists to the stage, please, to rehearse the UV scene before the start of act two.”

Barbara downed the last of her gin and started to undo her dressing gown. Banham jumped up. “We’ll leave you to it,” he said quickly.

She opened her mouth then closed it again.

“Is there something else,” he asked her.

“Yes, actually, Inspector, there is.” She let the dressing gown fall, revealing a lacy black teddy. “I wondered if you were married,” she said, lowering her eyelashes, “because I find you very attractive.”

A few minutes later all the cast were on the stage, working in tense silence. Alison, Banham and Crowther stood in the wings with a fidgety Stephen Coombs.

Sophie was first to speak. “It’ll be all right. There are four detectives in the wings, so nothing can go wrong.”

No one answered.

Sophie tried again. “Don’t worry which fish you carry across the stage today...”

“No one ever does,” Stephen heckled.

Sophie glared at him. “Just take whichever one Alan or Michael gives you.” She was moving the cast around like chess pieces again.

Fay snapped, “Stop pushing me.”

“I have to,” Sophie said. “It’s the quickest way.”

“We should have rehearsed it last night, when we had more time,” Fay flounced.

“Come on, Fay,” Michael said sternly. “Sophie’s trying to get it right.”

“I never go wrong,” Fay defended herself. “And she’s always in the wrong place.”

Alison and Banham exchanged glances.

“Just do as you’re told, Fay.” Sophie sounded like a school prefect. “In ten minutes we’ll be doing this for real, and if anyone bumps into anyone else we’ll all die of fright.” She gave Fay another shove and turned to Vincent Mann, pulling and turning him into another place in the line, like a clockwork train. He moved obediently and said nothing.

Barbara bristled as Sophie approached her. “Tell me where to go,” she said quietly, “But don’t push me.”

“We’re short of time,” Sophie said. “It’s easier if I show you.”

“Then show me,” Barbara said firmly. “Don’t shove me.”

“Mummy knows where she has to be,” Fay said. “I told her earlier.” Maggie McCormak moved into a space in the front line.

“No, not there,” Sophie shouted at her. “If Fay has been standing there, that’s why it’s been going wrong. Listen to me, not her.”

“That’s where I always stood,” Fay argued. “Our line never went wrong – it’s yours that’s a mess.”

“Fay, just shut up and let me get on with it,” Sophie snapped.

Again Michael intervened. “You’ll get done quicker if you just do what Sophie says,” he said to Fay.

“I know all the cat’s moves better than anyone,” Fay protested.

“I taught you the moves, but you don’t always get them right,” Sophie said irritably. “Just shut up and do as you’re told.”

Banham’s eyes never left the stage.

“Bossy little cow isn’t she?” Stephen Coombs whispered. “Twenty-two years old and she thinks she’s Gillian Lynne.”

“Who’s Gillian Lynne?” Banham asked Alison.

“The most prominent theatre choreographer of the last fifty years,” she told him. “She choreographed Cats.”

Michael Hogan hadn’t taken his eyes off Sophie, and Maggie McCormak’s were firmly fixed on him. Banham made a mental note. The relationships between these people were a maze.

“Did Trevor Bruce, the black boy, give a DNA sample?” Stephen asked Alison.

“Yes. I told you. We asked everyone in the company.”

“What a waste of taxpayer’s money,” Stephen said, adjusting his skirt. “Neither of us would know what to do with a woman if she gave us a compass.”

“The women too,” Alison told him. “It’s so we can eliminate you all...”

“The audience are getting impatient,” Alan McCormak shouted from the corner. “How much longer are you going to be, for Chrissake, Sophie?

Michael stormed off to the prompt corner. “She’s had to restage the whole routine,” he told him. “She’ll take as long as it takes.”

Alan putting his hand up defensively. “I’m only looking out for your interests, boss. If we take the curtain up late, we’ll be pushed getting this house out before the evening lot’ll be coming in.”

“Are we all clear where we’re going?” Sophie asked the cast.

The tension spoke for itself, but no one demurred.

“OK, we’re ready,” Sophie shouted to Alan.

The cast all walked solemnly into the wings to stand by for the opening of act two. Only the dancers remained on stage. Maggie, Fay, Barbara, Vincent and Stephen stood in the wings near Banham.

