A Decent Interval (20 page)

The eyelids flickered twice behind the rimless glasses. By Tony Copeland's standards, that was a big reaction. ‘Do you know that the two incidents are connected?' he asked.

‘It would be strange if they weren't.'

‘What do you mean? Do you know something?' Clearly, these questions mattered more than anything else Tony Copeland had asked that evening.

‘Well, look at the similarities. Both of the victims were inexperienced actors who'd come into this production by winning television talent shows. Both have been replaced by better actors.'

‘You think Milly Henryson is better than Katrina Selsey?' asked the producer sharply.

‘She's certainly more experienced. She has a more natural way of dealing with Shakespeare's language.'

Tony nodded, then looked a little wistful. ‘I thought Katrina was a genuine talent. Yes, inexperienced – and she had a lot to learn about backstage manners – but I think she could have gone a long way.' He stopped for a moment as a new thought came to him. ‘Charles when you say the accidents are connected … and you've just accused me of deliberately sabotaging Jared Root … are you putting me in the frame for the accident to Katrina Selsey as well?'

Time to brazen it out, thought Charles as he said, ‘Yes.'

‘Oh,' said the producer with the hint of a smile. ‘Nice to know what my employees think of me.'

‘The two must be connected. There are too many coincidences for them not to be.'

‘I can see the way your mind's working, Charles, but you're completely wrong.' Tony Copeland tapped his chin hard as he pieced his thoughts together. ‘Jared Root was a problem. As rehearsals went on it was clear he was never going to reach the standard required … so either I would have had to pull the plug on the show … or something had to be done there.'

He spoke pragmatically, virtually admitting the crime, but with no anxiety. He knew Charles had no power to get him convicted.

‘And I saw ways that I could use Jared's accident to my advantage from the publicity point of view. Tweeting bulletins about his injuries and his recovery, I could keep the interest running for a long time.'

‘So it was you who sent out all the tweets on Jared's behalf?'

‘Of course,' said Tony Copeland without emotion. ‘But Katrina,' he went on, ‘I had no motive to want her out of the show. Indeed, with Jared out, she was the only contact I had with the young demographic who'd followed her through
StarHunt
. With her in place and by building a bit of
A Star Is Born
-type publicity around Sam, I reckoned I could make the production profitable. So no, her death was a total body-blow to me. Last thing I wanted.' He looked straight at Charles. ‘You really can remove my name from your list of suspects there.'

The actor grinned wryly. ‘Of course, that's what you'd say if you had murdered her, isn't it?'

Another double eyelash-flicker registered the shock. ‘Murder? Are people backstage talking about murder?' He sounded as if this genuinely was the first time he'd considered the possibility.

‘You know what actors are like,' said Charles.

‘Don't I just? And so who is being cast by the backstage community in the role of murderer? Is it me – or are you the only person who sees me in that light?'

‘There are a lot of theories about.'

‘I'm sure there are.' There was a silence. Then Tony Copeland asked, ‘Do you remember a television director called Rick Landor?'

The name was foggily familiar. Oh yes, it came back to him. ‘He directed some episodes of a creaky whodunnit series I was in.
Stanislas Braid
, that's right. Starring that pompous oaf Russell Bentley in the title role. I was, as I recall, a baffled village bobby, though I can't remember what I was called. Anyway, why do you ask about him?'

‘He was Executive Producer on a show I was involved in some time back and I remember him talking about some unexplained deaths during the filming of that
Stanislas Braid
series.'

‘Yes, there were a few.'

‘And he mentioned you, Charles. Said you were particularly keen to find out what had been going on.'

‘Well …'

‘Rick even described you as a bit of an amateur sleuth.'

‘Hardly.'

‘You can't deny it, Charles. Seems to me you're showing more than a casual interest in Katrina Selsey's death.'

‘Maybe I just—'

‘I am as desperate as you are to find out exactly how that poor girl lost her life.' For the first time ever Charles heard something approaching genuine emotion in the producer's voice. ‘Do let me know anything you find out.'

