Authors: Barry Maitland
“Yes, Edinburgh. They took part in the Edinburgh Festival.” She closed the clasp of the handbag on her lap with a decisive loud snap.
Kathy said nothing for a bit. She almost let it drop, but that defiant little gesture with the handbag clasp had stirred some memory of her youth, and she was damned if the old girl was going to have the last word.
“No they didn’t,” she said firmly. “It just so happens I was looking at a list of all the theatre companies who were in the Edinburgh Festival last year, and SADOS was definitely not one of them. Someone’s been pulling your leg, Mary. You shouldn’t believe everything they tell you.”
Having driven the point home, and getting no further response from her aunt, who just sat there in silence like a hunched teddy-bear in her furry hat and coat, Kathy felt a stab of guilt.
Mary said nothing for the rest of the journey, nor as they walked to the lobby of the flats, nor as they went up in the lift. Only when they were in the living-room did she speak. “I would like to make a phone call,” she announced.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Kathy said penitently.
“In private, if I may.”
“Of course. There’s a plug in the bedroom. I’ll take it through for you.”
As she retired from the room, leaving Aunt Mary sitting on the edge of the bed dialling, Kathy thought,
I’ve done it now. Hurt her pride. She’s arranging to go home.
A few minutes later the old lady opened the door again.
“Katherine,” she said stiffly, “I would like you to speak to someone, if you please.”
Apprehensively Kathy went through and picked up the phone, expecting to hear the irate voice of Uncle Tom, or the taxi company. Instead she recognized Ruth Sparkes.
“Hello, Kathy? Maryanne has given me instructions to tick you off.”
Kathy smiled. “I’m sure she has, Ruth. Go on then, do your duty.”
“She wants me to convince you that we really did go to the Edinburgh Festival last year. Well, we did, honest.”
Kathy’s smile turned to a frown. “Are you sure about that? Couldn’t it have been the year before?”
“No, definitely last year. We’ve done it a couple of times now. We take up one of our productions and put it on for the Fringe. Last year it was
Equus.
Stafford staged it for the July production down here, and he took the same cast up north with it in August. It got a very good reception. I know, because I went up with them.”
“Well . . . Looks like I got it wrong, then.”
“Yes. It sounds as if you got yourself upstaged, Kathy.”
“Totally corpsed. ’Night.”
She replaced the phone and went out to make peace with her aunt.
FIRST THING THE NEXT
morning Kathy made another call to the Edinburgh police. “It’s about that list you faxed me, of acting companies at the Festival last year. I’ve come across another group, not on your list, who say they were there.”
“Really? What sort of group?” The Scotsman at the other end sounded young, somewhat harassed.
“A group of amateurs, from South London. They say they put something on at the Fringe.”
“Oh, aye. I think the list we sent you was the official programme for the main Festival events. I don’t think it included all the participants in the Fringe.”
“Do you have details of those?”
“I’m sure I can get them.”
Kathy gave him the information. “I’m interested in the dates they were there, and if the venue was anywhere near where Kirstie McFadden was found.”
The incident centre at Orpington was almost deserted, everyone out collecting data. Kathy asked the office if Bren was expected, but no one seemed to know.
“That’s not like him, is it? Would you check on that?”
She didn’t wait for the answer, hurrying out into the bright morning sunshine.
At the library she found the assistant who had helped her the previous time. “I’ve got another request. A play called
Equus.
”
The woman nodded. “Peter Shaffer,” she said, and tapped up the call number on the computer. “Yes, it’s in. Need a hand?”
“No, that’s fine. I’ll find it.”
When she did, she sat down in a quiet corner and read. After half an hour she returned to the desk and signed another form to take out the book. Preoccupied, she turned to go, still holding the librarian’s pen in her hand. “ ’Scuse me,” the woman called after her. “My pen.”
At first Kathy didn’t know what she was talking about. “Sorry, I was miles away.”
“You all right?” The librarian peered at her. “You look a bit pale.”
Back at the office, Kathy phoned Ruth Sparkes.
“Hello, Kathy. Do you want your aunt?”
“No, it was you I wanted, Ruth. As secretary, you would have records, wouldn’t you, of the activities of your theatre group over the past few years?”
“Yes, that’s right, I keep all our records.”
“Where are they?”
