Stagestruck

17

An event as sensational as the sudden death of a major pop star becomes international news in a short time. Well before midnight on Thursday the police switchboard was jammed with media enquiries. Diamond issued a statement confirming that a woman had been found dead in a box at the Theatre Royal and that a post-mortem would be conducted next morning and a press conference would follow.

Early Friday he phoned Ingeborg at home and confided what the press didn’t yet know.

He heard her intake of breath.

The shock was still with him too, and gave more bite to his words than he intended. ‘When I asked you to bone up on Clarion’s life you didn’t tell me anything about self-inflicted injuries.’

The criticism hurt. ‘Be fair, guv. Don’t you think if I’d found even a hint of anything like that, I’d have told you right away?’

As so often, his plain speaking had caused more offence than he intended. ‘I’m saying this has come out of the blue, that’s all.’

‘If you remember, I was looking at websites and fanzines. This isn’t the kind of stuff a pop star wants to be known for.’

He backed off a little. ‘You’d think the tabloids would have been onto this.’

From Ingeborg’s tone, she appreciated the shift of focus. ‘She must have kept it well hidden. Thinking about it, all the pictures I’ve ever seen show her with her arms covered up.’

‘Well, you can’t hide much when you’re on the dissecting table. Sealy says he can use ultra-violet light to enhance old scars and give us an idea how long she was doing this.’

‘Can we be certain they were self-inflicted?’

‘They’re classic signs, he says.’

Ingeborg moved on quickly to the key question. ‘Are you thinking she may have damaged her own face with the caustic soda?’ She paused, shocked by her own statement. ‘It changes everything.’

He’d debated this with himself for much of the night. What if no crime had been committed at all and the whole of CID was flat out on a barren investigation? ‘Let’s find out if Sealy is right. That agent you and I met at the hospital – the dragon. What’s her name?’

‘Tilda Box.’

‘Yes. She must know what her client got up to. Where is she based? London, I suppose.’

‘We have her mobile number.’

‘You’ll get more out of her if you meet.’

‘We need someone to identify the body.’

‘Neat.’ Not for the first time, he valued Ingeborg’s quick brain. ‘What time is it? Wake her up and tell her we want her here before they start the PM.’

‘Now?’

‘Call me back as soon as you’ve fixed it. I’m at home.’ He put down the phone.

Raffles was pressing against his leg, reminding him of a duty that couldn’t be ducked. There was barely time to open a pouch of tuna before the phone rang.

‘She’s catching an early train,’ Ingeborg told him. ‘I’m meeting her at the station and driving her to the mortuary.’

‘She’d heard, of course?’

‘Oh, yes. She’s been up some time answering the phone.’

‘You can you handle this, can’t you, Inge?’

‘Getting her to open up? No problem, guv.’

‘She’s a hard nut.’

‘Brittle. I watched you deal with her.’

This sounded like a compliment, but it wasn’t. Cracking a difficult witness was a skill Ingeborg had learned in her days as a journalist. There were times when Diamond suspected she could crack him, too. Right now he wanted her opinion on the excesses of her age group. ‘You hear quite a lot about self-inflicted injuries among young women. Why do they do it?’

‘Guys do it as well.’

He smiled to himself. ‘Point taken.’

‘It’s often a teenage thing,’ she said, and then conceded a little. ‘I don’t know what the stats say, but you could be right that females are in the majority here. As to why, you’d better ask a shrink.’

Perish the thought. ‘I was hoping to get an opinion out of you.’

She took a moment to think. ‘It’s often triggered by stress. Situations they can’t cope with. I did see a theory that they’re suffering such pain from within that they take to cutting themselves to transfer the pain to the outside.’

‘There’s something wrong with the logic there.’

‘I don’t think so. The cutting brings temporary relief.’

‘By pain from within, you mean anxieties?’

‘Out of all proportion. You know how tough it can be when you’re growing up.’

‘Clarion was no teenager.’

‘Right, but what kind of adolescence did she have? She was into the world of pop from an early age. Her growing up must have been distorted.’

‘Arrested development?’

‘If you want to put a label on it. She would have been okay while things were going well but as she sank in the charts she would have been deeply troubled. Her great days as a singer were over. We don’t know when she started cutting herself. It may have been when she was younger, but all the recent disappointment must have been hell to endure.’