“There’ll be two police either side of the stage,” Banham assured them. “You’ll all be perfectly safe.”

Maggie put her cat’s head on and stood beside her husband in the prompt corner as she tied the clip at the back. Fay followed, muttering her lines for the opening scene, immersed in her own world.

Barbara, aware she had an audience in Banham, stretched her arms in the air and flexed her back to loosen up. Banham looked the other way.

Vincent Mann stood a foot away, watching Barbara.

The four dancers were on the sparse stage, limbering up. Sonia turned to make sure Crowther was watching her, and he winked.

Lindsay, the youngest dancer, called to Alan. “Do you need help getting the curtain up?”

“I’m right here,” Michael called back. “I’ll help him.”

Suddenly a loud duff note blasted from the pianist out front, followed by the tinkling of piano keys, playing a happy song. The chatter from the audience immediately hushed.

“Stand by,” Alan shouted.

Banham struggled to the back of the stage and felt his way along the dark passage to the other side of the stage. Sophie was standing in the wings holding her sparkling wand, ready to make her entrance as the fairy after the opening routine.

As the dancing started Michael appeared beside her. Banham stood a few feet away watching them. Sophie nodded and Michael spoke; then he curled her long silky blonde hair round his finger and pulled her towards him. Banham looked across to the other side of the stage; Stephen, Barbara, Vincent, Maggie and Fay all watched Michael kiss Sophie gently on the cheek...

 

9

The backstage tension didn’t seem to affect the audience’s enjoyment. As soon as the curtain went up, the actors had them cheering and booing in all the right places, shouting, “Oh no he doesn’t! Oh yes he does!” and “Behind You!” in true pantomime fashion.

The cast were standing on the enormous plywood ship; Stephen Coombs, in a red and white nautical dress with a matching sailor’s hat, was on the bow goading the audience on. It reminded Banham, standing in the wings stage right, of his childhood in Brighton.

A storm was brewing and the ship was going to sink. The ship’s captain, played by Trevor, told the actors to jump overboard, and Stephen Coombs teetered on the edge. Banham was surprised that the cheaply made scenery could take his weight .

The other actors were behind him, pushing and shoving to get to the front of the queue and jump over the side. Banham didn’t know whether the pushing was part of the story until he saw Barbara Denis sidle up beside Stephen and elbow him in the ribs in an attempt to push herself to centre stage.

The floor of the stage was cleverly lit to resemble angry water. As the actors landed in the lights, they rolled from side to side and bumped each other as if they were at the bottom of the sea. Someone rolled a few feet from Banham, but in the dim lighting he couldn’t make out who it was. Then a vivid beam flashed like lightning, and he recognised Barbara Denis. She hugged her leg, and whispered, “Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck!” Banham hoped that the sound man had had enough sense to switch her radio mike off. She had obviously caught herself on the same loose nail he had walked into himself when he first arrived at the theatre.

Fay McCormak had also rolled over to that side, and ended up next to Barbara.

“Get out of my fucking way,” Barbara hissed at her. “You pushed me and I’ve cut my leg.”

Fay whispered back, “Tough shit, I hope it turns poisonous.”

Until then Banham had felt sorry for Fay. She was only seventeen, and despite everything that had happened she had taken over a leading part in the show and was managing remarkably well. Even now he understood that everyone’s nerves were stretched to the limit. Michael Hogan was insisting that they do the ultra-violet scene, and it was only moments away.

At the back of the set Michael was helping the two work experience boys to pull the ship into the wings. DC Isabelle Walsh was talking to Alison Grainger at the other side. Alison signalled to Banham. He squeezed past the ship and followed her and Isabelle to the corridor where they wouldn’t be overheard.

“Isabelle has been out front talking to the usherettes,” Alison said, careful to keep her voice low. “It seems none of them saw Maggie in the auditorium at any time during the performance last night.”

“There were two usherettes on duty last night,” Isabelle added. “Neither noticed her come through the pass door or go back through it during the UV scene.”

“Barbara Denis said she saw her in the wings at the beginning of the routine,” Banham said.

“The usherettes did say she could have come in and out without either of them noticing,” Isabelle added.

The chorus dancers rolled off the stage into the wings stage left, and immediately jumped up and started peeling their sailor clothes off. They tugged on the new all-in-one black outfits and pulled the balaclavas over their heads.

