Stagestruck

7

Glarion hadn’t endeared herself to Diamond. He sympathised with her injury and understood her anger at the probable loss of her looks and career. He also knew no member of the public welcomes being questioned by the police. Even allowing for that, she’d come across as hostile and unappreciative of the need to get to the truth. She obviously thought her lawyers and her private security people were better placed to take care of her interests. Almost every statement she’d made had been barbed with reproach. But it’s impossible to put yourself in the place of someone who’s had such a shock, he told himself, trying to be charitable. Easier to feel sorry for the dead victims he usually dealt with. They weren’t capable of striking attitudes.

‘Back to Bath now?’ Inge said, to jog him out of his silence.

‘Not yet. Call Bristol police and ask them to supply a roundthe-clock guard for her.’

‘She has her own guard, guv.’

He gave her a look that said all she needed to know about the competence of private security guards.

She took out her phone.

‘And now we’ll find the pathology lab,’ he said.

‘We’d better ask.’ She stopped a porter wheeling an oxygen cylinder along the main pathway and they were soon heading in the right direction.

The technician who greeted them inside the door was clearly a junior, but he showed them in to the scientist in charge, a large, bearded man called Pinch, who was sitting on a bench eating a banana. He eyed them as if they’d come to ask for money. When they showed their IDs he jumped to attention, tossed the peel into a bin, wiped his hands and offered them coffee.

All Diamond wanted was the test result, but Ingeborg accepted for them both. The kettle was hot and the coffee was instant, so it shouldn’t delay them long.

Pinch explained that his staff supplied their own mugs and there weren’t any spares. ‘Hope you don’t mind drinking from a glass beaker. I promise you, they’re clean. Haven’t contained anything of human origin. Not today, anyway.’

Diamond wouldn’t touch his, he decided.

‘So how can I help?’

They asked about Clarion’s towel.

‘That’s been tested, yes.’

‘With what result?’

‘Traces of glycerine-based make-up, for sure, and face powder, but also a corrosive I wouldn’t recommend putting anywhere near your face.’

‘Acid?’

‘Alkali, in fact, but no less dangerous. Sodium hydroxide.’

‘Caustic soda,’ Ingeborg said with a sharp intake of breath.

A shocked silence followed.

Finally Diamond, appalled, said, ‘Isn’t that what they use to unblock drains?’

‘Right. We didn’t believe it at first, so we repeated the tests. That’s why we took so long.’ Pinch poured the coffee. ‘Help yourselves to sugar.’

Neither reached for the spoon. Ingeborg’s face had drained of colour.

‘There’s no question, then?’ Diamond said.

‘It’s caustic soda for sure, available from your friendly, neighbourhood hardware store. As you doubtless know, it comes in powder form as tiny flakes or granules. Add a solvent such as water and you’ll remove most blockages.’

‘And most of your skin.’

‘If you come in contact with it. In these safety-conscious times it’s a wonder the public is still allowed to buy the stuff.’

‘How does it work?’

‘It’s inert until added to water.’

‘So it could be mixed with something dry, such as face powder, and it wouldn’t react?’

‘Correct.’

‘And being white in colour it would blend in with powder,’ Ingeborg added. Horrible as it was, the presence of caustic soda on the towel had to be fitted into a scenario.

‘What would have activated it?’ Diamond asked.

‘Assuming it was applied to her skin?’ Pinch said. ‘The surface moisture may have been enough. If she was wearing a moisturiser, that would certainly have done it.’

‘She had another layer over that, the glycerine-based cream you mentioned,’ Ingeborg said. ‘If it was mixed with that -’

‘I’m not sure it was,’ the scientist said. ‘We recovered a number of dry particles from the towel. Actors powder their faces, don’t they?’

‘If they do, it’s over some layers of make-up.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I understand it gets warm under the theatre lights. If she started sweating, the process would begin for sure and she might not be aware at first. It forms a slime on the surface and the action can take out the nerve endings as well as the skin tissue. By the time she became aware, it would already have been well advanced.’

‘This may explain the delay we’ve all been puzzling over,’ Diamond said. ‘Nasty.’

‘Worse than nasty,’ Ingeborg said. ‘It’s fiendish.’

