Authors: Barry Maitland
“What!” Brock jerked forward in his chair.
“It turns out they also had an outing to
Macbeth
at the National Theatre on the same Saturday night that Angela went.”
For a moment Brock was speechless. Then he exploded, “How the bloody hell could we not have known that, for God’s sake! We’ve been interviewing them for the best part of a week. None of them mentioned Edinburgh or the National Theatre, did they?”
“We didn’t ask them. We decided not to raise the other cases with them—there’s been no public announcement that they may be connected, or that we may be dealing with a serial killer.”
Brock was out of his chair now, roaming round the room, his big feet narrowly avoiding sending flying the piles of documents dotted about the floor.
“Something else,” Kathy said, and he stopped dead and turned to face her.
“During the week ending Saturday the ninth of June this year, SADOS put on a play at the Shortland Repertory Theatre. It was a comedy, by Neil Simon. It was called
Barefoot in the Park.
That
Saturday was the night that Carole Weeks was murdered in Spring Park. Her shoes were never found.”
BROCK HAD STOPPED HIS
roaming, and they sat around the low coffee-table on which the secretary, Dot, had put a plate of sandwiches. It was early for lunch, but Kathy’s revelations had made Brock hungry.
“All right,” he said, nodding his head, swallowing. “All right. Now what about that other murder we looked at? The woman in Blackheath. Any possible connection there?”
“Janice Pearce,” Kathy replied. “That happened a couple of months before the Edinburgh murder, and it doesn’t seem to correspond to anything in the SADOS calendar. Besides, the reason we identified that one was that it was the only unsolved murder of a woman commuter on the same rail line that Gentle uses. If Gentle is now irrelevant, there’s no particular reason to include it in the series.”
Brock nodded. “So, the proposition is what? That SADOS have a crazed fan who shadows them around the country, turning their make-believe into horrible reality. Is that it?”
“That would be one possibility.”
Brock shook his head. “A sort of cultural Billy Spratt.”
“Who?”
“Billy Spratt was a Chelsea fan. He used to follow the team faithfully to all their away matches, and whenever they lost the game he’d hang around the town in question afterwards, and kill somebody before he went home. Revenge. It was some time before anybody noticed the connection between the murders and Chelsea losing their away matches. But you wouldn’t think of theatre people doing that sort of thing, would you? Or is that just me thinking in stereotypes? What would provoke it? A bad review in the paper?” He snorted dubiously.
“Another possibility,” Kathy said, “is that one of the SADOS people themselves finishes off each stage run with a little private play of his own.”
“That’s even more bizarre. But it should be easy to check. The problem is that, even when we’ve narrowed the field of suspects down to people connected with this particular theatre group, we’re still dealing with someone who takes a lot of care to cover his tracks. If he’s as careful buying his tickets and keeping in the background as he is in cleaning up his traces at the murder scene, we may still miss him.”
“The
Macbeth
murder shows that he’s closer to them than just looking out for their play announcements in the local paper,” Kathy said. “He must have seen their newsletter, or known someone who’s a member, to know that they would be going to the National that night.”
“True. Still, I think we need some help to get a clearer idea of what we’re after here.” Brock looked at Desai. “Dr. Nicholson again, I think.”
Desai nodded.
“Is that the profiler?” Kathy asked. “The one who knocked my Gentle theory on the head?” Kathy had already formed a mental picture of a cranky old pedant.
Brock nodded. “Psychologist from the University of Surrey. I’ve worked with Alex a few times now. Very good.”
“An academic,” Kathy said doubtfully, her image confirmed. “Are you sure he’s what we need, Brock? I mean, some old professor may be strong on theory, but . . . I don’t know.”
Desai smiled. “Alex Nicholson’s a she. Our age. You’ll like her.” He nodded. “She’s very good.”
“Oh.” Kathy coloured.
“Shall I get on to her?” Desai asked.
“Yes, please, Leon. See if she can spare us her weekend. OK with you, Kathy?”
“Yes, of course.” Kathy nodded, chastened. “That’s fine.”