At the same time Stephen Coombs appeared on stage, having done a very quick change into a green costume resembling a large piece of seaweed. He crossed the stage pulling faces at the audience and picking bits of the material from his legs, arms and bottom. “Someone’s weed on me,” he announced, making the audience hoot with laughter.

“So if Maggie wasn’t out front, that would also shed doubt on Michael’s alibi,” Alison went on. “He said Maggie came into the kids’ dressing room for her binoculars.”

“It is possible the usherettes just missed seeing her,” Isabelle pointed out. “They didn’t seem that bright; if they were chatting a herd of elephants could have passed through and they might not have noticed.”

“Unlikely though.” Alison shook her head. “I think you’d notice someone walking down the aisle in the middle of a show.”

Stephen came off the stage still picking at bits of dark green seaweed. Then the stage dimmed and went into darkness.

Crowther had been standing with his arms folded, watching the dancers changing. Banham managed to catch his eye, and he walked over to join the team.

“He managed to get spare costumes at short notice,” Crowther said.

“I’m surprised Know-all Col didn’t help out and make a few bob on the side,” Alison said sarcastically.

“Just keep your mind on the job,” Banham said looking the young DC in the eye.

“Go thunder and waves.” Alan’s voice sounded around the backstage area, then he put on the head-cans to hear the sound engineer confirming his instructions.

The roar of thunder echoed across the audience, followed by the crash of waves and lighting effects to signify lightning. Slowly the light dimmed and the thunder became fainter, as echoes of the storm slowly died away. The stage went completely dark, and silence fell for a few seconds as the audience and the actors waited for the UV scene to start. Then there was the sound of bubbles, as if someone was sinking beneath the water.

Banham watched the actors in the wings, all dressed from head to toe in black, each holding a large ultra-violet fish. He tried to work out who was who, but it was impossible to tell. “You and Isabelle go round the other to the other side,” he whispered to Alison.

The pianist hit the opening note of the music and a large octopus crossed the stage in mid-air. The black-clad figure holding it was small, so Sophie Flint, or possibly Fay. She gyrated the strange creature in time with the music, stepping sideways across the stage toward him. The audience clapped their appreciation.

Next came the four dancers, entering from Banham’s side. Above their heads they wriggled a long bright yellow eel with psychedelic pink feet. The audience squealed with delight.

The music speeded up and everything began to happen more quickly. Banham couldn’t tell who was who. He thought he recognised Vincent Mann with a lethargic blue fish; he bumped into someone crossing from the opposite direction. Banham guessed it was Barbara, but she and Maggie were a similar height and build.

Alan McCormak was waiting for the dancers. He took the yellow eel from them and handed each of them single fish, and they set off back across the stage, passing Barbara or Maggie. On the opposite side Michael was handing out the fish. Banham had completely lost track now; everything was moving at such a pace.

The audience oohed and aahed, and clapped in time with the familiar seaside song that the pianist was playing. Some of them even sang along. Then the music moved even faster, and the actors speeded up to keep pace. Two people collided, and their sea creatures tangled together as if they were fighting. Banham realised it was impossible for the actors to know who was in front or behind them. And yesterday would have been even more chaotic, with six extra children in the routine and no one at the side.

How easily an accident – or a murder – could take place.

He tried to keep his eyes on Fay as the line crossed and recrossed the stage; Lucinda should have been in the same position the night before. But on one occasion Sophie’s eyes appeared in the beam of Alan’s torch as she tugged at the balaclava. It was simply impossible to tell the actors apart.

Banham rubbed his mouth thoughtfully. So it wouldn’t be out of the question for someone to join in the routine – easier still if they knew neither Michael nor Alan was at the side of the stage. The murderer could cross the stage, do the deed, then leave.

The music slowed, and the cast walked into the dark, holding the last fish in the air. As they pushed and shouldered each other, Banham wondered how many of them were in the right positions. This time he identified Fay, squeezed in at the end of the line at the opposite side of the stage, in the very place where Lucinda had fallen. But as the audience clapped and cheered the finale, he failed to spot anyone else in the line-up.