‘Are you saying she was immature?’

A sigh came down the phone. ‘Emotionally, maybe. Unable to cope. She had the acting as a back-up, but everyone says she was rubbish in rehearsals. First night nerves plus the knowledge that she couldn’t hack it as an actor must have really got to her.’

‘Damaging her own face would be a step on from cutting her arms,’ Diamond said.

‘I know, but self-harmers use anything that comes to hand, a hot iron sometimes, a lighter, boiling water, acid.’

His flesh prickled.

She went on, ‘And she had the extra incentive that scarring her face would save her from being savaged by the critics and all the bad publicity, which she must have been dreading.’

‘I thought self-harming was done in secret and covered up.’

‘She did cover it up by blaming the theatre.’

‘But the pain was very public.’

‘No one knew it was her own doing. She would have secretly brushed caustic soda on her face just before going on, so the cause of it wasn’t obvious. She had the credit of making an entrance and the agony that followed actually saved her from having to remain on stage.’

‘This is getting too deep for me. We didn’t find any trace of the stuff in her dressing room.’

‘She would have flushed it away, wouldn’t she?’

‘You really believe this, Inge, don’t you?’

‘It makes sense to me, guv.’

‘Why did she threaten to sue? Wouldn’t a self-harmer stay silent?’

‘To make her story stand up. She wasn’t going to admit that the scarring was self-inflicted or she’d have been crucified by the press. So she had to point the finger at someone else. She waited a few days and then let it be known she was withdrawing the action, but without saying why.’

He was being persuaded, and now he added his own twist. ‘I wonder if she ever did instruct her lawyers. That’s something else you should ask the agent.’

‘Do we agree that the threat to sue was all a bluff?’

‘Could well have been, if this theory is correct. Her stay in hospital may have given her pause for thought. The doctors who treated her at Frenchay would have seen the state of her arms and worked out that she had a history of this.’

‘Wouldn’t they have informed us?’

‘Patient confidentiality.’

‘I’m all for that,’

‘So am I, until it gets in the way of a police enquiry.’ He drummed his fingers on the edge of the worktop. ‘And so we come to the even bigger question: does self-harming lead to suicide?’

‘You mean did she kill herself?’ The question hung unanswered for a long interval before Ingeborg said, ‘I don’t think it follows. Most of them are content to damage their bodies without wanting to destroy them.’

‘It’s not a slippery slope, then?’

‘You’d have to ask an expert, but I don’t believe it’s inevitable or even likely.’

He’d done enough theorising. ‘We have no clue as to what caused her death last night.’

‘But we should find out from the post-mortem. Will Keith be sitting in?’

‘He’s got lucky again, yes. But of course we’ll have the usual wait for test results.’

‘Is poison a possibility?’ Ingeborg said, her voice rising in anticipation.

‘She wasn’t shot, stabbed or strangled. There were no obvious injury marks, apart from those we’ve talked about.’

‘So it is.’

‘The trouble is we won’t know if she took poison herself or was given it.’

‘Was there an empty cup or glass in the box?’

‘I didn’t see one.’

‘Most poisons are slow-acting, aren’t they? I don’t think I’m with you on this.’

He let it pass. In fact he hadn’t declared for poisoning or any other form of death. He’d simply complained about waiting for results. But he wanted Ingeborg on side. ‘Hope it didn’t ruin your evening, turning out last night.’

‘It wasn’t a problem. I was ironing.’

‘Ironing?’

‘And listening to the radio.’

A domestic scene he hadn’t remotely imagined. He’d pictured her clubbing at Moles. It seemed even the funky Ingeborg wasn’t whooping it up every night of the week.

It was still early. After shaving, he got on the phone again and put in several calls to police authorities in the home counties. He’d given a promise to Paloma that he would follow up on that call he’d made to the Yard seeking information on Flakey White. She was right. For peace of mind, the damage of long ago had to be repaired if at all possible. Everyone he phoned said they would ‘look into it’. He suspected that their priority was at a lower level than his.

His first move of the day wasn’t to the theatre or Manvers Street nick, but south, into Somerset, with Paul Gilbert as back-up and chauffeur. An early call on Francis Melmot was essential.