“Why don’t you get that fixed up straight away, Leon?” Brock said. “There’s one or two other things I want to go over with Kathy.”
Desai nodded and got to his feet. Before he moved off he turned to her and said, “That was quite brilliant, Kathy.”
“What?” she said dumbly, still thinking about her reaction to the psychologist.
“Your ‘big breakthrough.’ I’m very impressed.”
Brock beamed at him. “Thought I was joking, didn’t you, Leon? I knew she must have come up with something. I could tell. She reminds me of me, thirty years ago.”
Desai grinned a broad grin, lots of perfect white teeth, the first time Kathy had ever seen them.
When he had gone, Brock said, “Don’t let it go to your head, Kathy. What’s all this about Bren?”
Kathy looked at him in surprise. “He’s spoken to you from the hospital, has he?”
“Yes. What’s going on?”
“Well, it seems his mother-in-law has had an accident.”
“Yes, I know about that. She stepped out into the street without looking. They phoned Bren at work first thing this morning . . .”
“He was at work when it happened?” she interrupted, and felt a surge of relief when he nodded.
“Yes. Did you think he did it?”
“No! No, of course not.”
“Shouldn’t say it, but having met the lady once myself . . .” Brock stopped himself and grunted, looking uncomfortable. “My question was directed at you and Bren, Kathy. Are you two getting along all right?”
Kathy was puzzled. “Yes, I think so. How do you mean?”
“You’re working well together? Teamwork is very . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“Important, yes, I know.”
“Tricky, I was going to say. No personal difficulties?”
“Personal? Brock, I don’t follow.”
“No, no. I didn’t think so.” He sighed and spread his hands out on the table in front of him. “I should probably tell you that Bren’s wife, Deanne, rang me not long ago. She was in quite an emotional state. I think I did mention, didn’t I, that she lost her father recently, after a long illness?”
“Yes, you told me.”
“He died, apparently, on that Monday evening, the day after we started the Angela Hannaford investigation. It was expected, by that stage, and Bren had promised to be home early. Only he got caught up in things at Orpington, with the result that Deanne was delayed getting to the hospital, and consequently she wasn’t with her father when he passed away.”
“Oh.”
“In point of fact, at the moment Deanne’s father passed away, Bren was with you, munching a hamburger in his car on the road back up to town, a fact which Deanne subsequently ascertained after prolonged interrogation of her husband.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, Bren had earlier spoken about you to his wife, in glowing terms, she said, about how much he was looking forward to working with you again. His enthusiasm was quite childish, she said, an enthusiasm which clearly DS Kolla has manipulated for her own purposes.”
Kathy winced. “I’m not her favourite person, then.”
“I did my best, Kathy, but I think you can take it that you are one of the many dark clouds in Deanne Gurney’s world at present.”
“Should I go and talk to her, do you think?”
“I wondered about that. But when Bren phoned and told me about the latest blow this morning, I thought that would be the last thing the poor woman needs.”
Bren was telling me the same thing
, Kathy thought, recalling her offer to meet him at the hospital.
“I just thought I should warn you, Kathy. Go carefully, eh? Now.” He sat up and rubbed his hands briskly. “Since you are effectively in charge of this investigation, where do we go next?”
“We’ll have to interview the SADOS people again, try to compile audience lists for
Barefoot in the Park
and
Equus
, find out who went on the
Macbeth
trip. I thought I’d take a team down and catch them when they’re all together at their rehearsal in the Three Crowns this evening.”
“Good. I’ll come with you if I may. I’d like to see what they’re like, this crowd. Fancied myself as a bit of an actor once, as a matter of fact, long time ago.”
BROCK BROUGHT THEIR REHEARSAL
to an abrupt halt as soon as he came through the door of the upstairs room. He didn’t need to say anything. There had been a light shower of rain, the evening was cool, and he had a black raincoat over his big frame. He stood, feet apart, hands deep in the coat pockets, considering them, and they knew that this was trouble even before he opened his mouth to introduce himself.
Stage presence
, Kathy thought.