As the scene ended the girl dancers ran off the stage and discarded their black costumes, revealing their tiny white G-strings. Crowther’s eyes were more prominent than a cartoon bug as the girls wriggled into coloured, chiffon belly-dancing costumes.

Sonia, the tallest of the girls, looked straight at Banham, smiling broadly. She wore no bra, and he turned away in embarrassment. Then curiosity got the better of him; he turned back to find her smiling at Crowther.

What’s the matter with you, he asked himself. You’re surrounded with half-naked women and you feel absolutely nothing!

Now even more self-conscious, he moved away and stood in the entrance to the wings, keeping his back to the girls. Within seconds Alison had come round the back of the stage. She wore that bad-tempered squirrel look again, and the dark specks in her sludge-coloured eyes shone out. He had a sudden urge to reach out and stroke her face.

He was distracted by the clatter of high heels rushing down the corridor. It was Stephen Coombs, dressed in a red and white old-fashioned bathing costume and matching bonnet. In his hand he carried a pair of flippers.

“Mind out,” he said, pushing past them. “I’m going to be off.” He disappeared speedily toward the stage, shouting, “I’m the only man on the Island.”

Banham looked quizzically at Alison.

“‘Going to be off’ means going to miss your cue,” she informed him.

Michael Hogan walked from the stage and joined them in the doorway. “Thank God that scene’s over,” he said rubbing the back of his neck.

“What happens now?” Banham asked him.

“Oh, a quick scene between the principals: that’s the dame, Alderman FitzWarren and the principal boy and girl, and the comic. Then the dancers do a spot, and then it’s into the last scene, The Palace of the Sultan of Morocco.” He emphasised the title of the scene as if it were a pop group. Banham hoped the palace was better than the plywood ship.

“That’s what the work experience boys are doing now, at the back,” Michael told him. “Moving the palace scenery into place. We’re going to miss the children in that scene. They play the mice, and the cat’s supposed to chase them, and eat them. I’m having to use toy mice.” He produced an ugly fluffy toy from under his arm and showed it to Banham and Alison. “Actually I couldn’t get mice, so I’m using fluffy hedgehogs. I have to hope you can’t tell from the front.”

Banham tried not to smile.

“I wish I could cut the scene,” Michael said sadly, “but it’s vital to the legend of Dick Whittington. Dick’s cat is famous for ridding the island of mice. Then King Rat appears, he and Dick have a big sword fight and Dick defeats him. He wins his freedom, marries Alice, and becomes Lord Mayor of London and they all live happily ever after. That’s the story.”

“Real life’s very different,” Banham said.

“You’re so right,” Michael replied. “Well, I’d best help the lads to get the palace into place; we’re already running late.”

“Twenty minutes to the end of the show,” Banham said to Alison. “Everyone’s busy – let’s have a swift nosy around that company office.”

Sophie Flint was furious. She was standing in the stage right wings waiting to go on, and watching the actors on stage. The scene was going very badly; Fay had messed up all her lines, and Barbara was becoming impatient with her and fluffing her own lines. Maggie should have been following at Barbara’s heels, but was obviously having trouble seeing out of the eye-holes in the cat’s skin, so was following Fay by mistake. And Vincent was cracking jokes about it, which made Stephen lose concentration and mistime his own jokes – which Vincent used to get more laughs at Stephen’s expense. The audience squealed with laughter.

Then Alan McCormak, who was also in the scene, forgot his line altogether, so Vincent said it and told the audience it was Alan’s – so Alan stormed off the stage and went to the pub.

Stephen decided enough was enough and marched off the stage towards Sophie. “I want words with you,” he raged.

“Not now,” she snapped.

The scene on stage finished, and Vincent left the stage to clapping and cheering from the audience. The pianist began to play tinkling, fairy-like music, the lights dropped and a pink spotlight shone in the corner. Sophie walked into the light and delivered her pretty fairy speech, assuring the audience that she was there to make sure there was nothing to fear, all would end well and Dick Whittington and his cat would be safe.

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, and a stand-up shaving mirror stood beside it. A mauve and pink shoulder bag hung on the back of chair; Alison quickly unbuckled it and pulled out a thick filofax 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 eyes 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 the 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 crack and crunch told her her nose was broken and had disintegrated into her face.

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 and then up into her mouth. 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, and heard the grisly sound like a zip fastener. 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.