“Why, here, at home. One of your people has already been through them, looking for the membership list, and notes of ticket sales.”
“Can I come over just now and have another look?”
“Of course, Kathy.”
“The first time we spoke on the phone, Ruth, I asked you if Zoë Bagnall might have visited the National Theatre before she disappeared.”
“Yes, I remember. I said not. Why? Was I wrong?”
“No. But you said that you sometimes went as a group to the National or the Old Vic.”
“Yes.”
Kathy took a deep breath. “Have you been recently?” It seemed to Kathy that her voice seemed absurdly flat and unemphatic, considering the significance of the question.
“Yes, just a couple of weeks ago, in point of fact. We went to see
Macbeth.
”
As she hurried out, Kathy stopped at the front desk. “Has anyone heard from Bren Gurney, do you know?”
No one had.
“Where the bloody hell is he? Look, I’m going to this number. Get him to ring me there will you, when he gets in touch. It’s urgent.”
RUTH SPARKES KEPT THE
records of SADOS, like her own person, in immaculate order. She lifted the glasses that hung from the cord round her neck, placed them at the precisely correct point on the bridge of her nose, and set the files out on her dining-table for Kathy.
“Productions, Social Programme, Members, Publicity, Bookings, Minutes. I don’t keep the accounts, mind,” she said. “Stafford is the treasurer, as well as the president, and claims to keep them, but . . .”—she raised her eyebrows—“I rather doubt if he does anything of the kind. What he actually does, I believe, is to spend what he wants and make up any shortfall out of his own pocket. Once a year he provides a statement for the AGM, but we hold that in the upstairs room of the Three Crowns, and by the time we get to the treasurer’s report, everyone’s slightly merry.” She laughed, then saw that Kathy’s face remained grim.
“It isn’t the money I’m interested in, Ruth,” she muttered,
turning the pages of the first file. “Just the details of productions and trips and so on. Could I have a look at these for a bit?”
“Of course. Are you looking for the productions that Zoë was involved in? I could point those out to you.”
“I’d just like to have a browse. If I get stuck, I’ll come to you.”
“Very well.” Ruth pursed her lips and removed her glasses. “Will the sound of our sewing-machine bother you?”
“No, no.” Kathy saw the frown on her face and made an effort to sound unconcerned. “Mustn’t slow down the war effort.”
“Absolutely not. Your aunt is a treasure, Kathy. We simply wouldn’t have managed without her.”
Aunt Mary didn’t raise her head from her sewing. Kathy thought she was looking extremely smug.
KATHY HAD BEEN WORKING
through the papers for half an hour when Bren Gurney rang.
“Bren? Are you back at Orpington?”
“No, Kathy. I’ve got a bit of a problem.”
There was a sound of a baby crying in the background, then a siren in the distance.
“Where are you? Can I help?”
“No, I just need a bit of time to sort it out. They told me you needed me urgent.”
“Yes. I need to talk to you about the . . .”—she hesitated, aware of the two women at the table, heads down, busy at their work, listening to every word—“. . . the case.”
“What’s happened?”
“I need to meet you, talk something over.”
“Can it wait? Can you manage without me for a bit?” He was talking rapidly, anxious to get away.
“Could I meet you, wherever you are? It’ll only take ten minutes.”
“No, Kathy. Prefer you didn’t. Look . . .” She heard the reluctance in his voice, not wanting to say more, then, “You remember I mentioned my mother-in-law the other day?”
“Yes, the one you wanted to . . .”
“Yeah,” he cut in hurriedly. “Well, she’s had an accident.”
“Oh dear. Is she bad?”
“Yeah, pretty bad. I’m at the hospital, see.”
“Right. What kind of accident?”
“Hit and run.”
“Bren!”
“Kath, I gotta go.” His voice had dropped to a rushed whisper. “Take care of things, will you?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” She rang off, stunned.
“Bad news, pet?” Mary said quietly, after a bit.
“Er . . . someone’s had an accident.”
She dialled the Queen Anne’s Gate number and was put through to Brock.
“Kathy! I’ve been wanting to catch up with you. How are things?”
“I need to see you, Brock.”
“Of course. Later on this afternoon?”
“Now?”
“Well . . . why not? Where are you?”
“Shortlands. I’ll be up in half an hour.”
When she rang off she turned to Ruth. “I’d like to take some of your files with me. I’ll keep them safe.”