It was after one when he left the hotel. Tony Copeland had insisted he took the remains of the whisky bottle, which made him feel rather patronized, as if he was being given a tip.

But it had been a strange encounter, in the course of which Tony had not only virtually admitted to arranging Jared Root's exit from the production of
Hamlet
, but also appointed Charles Paris as his personal investigator into Katrina Selsey's death.

I
t had been a late night and Charles slept late the following morning. He would have slept even later, had he not been woken by his mobile ringing.

‘Hello?' he said a little blearily.

‘Charles?'

‘Yes.'

He just had time to register the foreign accent before the caller identified himself. ‘It's Tibor Pincus.'

‘Good to hear you. Gosh, is this more work? Do you want me to do a single-handed re-enactment of the Battle of the Somme, playing the part of all the casualties?'

‘No, I'm sorry, Charles, it's not work. It might be fun, though.'

‘Oh?'

‘Listen, you remember when we did the Battle of Naseby?'

‘Etched on my memory. How could I ever forget?'

‘And that day we were talking about Portie …?'

‘“Portie”?'

‘Yes, you remember. The actor, Portie.'

It came back. ‘The one who went to the States. Made a packet over there.'

‘I'm not sure how big the packet he made was. But, anyway, he's over in London at the moment and he gave me a call.'

‘Right.'

‘Basically, I'm meeting him for lunch at Joe Allen tomorrow and he asked if I could get “any of the old drinking crowd out” to join us … and I immediately thought of you, Charles.'

‘Sounds like my reputation goes before me.'

‘It certainly does. Well, could you make it? No doubt you're just lounging round London, resting as usual.'

‘I'll have you know,' said Charles with mock-
hauteur
, ‘I am currently in gainful employment.'

‘Really? What's gone wrong?'

‘Ha bloody ha. Nothing's gone wrong. I am currently giving my Ghost of Hamlet's Father and First Gravedigger in a Tony Copeland production of
Hamlet
at the Grand Theatre, Marlborough.'

‘Oh, Lord. Is that the one where that poor kid died?'

‘The very same.'

‘Ah. Well, if you're down in Marlborough I suppose lunch tomorrow at Joe Allen would be out of the question.'

Charles thought about it. A boozy lunch with a couple of friends in the business was not without its appeal. And he remembered Portie as being something of a larger-than-life character. Other company members who'd made the trip up to London said it didn't take long. Cab to Swindon and the train from there to Paddington, whole journey only round an hour and a half. Quite possible to do there and back inside the day and still be in Marlborough to do an evening performance in
Hamlet
.

‘By no means out of the question,' said Charles Paris.

His conversation with Tony Copeland the previous night had strengthened Charles's interest in finding out the truth about Katrina Selsey's death. He felt as if he had been given a mission by the producer to investigate on his behalf. And he trusted what Tony had said about calling off his Rottweiler Doug Haye. Nor did he anticipate any trouble from Bazza the stagehand.

So after a modest lunch (steak and ale pie, two glasses of Merlot and
The Times
crossword) at the pub he'd been to with Geraldine Romelle, it seemed natural to Charles that his steps should take him back to the Grand Theatre. The scene of the crime. He might find some clue there that had hitherto been missed, or some company member who would vouchsafe him a precious piece of information.

The Stage Doorkeeper wasn't in his cubbyhole and Charles didn't see anyone around, though distant clunking noises suggested that someone was in the stage area doing something technical – possibly brain surgery on the cranium set. So he decided to go up and have another look at the star dressing room.

He fully expected it still to be locked and sealed, as it had been since Katrina's death. But there was no sign of crime scene tape. The police must have been in that morning to open it up again, because the door gave to his hand. Which suggested that whatever investigations they had been doing were now complete. The police had reached a conclusion about how Katrina had died. Charles found it very frustrating how little likelihood there was of their ever sharing their findings with him. Maybe he'd read something about the case in a newspaper at some later date, maybe never hear any more about it.