The sun came out and Melmot Hall appeared dramatically out of an early morning mist, much of the west wing still obscured. A little over a week ago, Clarion had been driven here to be the guest of her unlikely fan and his sharp-asnails mother. What had the pop star expected of her stay in a stately home, and what had she experienced? She hadn’t remained here long.

‘Do you like lemon drizzle cake?’ Diamond asked young Gilbert as they approached the pedimented entrance.

‘I don’t even know what it is, guv.’

‘You’ve led a sheltered life. You could find out today. They’re famous for it here.’

Their knock was answered after a long delay by Melmot himself, wearing an ancient brown dressing gown over bare legs and with flecks of shaving foam around his nose and ears. ‘Do you know what time this is?’

‘Time for some questions about last night,’ Diamond said. ‘You know what happened in the theatre?’

‘Of course. I was there.’

‘Not when I needed to question you. May we come in?’

Melmot held onto the large oak door. ‘Can’t you come back later?’

‘That’s something you don’t say to the police, Mr Melmot.’

‘If you must, then. I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

‘You coped with hundreds the other day.’

‘Only in the grounds. That’s different.’

When they entered, it was apparent what the problem was. The grounds had been trimmed, clipped and weeded for the open day. The interior of the house, a spacious entrance hall with a curved, cantilevered staircase, was like a tip, cluttered with bulging carrier bags, piles of books and junk mail, all covered in dust.

‘As you see, I don’t employ staff in the house,’ Melmot said, opening a door. ‘You’d better come in here.’

They entered a large, high-ceilinged room almost empty of furniture and with patches on the wallpaper showing where pictures had hung.

‘Find yourselves a pew.’

The only possibilities were dining chairs heaped with cardboard boxes containing crockery.

‘These things are waiting for a valuation,’ Melmot said.

‘Selling up?’ Diamond asked, gesturing to DC Gilbert to clear some space for them all. The prospect of coffee and lemon drizzle cake had all but vanished.

‘Not the house. Just some of the contents. You wouldn’t believe the upkeep of a place this size. It’s death by a thousand cuts. Most of my ancestors’ portraits have gone, including, I may say, two Knellers and a Gainsborough. Each time I sell something I have to justify it to my mother, who thinks I’m a wastrel. By the way, she won’t interrupt us if you’re brief. She remains in her room until eleven. After that, she’ll be on the warpath.’

‘Let’s go for it, then. I was told you were phoned some time yesterday by Clarion wanting to see the evening performance.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘You knew already that she’d dropped the lawsuit. You heard from her lawyers, you told me.’

Melmot nodded, wary of what he might be asked.

‘So you were well disposed to the lady?’

‘We’ve been over this before. I told you I was a fan.’

‘But your admiration must have been tested by the lawsuit hanging over you.’

‘A temporary difficulty. Others took it more seriously than I.’

‘Denise, for one.’

‘That’s a matter of conjecture, isn’t it?’

‘Not since we found the suicide note.’ Diamond watched the reaction before adding, ‘Didn’t you hear?’

Melmot blinked several times and turned a shade more pink. Plainly, the Theatre Royal’s bush telegraph had malfunctioned. But then Diamond remembered that the discovery had been known only to Ingeborg, Fred Dawkins and himself. If three members of CID can’t keep quiet, who can?

No point now in keeping back the news.

‘How desperately sad,’ Melmot said after he’d been told, but it was lip service. Anyone could tell he wasn’t either desperate or sad.

‘Yes, if Clarion had withdrawn her threat earlier, Denise might not have taken the action she did.’ Diamond gave a shrug that would not have disgraced a Frenchman. ‘But then a lot of unpleasantness would never happen if we had the gift of hindsight. Getting back to Clarion, can you recall her exact words when she phoned you yesterday?’

‘That’s asking too much.’

‘Near enough to exact, then.’

‘I’ll try. She had my mobile number from a couple of weeks ago when I made arrangements for her to stay here. She phoned me about three in the afternoon. I was surprised and rather relieved to hear her voice.’

‘But you already knew she wasn’t going to sue.’