‘Does she know yet?’ Diamond asked.

Pinch shook his head. ‘We needed to confirm the results. This is tricky territory. We report to the medics, not the patient or her representatives. We informed the doctor treating her after we ran the first tests, but when there’s likely to be legal action, you have to be certain.’

‘The medics will tell her?’

‘Have to.’

‘And it can’t have been an accident,’ Diamond said. ‘The lawyers will be aware of that. You don’t add caustic soda to face powder through carelessness. This was deliberate.’

‘And vicious,’ Ingeborg added, her voice thick with emotion.

When they left, they took the towel with them in a sterile box that served as an evidence bag. It would go to the forensics lab at Chepstow for them to run their own tests.

In the car, Diamond said, ‘Are you okay?’

‘I thought I was going to throw up when he told us,’ Ingeborg said. ‘I can handle a murder scene, but this is worse, considering we just spoke to the victim. What a thing to come to terms with, learning you were hated this much by somebody.’

‘I know. It’s repulsive and impossible to justify. But our job is to find out why it was done and who is responsible.’

‘Okay, guv. I won’t let it do my head in. What do we do about this?’

‘We’ve got enough now for a search warrant to get into Denise’s house and seize her make-up kit. And we need to know a whole lot more about her.’

‘Do you want to call Keith?’

He called CID on Ingeborg’s phone and got Dawkins, that windbag, announcing that the department was at his service, as if it was menswear in Jolly’s.

‘Diamond here. Is Keith in the office?’

‘Keith?’ From the bemused way Dawkins repeated the name, it could have been Julius Caesar.

‘DI Halliwell.’

‘Would he be the gentleman with sideburns?’

Diamond gripped the phone harder. What could have possessed Georgina to dump such a nutcase in CID? ‘That’s Leaman. If he’s there, hand the phone to him.’

‘He is not.’

‘This is urgent, Fred. Is anyone with you?’

‘There is another officer with a more restrained haircut and by what you said I can only deduce he is DI Halliwell.’

‘Put me onto him, for God’s sake.’

Halliwell was on message at once. He said he’d organise the warrant directly. There was no shortage of local magistrates to contact.

‘Any success tracing her car?’

‘She owns a silver Vauxhall Corsa. It’s not on the street right now. The neighbours say that’s where she parks it when she’s at home. They’re pretty sure it wasn’t there overnight. I’ve got the registration and put out an all units as agreed.’

‘What’s the address?’

‘Excelsior Street in Dolemeads. By the time you get back here, the warrant should be ready.’

‘We’ll join you as soon as we can.’

He updated Ingeborg.

She said, ‘I can’t think why Denise would do something as dumb as this. She’d know we’ll soon catch up with her.’

‘We’ve yet to find out the background,’ he said. ‘I sense a history of ill-will behind this. You get people with a grudge and they lose all sense of proportion. This could have been a personal spat with Clarion, or something quite different, like a grievance against the theatre.’

‘So she scars Clarion for life?’ she said on an angry, rising note.

‘Stay cool, Inge. Up to now, nobody has said a word against Denise.’

‘Because she’s only known to us as a functionary. The dresser. We’ll find out a whole lot more shortly.’

They got to the end of the Keynsham by-pass and started the Bath Road stretch of the A4. Ingeborg was driving too fast by Diamond’s reckoning. ‘You can take it more steadily now,’ he said. ‘We’ve made good time. I haven’t heard what you dug up on Clarion.’

‘I can talk as I drive, guv, and I’m inside the speed limit.’

‘Not my limit.’

‘It’s open country for some way ahead.’

‘I’ll look at the country. You keep your eyes on the road. Does she have any obvious enemies?’

‘I can only go by what’s on the internet and in print. She’s not controversial, like some pop stars.’

‘Relationships?’

‘There was a live-in boyfriend for a couple of years. He was Australian, supposedly touring Europe after getting his degree. They split up when he wanted to go back to Sydney and do a Ph.D. He’s still out in Oz, as far as I’m aware. If there’s anyone else she’s serious about, she’s kept them well hidden.’

‘Does she do drugs?’

She laughed faintly. ‘Don’t they all at some point? Put it this way: she’s not well known for it.’

‘How does she spend her money then?’