He wondered what would happen with the star dressing room now. Surely Sam Newton-Reid would reclaim it as his rightful place? But actors are a superstitious lot. Entirely possible that the young man might feel spooked using a space that had been the scene of such a tragedy.

It was now far too tidy to be a dressing room. Everything had been scrubbed so clean that it looked as if no one had ever spread their costumes and make-up and bottles and good luck cards over its walls and tables and mirrors. Charles's optimism about finding some undiscovered clue there quickly melted away.

But actually being in the place focused his mind on his last visit. He tried to reconstruct the scene he'd encountered in the interval of
Hamlet
's First Night. The upturned chair. Katrina Selsey lying on the stone floor, the blood pooling under her blonde hair.

And her red eye. The eye that looked as if she'd rubbed at it hard. Charles remembered Peri Maitland's words: ‘It was like the mascara stung her eye.' Though he'd never used the stuff himself he'd been around enough women to know how mascara worked. There was a thin brush and a thin tube of sticky black stuff. You put the brush in the tube, then brought it out and applied it to your lashes.

But if something caustic had been introduced into the tube … Acid …? Some kind of household cleaner …? Bleach might do the trick. If that got on to the eyeball … Well, there probably wouldn't be enough of it to cause any permanent damage. But it would certainly hurt. Certainly give the receiver a nasty shock. Quite enough to make them jump backwards, fall over a chair and …

There were two chairs in the room. Their wooden parts were gilded and the upholstery was crimson velveteen. Function chairs, the kind that are always stacked up in hotel basements to be brought out for dinners and weddings.

Was it possible they were the same ones that had been in the dressing room when Katrina died? Charles inspected them. On the fabric of one was a tiny pale mark. Not something stuck on, not something that had made a hole. It looked as if a drop of fluid had landed on the chair seat and leached away the colour from that tiny circle of cloth.

Charles Paris was now convinced that household bleach had been poured into the mascara tube.

Entering the Green Room to do the last few clues of
The Times
crossword – he felt confident he'd finish it today – he found Geraldine Romelle stretched out on a sofa reading her Montaigne. She was wearing those trousers midway between leggings and jeans which most women seemed to be wearing that year and they perfectly outlined her legs and thighs. The tightness of the trousers did so much of the work for him that Charles couldn't help imagining what she'd look like completely naked. Nor could he help remembering many happy afternoons he'd spent enjoying female company while on tour. And, not for the first time, by ‘female company' he meant ‘sex'.

They exchanged ‘Hi's and he told her he'd just been upstairs. ‘All the police tape's been removed from the star dressing room. It's open again.'

‘Yes, I saw that.'

It struck Charles that, in his new role as Tony Copeland's investigator, he should miss no opportunity to pick company members' brains about Katrina Selsey's death, so he subtly moved the conversation in that direction. ‘I had a look inside. It's like Katrina never existed.'

Geraldine shrugged, as if to say that the loss had not been a great one. ‘Well,' she said, ‘her absence has made for a more relaxed company.'

‘And a better show.'

‘Indeed. And while obviously feeling sympathy for her friends and family, I can't pretend to be sorry that she's no longer playing Ophelia.'

‘Oh?' said Charles, hoping she would be encouraged to expand on this.

She was. ‘I mean, I don't think I'm particularly full of myself, I haven't got that many airs and graces, but the way Katrina behaved really got up my nose.'

Another prompting, ‘Oh?'

‘Look, we actors are generally speaking fairly relaxed, laid-back creatures who don't stand on ceremony. But I do think youngsters starting out in the business should show a bit of respect for the greater experience of older members of the company.'

There was a slightly chippy quality in Geraldine Romelle's voice which Charles hadn't heard before. And he saw how she, playing Gertrude, and being a senior member of the company, might resent Katrina Selsey's lack of interest in her achievements in the theatre. Also, though she still looked pretty good, Geraldine was at the age when she might be worrying about her looks going. So the introduction of a disrespectful but undeniably pretty teenager into the
Hamlet
company could have antagonized her quite a bit. It might be worth investigating further what Geraldine Romelle really thought of her younger rival.