‘Yes, but not from Clarion herself. There was no hint of reproach. She used my first name and asked if I’d heard she was out of hospital. She said she was staying at the Cedar of Lebanon in Bristol and was wondering if there was some way she could get to see the play she’d had so much to do with. I took it as an olive branch.’

‘Was anything said about the lawsuit?’

‘No, we avoided that. I said we’d be delighted to welcome her and she said immediately that she didn’t want to make an occasion of it. She wanted to come unannounced and in secret. She wasn’t ready yet to meet the cast or any of her fans.’

‘Because of the scarring?’

‘I suppose. We didn’t go into that. I had what I thought was the rather good idea of letting her see the show from a private box. It’s not the best sight-line in the house, but it has the great advantage of being discreet. If you sit well back you’re invisible to the audience.’

‘You suggested this over the phone?’

‘Yes, and she liked it immediately.’

‘So you made plans?’

‘Certainly. I didn’t order her car, but she told me to look out for a black Mercedes limo. I laid on everything at my end of things, getting Binns, the security man, to meet her and escort her upstairs.’

‘Did you tell anyone else?’

‘Only Hedley Shearman. He had to know, as theatre manager. I asked him to look in at the interval and make sure she was comfortable.’

‘Didn’t you see her yourself?’

‘Only when she arrived. She was a little late, just before curtain up, and it was the briefest of conversations. I had other duties in the interval, so I had to rely on Hedley to take care of her.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Take care of her. God only knows what happened. It now appears she died during the interval.’

‘Where were you?’

‘In the interval? In the 1805 Rooms, pressing the flesh.’

‘The 1805 Rooms?’

‘It’s our VIP suite. Named after the year the theatre was built. We had a casting director from the National and several of our sponsors.’

‘You were there for the whole twenty minutes?’

‘It went on for longer, in fact. Some minor alarm backstage.’

‘This would have been Fräulein Schneider reacting to the grey lady – as she supposed at the time.’

‘Actors.’ He clicked his tongue in disapproval as if speaking of prodigal sons.

‘You haven’t answered my question: were you in the 1805 Rooms for the whole of the interval? I can easily check, but it would be simpler hearing it from you.’

‘The bulk of the time. I slipped out towards the end to find out what the delay was about and while I was making my way backstage the second half started.’

‘So there was a period of time when you were between the 1805 Rooms and backstage?’

‘A very short period. Is that significant?’ He managed a look of innocence that faded when Diamond declined to answer.

‘And at what point did you learn that Clarion was dead?’

‘After the final curtain as I was leaving the theatre. One of the front-of-house staff told me an ambulance had been called to someone who had apparently collapsed and died in the Arnold Haskell box. Dreadful. I knew who it was, of course. The whole world fell in on me. Couldn’t think how it had happened. They told me Hedley was dealing with it. In my state of alarm I couldn’t face anyone and I knew there was sure to be an explosion of media interest. Let’s admit it: I panicked.’

‘You left the theatre?’

‘Returned here in turmoil and spent a sleepless night trying to work out what to tell people.’

‘People like us?’

‘Not you. I’ve told you the honest truth. It’s all those reporters I dread. They’ll twist it into a filthy scandal. They always do.’

Diamond was tempted to say not much twisting would be needed and see what reaction that would get, but the last brief comment interested him. ‘Why, have you been on the receiving end before?’

‘Not in a serious way. This is something else.’

‘Yes, it’s huge,’ Diamond said. ‘I’m holding a press conference this afternoon.’

On the drive back to Bath, he asked Gilbert what he’d made of Melmot.

‘Didn’t like him, guv. He’s all front. Chairman of the board and all that.’

‘True.’

‘There wasn’t much real sympathy for either of the women who died in his theatre. All he thinks about is what the press will make of it. He said he was a Clarion fan, but he isn’t grieving for her.’

‘She let him down,’ Diamond said. ‘He had great hopes. He saw an opportunity and brought her to the theatre to be in this play, offered to let her stay with him.’

‘Hoping to get inside her knickers?’

‘I wouldn’t express it in those terms. He claims not. He said she stayed in a different wing of the house.’

‘He’d say that, wouldn’t he?’

‘I’m inclined to believe him. He’s a mummy’s boy, and you’d understand why if you met his mother. Aside from all that he was getting credit from the theatre people for finding a star performer and she was supposed to be grateful for getting the part. But it all turned sour. She didn’t stay long in the house.’