‘Property. She has apartments in London and New York and a manor house near Tunbridge Wells.’

‘A home-loving girl, then.’

‘It doesn’t stop her from eating out and clubbing.’

‘Who with?’

‘Lately with the agent we met, Tilda Box.’

That intrigued him. ‘They go to nightclubs together?’

‘There are plenty of magazine pictures to prove it. Tilda entered her life last year when the singing career seemed to be on the slide. She steered her into acting.’

‘Is Tilda successful as an agent?’

‘I wouldn’t know, except she doesn’t seem to have any well-known clients apart from Clarion.’

‘And she’s very protective of her. Is Clarion bi, do you think?’

‘I haven’t seen it suggested anywhere. The media are quick on anything like that.’

‘If she’s straight, she’d surely not want Tilda with her on a regular basis.’

‘You could be wrong there, guv. A lot of women feel more comfortable with their own sex as company. If the break-up with the Australian guy hurt her, she may be pleased to coast along for a bit with this Tilda, who smooths the way and makes her feel better about herself. Do you want to hear her sing? I picked up one of her singles last night. Top of the stack.’

‘What do I do?’

She told him how to insert the disc, and Clarion’s chirpy notes took over, balanced by an energising drumbeat. The words were hard to follow and the voice didn’t sound anything special to Diamond’s ear, but pop music wasn’t one of his strengths.

‘Is this from the latest album?’

‘To be fair, it’s not her best. She’s trying for a hip-hop sound and it doesn’t come off.’

‘This was made before Tilda came on the scene?’

‘Right.’

‘Who was advising her then?’

‘There would have been a creative team looking after the music. She had a manager called Declan Dean and he should have been on top of the business side. Somewhere it wasn’t working and she left him.’

‘At some point every singer’s career tails off,’ he said. ‘It’s a competitive market.’

‘Highly. Yes, it may just have been the laws of commerce working, but someone has to carry the can.’

‘She blamed this Declan?’

‘It wasn’t so obvious at the time, but it’s been seeping out since, in her blog.’

‘She has a blog?’

‘They all do and most of them are dire. It’s about digital exposure in the pop landscape. If you don’t blog, you won’t survive.’

‘What kind of stuff does she write in the blog?’

‘You wouldn’t find it instructive. Films she’s seen and would tip for an Oscar. Good meals she’s eaten.’

Clarion’s singing was getting too much. ‘How do I turn this down?’

She pointed to the volume switch. ‘She was a tad more interesting last week, doing her best to plug the play. She was on about learning lines and rehearsing. Of course the blog stopped on Monday. She could easily start up again now, but I guess the lawyers will have closed her down.’

‘How would she blog from a hospital bed?’

‘Using her iPhone. It would ease the boredom.’

They drove back into Bath and Manvers Street. Before anything else, Diamond arranged for the box containing the towel to be driven to the Home Office forensic lab at Chepstow. He’d been impressed by Pinch, but he still needed official confirmation of the findings.

As promised, Keith Halliwell had the authorised search warrant ready.

‘Inge will drive us to Dolemeads,’ Diamond said.

‘Actually, guv, I was hoping for a few words in private,’ Halliwell said.

‘No problem. You can drive me there and we’ll talk on the way. I’ll tell Inge to meet us. I want her in on this.’

In the car, it emerged that Sergeant Dawkins was the problem.

‘He’s an oddball,’ Halliwell started to say.

‘Tell me something new,’ Diamond said.

‘I can’t think how he managed to convince the ACC he was CID material. He means well – I think – but he says the strangest things. Our civilian women got the idea he was put in to spy on them. He was going on about time and motion. You remember when every business brought in time and motion experts to improve efficiency?’

This angered Diamond. ‘Bloody nerve. He’s got no right to talk to my staff like that. Time and motion. It’s old hat, anyway.’

‘I know, but it made everyone nervous. I told him to shut up about it and he didn’t seem to understand what the fuss was about.’

‘I’ll tear some strips off him. I thought leaving him in the office was the best option. Now I’m not so sure.’

‘He’s in a world of his own.’

‘It’s when his world collides with ours that things go belly up.’