“That’s all right, Kathy. Goodness, you do look serious! Is something terribly wrong? Can’t we help?”
WHEN KATHY OPENED THE
door of Brock’s office she was taken aback to see Leon Desai standing at the desk with him, examining a stack of paper. She hadn’t even heard that he was back from Edinburgh, and she felt a jab of resentment that Brock had wanted
to put her off till the afternoon, when apparently he’d been meeting with Desai. Desai’s expression didn’t help, either, a cool assessment which made her feel that she should have checked herself in the mirror before charging in.
“Kathy!” Brock looked up and beamed at her, pulling the glasses off his nose. “Leon just dropped in with the latest collations on the audiences at the three venues.” He lifted the thick sheaf of print-outs and let it drop back on the table. “Sweet F.A.”
“The parameters are too wide,” Desai explained, voice quiet. “We could go on for ever.”
Brock shook his head grimly. “We haven’t got for ever, Leon. He’s going to do it again. That’s one thing we can be sure of. Anyway”—he straightened and grinned at Kathy—“you gave me the opportunity I needed to cancel my grilling from our friends down the road this morning, Kathy. Something important’s come up, I told them. Sergeant Kolla only consults me when she’s made a big breakthrough.”
A little smile formed on Desai’s face. “I’ll get going then, Brock. I need to show these to Bren.”
“He’s tied up at present, Leon. Probably be away for the rest of the day,” Brock said. Kathy was relieved he knew.
“Oh, right. I’ll get back to Lambeth then.”
“Why don’t you stay?” Kathy said, somewhat to her own surprise.
Desai looked surprised too, Brock amused.
“You might be interested in this,” she added.
“Yes, why not, Leon?” Brock said. “Have some coffee. You look as if you could do with it, Kathy.”
Brock sauntered over to the percolator he kept continuously going by the window, leaving Kathy and Desai to seat themselves, scrupulously avoiding eye contact.
“Well, now,” he said once they were provided for, “what do you have for us, Kathy?”
“I can narrow your parameters,” she said.
“Can you indeed? Well, that would be very useful. How do you manage that?”
Kathy had rehearsed the story on the way up from Shortlands, but it seemed so obvious now that it told itself.
“I was struck—we all were—by the title of that play that Zoë had been in,
The Lady Vanishes.
It was such a beautiful and terrible coincidence, like a prophecy. But then I looked at
Macbeth
again, the play Angela Hannaford had been to see that night, and I realized that it too could be taken as a prophecy, of her death by stabbing, with a dagger.”
Brock frowned and clawed at his beard thoughtfully. “Yes, that hadn’t occurred to me, Kathy. It’s certainly a thought.”
“So then I wondered about the third murder that we knew was connected, in Edinburgh. I wondered what play could have suggested an attack on the eyes of the victim, stabbing them out.”
“Mmm!” Brock’s face had lit up with interest; Desai was still sceptical. “
Oedipus
?”
“Or
King Lear.
But I checked, and neither had been performed at the Festival.”
“Oh.” Brock sounded disappointed. “Pity.”
“Only the list we’d got from Edinburgh was incomplete.” Now Desai looked up sharply. “They hadn’t included all the companies who took part in the Fringe festival. Among them was a group who did
Equus
.”
“Oh my God.” Brock stared at her. Desai didn’t seem to follow.
Kathy turned to him. “
Equus
tells the story of a highly disturbed boy who loves horses, and who, after failing to achieve sex with his girlfriend, stabs out the eyes of his horses with a hoof pick. Apparently the author, Peter Shaffer, based it on a real case.”
Kathy pulled the book out of her bag. “Look at the final speech
of the play. The character describes how he stands in the dark with a pick in his hand, striking at heads. That’s what Kirstie’s killer did, isn’t it?” she said softly. “He stood in the dark, striking at heads.”
Desai nodded. “Yes.”
“Well,” Brock said slowly, “that does sound promising. If it really was more than coincidence, we could concentrate on the audience of just one out of the dozens of performances in Edinburgh that night, which would be a big help, wouldn’t it, Leon?”
Desai nodded grimly. “It certainly would.”
“There’s more to it,” Kathy said. “The group that performed
Equus
that night in Edinburgh was the same group that did
The Lady Vanishes
—SADOS, from Shortlands.”