‘I’m not surprised, seeing the state of it.’

‘And she was going to be a flop in the play.’

‘His reputation was under threat.’

‘You’ve got it. People of his sort, heirs to a big estate, are often prone to insecurity. They don’t like to be thought of as living off their capital and nothing else, so they get involved in business or the arts at boardroom level. The theatre is a perfect vehicle for someone like him to earn extra status.’

‘Buffing up the image.’

‘And it was in serious danger of collapse. I’ve been asking myself if that could be a motive for murder. But he let slip another intriguing remark.’

‘About being treated unfairly by the press?’

‘Yes, there’s some skeleton in Melmot’s cupboard that we ought to know about. When we get back to Bath, do some digging. See if he’s on file.’

Tilda Box had found time to dress in purple and black, an outfit straight out of Vogue, but appropriate for the occasion. She spotted Ingeborg in the station forecourt and came over, confident, smiling, swinging her handbag and smelling expensive. She’d obviously refreshed her make-up just prior to arrival at Bath Spa station. She was carrying several celebrity magazines.

‘I hope you weren’t trying to phone me on the train. I had to switch off. It’s been non-stop.’

‘It’s like that at the nick,’ Ingeborg said. ‘My boss is giving a press conference some time soon.’

‘Really? What will he say?’ She was eager for information.

‘Not a lot. He’ll want to confirm her identity if possible. That’s up to you, of course.’

She frowned. ‘There’s no question that it’s her?’

‘Not so far as I know.’ Ingeborg started the car and headed out into Dorchester Street and west towards the hospital. She had a miniature tape-recorder running under the armrest between them.

Tilda was more uneasy than she’d first appeared. Nobody enjoys the duty of identifying a body, and most find it daunting, if not scary. ‘There’s no damage to her face, is there? Extra damage, I mean. I should be able to recognize her? I thought this was just a formality.’

‘Absolutely,’ Ingeborg said, noting how panicky her passenger was starting to sound. This would be as good a time as any to pounce. ‘How long has she been cutting herself?’

‘Cutting herself?’ Tilda made a show of sounding baffled without remotely convincing Ingeborg she was sincere.

‘You must have seen the state of her arms,’ Ingeborg said as if she had checked the corpse herself. ‘You of all people will know about the self-inflicted injuries – as her professional adviser.’

Briefly, there seemed to be a real danger of Tilda opening the passenger door and leaping out. Then she seemed to think better of the escape option and gave up any pretence of not knowing. ‘For some years, in fact. Top performers like Clarion are under enormous pressure that the rest of us will never experience. Have you seen the body, then?’

‘My guvnor has.’

‘Oh. Did he say anything else?’

‘Anything else?

‘About her appearance. I’ve no idea what to expect when we get there.’

‘As you said yourself, it’s just a formality,’ Ingeborg said. ‘Did she talk openly about the self-harming?’

‘I wouldn’t say openly. To me in confidence, yes.’

‘It must have been a huge worry for you, personally and professionally.’

‘That goes without saying.’

‘But she told you everything. A sympathetic ear.’ A touch of flattery from Ingeborg, opening the way for the key question. ‘We could see you were very close when we met at the hospital after her face was damaged. Did she tell you she did that to herself?’

Tilda hesitated, as if sensing she’d been forced into a corner, and then the words tumbled out. ‘Yes, it was so sad, really. She told me in the hospital. The rehearsals hadn’t gone well and she was worried sick about the first night. She needed a get-out but at the same time she was deeply ashamed of herself. She’d used corrosives on her skin before, all part of the self-harming. There was caustic soda under the sink in one of the dressing rooms. I think they used it to clear the drains. She collected some in a tissue and dabbed it on her face before she went on, punishing herself as well as making sure she would have to abandon the performance. I don’t think she knew how excruciating it would be. She almost passed out with the pain.’

‘And then she blamed the theatre?’

‘Poor darling. The doctors told her she was scarred for life. Having to admit to the world that she’d done it to herself was more than she could cope with, so she started this talk of legal action. I don’t think she ever intended to see it through, but it relieved the pressure. She even convinced me – and I know her history. That morning when you came to the hospital I was sure she had strong grounds for damages. I called her lawyers and told them what to expect and they promised to see her as soon as she was out of hospital. The meeting never took place, of course.’