They crossed the river to the cheap housing of the Dole-meads estate, on the flood plain of the Avon. Excelsior Street was one of the first to be built after the clearance of a notorious Victorian slum known locally as Mud Island, where the houses were chronically damp and regularly flooded. In the first years of the twentieth century the site was raised by as much as twelve feet and a prestigious new council estate erected, not in the local stone, but red brick.

Ingeborg was waiting outside Denise Pearsall’s narrow terraced house. She said she’d tried the doorbell and got no response. She’d spoken to the neighbours who described Denise as a very private lady. They hadn’t seen her since the weekend.

Halliwell had brought an enforcer, the miniature battering ram used to open locked doors. ‘Before we use that,’ Diamond said, ‘let’s see if there’s an easier way.’ By sliding a loyalty card between door and jamb, he freed the latch and opened up.

In the narrow hallway, the morning’s post of junk mail showed Denise had not been there for a day or two. Ingeborg was sent to search upstairs while the men inspected the living room and kitchen. The interior was clean and decorated in pastel shades of pink and blue. The only messages on the answerphone were several from the theatre asking Denise to make contact as soon as possible.

The tidiness made for an easy search. If her home was any guide, Denise was organised to the point of compulsion. Even the fridge magnets were in rows you could have checked with a ruler.

It didn’t take long to discover that her professional makeup kit wasn’t in the house. Ingeborg found some lipsticks and creams in the bedroom that were obviously for personal use and there were a few sticks of greasepaint in a drawer downstairs that they put into evidence bags.

‘She’ll have her main stuff in the car,’ Diamond said. ‘We’ve got to find that soon.’

Halliwell picked a magazine from the rack in the living room. ‘How about this, guv?’

Clarion was on the cover of a celebrity mag.

‘Good spotting, but it’s hardly incriminating. Show me a page with her picture defaced and I might get excited.’

Ingeborg came downstairs carrying a three-ring binder with photos of actors Denise had dressed, most of them autographed with gushing compliments about how wonderful she’d been. She’d listed each production she’d worked with and the leading actors. The handwriting was as neat as the house, and as uninformative.

‘We’ll take this,’ Diamond said. ‘Is there a computer up there?’

‘In the small bedroom she uses as an office,’ Inge said. ‘I checked. She seems to delete the e-mails after she’s read them and there’s very little to see. I get the impression she doesn’t use it much.’

Diamond went upstairs to see the rooms for himself. The place looked as if it awaited a house guest – and a finicky one. The bed apparently hadn’t been used overnight. Crisp, clean bed linen, surfaces free of dust, carpets hoovered, all in marked contrast to his own chaotic living arrangements.

He picked up a doll from the chintz-covered armchair in the corner. ‘A bit like Clarion, would you say?’

Ingeborg smiled. ‘I can’t see it, guv.’

‘No, and no pins sticking into it either.’ He left the room and started down the stairs. ‘Did you search the bathroom?’ he called back.

‘The shower surfaces are dry. Nothing much in there except toothpaste and showergel,’ Ingeborg said from the bedroom. ‘She makes herself up in here.’

‘The cupboards, I mean. Cleaning materials. I’m thinking of caustic soda to clear the drain in the shower.’

‘She doesn’t use it. There’s a bottle of Sink Fresh. Not the same thing at all.’

He checked the kitchen and all the cupboards downstairs, reflecting as he studied the labels that the absence of any caustic soda didn’t mean Denise was in the clear. She would have taken the stuff to the theatre.

He decided they’d seen enough and failed to turn up anything of significance. They hadn’t even come across an address book or a phone with stored numbers.

Back in Manvers Street, finding Denise and her car remained the priority even though there was little anyone in the building could do about that.

After the fruitless search in Excelsior Street, Diamond felt ready to get some frustration out of his system. He asked Fred Dawkins to step into his office. ‘What’s this I hear about you upsetting the civilian staff?’

‘With the best of intentions – ’

‘Don’t burble, man. Answer my question.’

‘I can’t,’ Dawkins said.

‘Why not?’

‘You asked me what you hear about me upsetting the civilian staff. What you hear is in your head.’

The logic was correct, but inflammatory. ‘You know bloody well what I’m talking about.’

‘That, too, is questionable.’