He apologized for interrupting them, but there had been a serious development. The police had been investigating a series of attacks on women in the south-east London area, and it was possible that they were related to the disappearance of Zoë Bagnall. It was possible that audiences at some SADOS productions might be able to provide useful information, and the police were therefore seeking the co-operation of the company to trace as many audience members as possible on the dates in question.
The message wasn’t particularly threatening, but Brock’s tone was ominous, and their faces showed that they were unsettled by him. The outside world was breaking in again, uninvited, to the Captain’s half-realized living-room, demolishing its illusion in a few quiet words from the big policeman. Standing with another
officer, a couple of paces behind him, Kathy felt Stafford Nesbit’s eyes on her throughout Brock’s little speech.
They moved to the room across the landing and began interviewing people in turn, while another two officers collected the information on ticket purchasers. Kathy and Brock began with Ruth, who was fascinated by these developments.
“Are you suggesting that someone in our audience at each of these performances is the person you are looking for, Chief Inspector?” she asked.
“Well, not necessarily, Mrs. Sparkes. But that is possible. Do you have someone in mind?”
“Oh no. I find it hard to imagine that anyone in our audiences would be capable of violence, really. Half of them are friends, work-mates and relatives of the company, loyally turning out to support their loved-ones’ mania. The rest are people who for some reason decide to leave the box and come out for an evening of cheap live theatre. We have a core of regulars on our mailing list. Many are pensioners, who like the social occasion and have made a habit of it. There’s a strong contingent who live on the Green Line bus route, but the only trouble with them is that they have to catch the last bus home, which stops outside the theatre at 10:27. So it is very important that we finish our performances by 10:25, or they all get up and leave. Edward tells a wonderful story about his grandmother, who was one of the Green Line pensioners. He was in something where he died on stage near the end of the play. Unfortunately they were running over time, and in the closing minutes he became aware of his grandmother in the front row getting to her feet. She came forward to the edge of the stage where he was lying, dead, and . . .”
She stopped suddenly. “Oh dear. I’m rambling on, aren’t I? I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, where were we?”
“That’s all right, Mrs. Sparkes. What did Edward’s grandmother say?”
“Well, she said, in a loud whisper that the whole theatre could pick up, ‘Good night then, dear. You were very good. Don’t forget you’re taking me to the shops tomorrow.’ ”
They smiled.
“It’s all so innocent, you see. I can’t imagine a
murderer
being interested in our shows.”
“Among your regulars . . .” Brock pondered. “Suppose I paint a picture, see if it reminds you of anyone. A young or middle-aged man, rather quiet, solitary. Probably comes alone, maybe doesn’t get into conversation with other people during the intervals. He seems to have an obsessive interest in the plays, perhaps comes to the same production several times. Hmm . . . anything else, Kathy?”
“Clean-shaven. Knows about theatrical make-up—Leichner spirit gum, for example. Probably a smoker. One possibility might be that he’s obsessive about a member of the cast, one of the women.”
“Nobody springs immediately to mind,” Ruth said slowly. “Of course, we do get lonely, single people coming along to productions for the sake of some human contact, I suppose. The suburbs can be a very lonely place. But I’ve never really noticed anyone special—never been looking, I suppose. The really obsessive ones tend to end up as members of the company. They become addicted to the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd, as someone once put it.
“The idea of an insane admirer of one of the women in the cast is an especially terrifying one, isn’t it?” Ruth’s eyes widened with fascination at the possibility. “Like those mad fans who stalk Hollywood film stars, except that here he is attacking other women in her place. Is that what you mean? Of course, one would expect the woman he admires to have been a member of the cast on each occasion, wouldn’t one?”
She jotted down some names. “There were several women in
both
The Lady
and
Barefoot
. . . Vicky is one of Stafford’s favourites, and she played the lead, Corrie Bratter, in
Barefoot
, and a smaller role in
The Lady.
She was also in
Equus.
There were probably others too. I think you might have to eliminate me from that list, Chief Inspector,” she smiled ruefully, “although the idea of one of the Green Line pensioners forming a murderous passion for me does have its appeal.”
“What about the women in the present production—were they in those earlier ones?” Kathy said. “Vicky was. What about Bettina?”