‘When did she tell you the truth?’

‘Later, over the phone. It was preying on her mind. I phoned the lawyers and they advised the theatre she’d decided not to sue. Without disclosing the reason, of course.’

Ingeborg breathed a quiet sigh of relief. One part, at least, of the mystery that had engulfed CID all week was solved.

‘Did you see her after she came out of hospital?’

‘No, I’d already returned to London. We spoke on the phone and she told me of her plan to see the play. I would have advised against it, but she sounded so depressed that I thought it would provide some distraction, if nothing else. I couldn’t see any harm in it, so I didn’t try to dissuade her.’ She reached in her bag for a tissue and sniffed into it. ‘If only I had.’

‘Would you say she sounded suicidal?’

‘Why?’ Tilda was all attention again, and her voice piped in horror. ‘Oh my God – did she? Do you know something? They haven’t already done the post-mortem?’

‘No, they won’t have started yet. I’m just asking.’

‘Oh.’ Deflated, she said, ‘No, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.’

Outside Bath Central police station, the pressmen, impatient to go in, were taking pictures of everyone who entered, regardless of who they were. ‘Can’t you let them in?’ Georgina, the ACC, said, not pleased at being called love and asked if she was Clarion’s mother, in spite of being in uniform.

‘I know what they’re like, ma’am,’ Diamond said. ‘Stuck in the conference room they’ll get even more bolshy.’

‘You’d better think of something. They’ll be smashing windows soon.’

It was eleven thirty. The post mortem should have started at ten. He phoned the mortuary and asked for Halliwell. They said he was still observing.

‘Don’t they ever take a break?’

‘They took one less than twenty minutes ago,’ the mortuary keeper said.

‘And what were they saying when they came out?’

‘That it could take another hour or more.’

‘For crying out loud. You’d think it was brain surgery.’

‘Well, it is.’

He was forced to admit that this was true.

He left a message for Halliwell to update him at the first opportunity.

At least Ingeborg had delivered. He’d listened to the tape. To have it confirmed by Tilda Box that Clarion had been a long-term self-harmer was a breakthrough. Under all the pressure he hadn’t yet worked out the full implications. If Clarion had damaged her own face, why had Denise killed herself and left that suicide note? Get through the press conference, he told himself, and you’ll think more clearly.

‘Is this a good moment, guv?’ Paul Gilbert asked, putting his head around the office door.

‘There’s no such thing.’

‘Sorry.’ The head disappeared.

‘Come back.’

Even more apprehensive, Gilbert obeyed.

‘It had better not be a request for time off.’

‘You asked me to check on Francis Melmot.’

‘Well? Do we have anything on him?’

‘Nothing on record. It never got to court, but there was a complaint of assault that was later withdrawn. It was in connection with his father’s death in 1999.’

Diamond gave a nod. ‘I know the old man shot himself, supposedly while cleaning his gun.’

‘Well, not long after that, a reporter turned up at Melmot Hall and made some remarks Francis didn’t appreciate.’

‘About the shooting?’

‘No, about his father’s private life. The old boy was quite a goer. He’d been screwing a barmaid and Mrs Melmot had got to hear of it. The reporter seemed to be suggesting the old lady told her husband to do the decent thing and shoot himself and wanted to see if he could get a quote from Francis. Instead he got his nose broken.’

‘He’s a big guy to tangle with, is Francis. I suppose the mistress offered her story to the paper.’

‘Whatever, it never got into print.’

‘This tells us he’s capable of violence, but I have some sympathy, especially as it was a poxy pressman. Where did you dig this out?’

‘From an old-stager at Frome nick. He remembered taking the statement.’

‘Nice work, Paul. Get a note of it on the case file.’

Around noon, Ingeborg came in. ‘Is your phone dead, guv?’

‘Could be. I asked the switchboard to give me a break.’

‘Keith was trying to reach you from the mortuary.’

He sat forward. ‘He was? Is it over?’

‘Depends what you mean. You could say it’s just beginning. They’re saying Clarion was suffocated.’