‘You were out of order talking about time and motion. Don’t deny it, Fred. People don’t lie about stuff like that.’

‘Time and motion?’ Dawkins scratched his head and seemed genuinely at a loss. ‘Ah, I have it. I was quoting Ford.’

‘Henry Ford?’ Diamond said, thinking of car production.

‘John.’

‘Stagecoach?’ He knew his old films and he was damn sure John Ford the director wasn’t into time and motion.

‘’Tis Pity She’s a Whore.’

‘Sergeant, there’s something you’d better get very clear. We don’t go in for personal abuse in this department.’

‘It’s Jacobean.’

‘It’s offensive.’

‘It’s the title of a play.’

‘I’m not on about plays. This is about you stirring up trouble in the department.’

‘By speaking of time and motion?’

‘You’ve got it.’

Unexpectedly, Dawkins made a fist and raised it. Briefly, Diamond thought he was about to strike him, but it was a theatrical pose and the man started speaking lines. ‘“Why, I hold fate clasped in my fist, and could command the course of time’s eternal motion, hadst thou been one thought more steady than an ebbing sea.”’

One thing, and one thing only, was clear. Manvers Street nick wasn’t ready for Jacobean drama.

‘“Time’s eternal motion,”’ Dawkins repeated.

‘Ah.’

‘I can explain.’

‘Save your breath. I’m beginning to cotton on. Do you make a habit of quoting lines from plays?’

‘I would characterise it as an occasional indulgence.’

‘Knock it off, for all our sakes. It caused confusion and near panic. The only quoting we do in CID is the official caution.’

‘I shall curb the habit,’ Dawkins said, and added with an earnest look. ‘I trust I haven’t blighted my prospects… guv.’

They were blighted the moment you stepped in here in that clown suit, Diamond thought. ‘So are you a theatre-goer?’

‘One of my indulgences,’ Dawkins said.

‘I suppose it comes with the dancing. Do you know the play Clarion was in?’

‘Know it, no. Know of it, yes. I haven’t seen it, which is a pity. I was at some disadvantage questioning Mr Shearman, the manager, but I formed the impression that he wasn’t all that familiar with the script himself.’

‘It’s the same story as Cabaret, I’m told.’

‘Then you were not told the whole truth. There’s no music in I Am a Camera, no dancing and no changes of scene. The only changes are of time and costume. Putting it on at all was a risky venture.’

‘A vehicle for Clarion Calhoun.’

‘That, I think, goes without saying.’

‘You also spoke to Denise Pearsall. What did you make of her? Was there any aggro towards Clarion?’

‘Aggravation? None that I noticed. I saw anxiety in plenty.’

‘Denise was troubled?’

‘Exceedingly.’

‘From guilt, would you say?’

‘Difficult to divine. Conscience, possibly. She appeared to accept that her make-up was the likely cause of the occurrence.’

‘Did you question her about it?’

‘Minutely. She told me she used new materials.’

Diamond’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Some new brand?’

‘She meant “new” in the sense of unopened. The brand was the same she had used before without ill effect. That was made clear.’

‘She wasn’t blaming anyone else, then?’

‘The question of blame didn’t arise. If you care to look at a transcript of the interview it is now stored in the computer, as you instructed.’

‘Good. I will.’ Somehow, Dawkins was coming out of this so-called roasting better than he came in. ‘Watch what you say in future.’ Even as he spoke the last words, Diamond knew he’d used the faulty logic the man revelled in dismantling.

But Dawkins had the sense not to comment. He nodded and left the room. If there was a faint smile lingering it may have been only in Diamond’s imagination.

The notices were in and Hedley Shearman was relieved. The critics praised Gisella Watling’s performance and didn’t make too much of Clarion’s collapse. The sensational stuff had all been covered in news stories the previous day. UNDERSTUDY’S SUCCESS IN DEMANDING ROLE, went one headline. Another: GISELLA’S STARRY NIGHT. Reviews like that would keep the show afloat until the end of the week. Nobody now expected it to transfer to London unless Clarion made a miraculous recovery.

He clipped the reviews. Anything good for morale was to be encouraged. They would be pinned on the stage doorkeeper’s noticeboard where everyone would see them as they arrived. Before that, however, he would use them to boost his chances with Gisella. He was waiting inside when she arrived for the matinee.

‘Have you seen these?’ he said. ‘They loved your performance.’

She hadn’t. She was over the moon, even if she tried to appear casual. In all the mayhem after Clarion broke down, he’d missed an opportunity to get to know this young woman who had been thrust into the limelight and performed so ably. She was taller than Clarion, with less of the showbiz glamour about her. For the play, her dark hair was styled with waves and cut short at the back, a style he could quickly get to like. She wasn’t a starry-eyed beginner. She must have been on the stage some years. The concept of ensemble casting in the modern theatre ensured that she knew the role and didn’t need to appear on stage with the book in her hands. Even so, it had taken courage to go on.

‘It’s a big step up the ladder,’ he told her with a fatherly show of encouragement that often did the trick with young actresses. ‘All sorts of people will read this, especially casting directors. You never know where it will lead. Clarion’s misfortune is your opportunity.’

‘I don’t think of it like that,’ she said in a voice that could have come from a twelve-year-old. ‘I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to get the part this way.’

‘My dear, the theatre is one long story of actors seizing the moment. Did you know Shirley MacLaine was just a dancer in the chorus of The Pajama Game and doubling as understudy when the star, Carol Haney, broke her ankle? She was thrust into the limelight, took the audience by storm and got the movie role as well, because Hal Wallis happened to be in the audience. You never know your luck.’

‘I still feel bad about Clarion.’ Her eyes confirmed it. To Shearman, she appeared utterly sincere.

‘Why should you? You’re not responsible.’ After a pause he added, ‘I hope.’ He laughed. ‘Ignore my twisted sense of humour. You could move into the number one dressing room if you wish. You’ve earned the right.’

‘I’m happy where I am, thanks.’

‘Which room is that?’

‘Number eight. The one with the gloves and handbag in a frame on the wall.’

‘They belonged to Vivien Leigh, you know. It’s endowed in her name.’ He stopped himself telling her that eight had the reputation of being haunted. Various unexplained phenomena had been reported over the years by actors who had used it. ‘If it ever feels cold in there, be sure to ask for a fan heater.’

‘Thanks, but it’s comfortable. I’d better get up there now.’

‘Do you do your own make-up?’

She nodded. ‘I’m used to it.’

‘Well done. Hope there’s a good house in this afternoon with at least one butterfly. You know about the Theatre Royal butterflies?’ He was being over-friendly now, doing his best to charm her. He’d got lucky like this a few times over the years.

‘Yes, I heard the stories.’

‘I’ll come with you and show you something. It’s on the way. It won’t hold you up.’

She had to pass the fly tower to get to her dressing room. He walked close behind her, enjoying the swing of her hips. ‘Back in the nineteen-forties, when the whole butterfly thing started,’ he said, moving closer, ‘the man who had my job was called Reg Maddox and he designed a butterfly ballet for the pantomime and because of what happened one of the big gauze butterflies made as the backdrop was kept hanging in the flies as a kind of talisman. You wouldn’t know it was there unless someone told you where to look.’

They had reached the fly floor, the area immediately behind the stage, where the peeling walls, old props, unwanted arc lamps and looped cables were in sharp contrast to the plush public areas of the theatre. Above them, the steel-framed fly tower, with its intricate single-purchase counterweight system of grids, lines and pulleys, rose eight metres clear of the rest of the building.

‘The lighting isn’t so great here, but if you look straight up, you’ll get a sight of the lucky butterfly right at the top.’ He pointed upwards with his left hand and at the same time curled his right over her shoulder. ‘Do you see it?’

Gisella tilted her head back and didn’t flinch when Shear-man touched her. She was taller than he, but he didn’t mind that. As he sometimes said when he’d got a woman into bed, the length that mattered wasn’t from head to foot. He’d moved so close that he could feel her hair against his cheek. The sensation pleased him. He wasn’t looking up at the damn butterfly. He knew where it was.

Suddenly she tensed and her whole frame shuddered.

He jerked his hand away from her shoulder. ‘It’s okay,’ he said.

‘It isn’t,’ she said in a shocked voice. ‘Can’t you see what I can? It’s anything but okay.’