A Decent Interval (13 page)

‘Did you like her?' This question came from the Detective Constable, and Charles caught something different in her tone from that of her male colleague. It was very definitely suspicion, and Charles remembered the old rule of crime fiction – and quite possibly crime fact: ‘The first suspect is always the person who discovers the body.'

He tried not to change his tone of voice as he replied, ‘I neither liked her nor disliked her. She was from a different generation, just someone I was working with. And not working with very closely. We weren't in any scenes together.'

‘Did you spend any time with her socially?' Again it was the woman asking the question.

‘I may have ended up in the same pub with her at the end of a day's rehearsal on a few occasions. But never just her and me on our own. Always with a lot of other people.'

‘So if you didn't know her that well …' The Detective Inspector started the sentence, then smiled grimly and seemed to pass the conversational baton to his junior.

She instantly picked it up. ‘… why did you go to her dressing room during the interval of the play this evening?' Maybe this was some kind of Good Cop/Bad Cop routine that the two of them had rehearsed together many times before.

‘I didn't know it was her dressing room.'

‘Really?' There was a note of surprise, bordering on scepticism, in the Detective Constable's voice. ‘But her belongings were all over it.'

‘I only saw that when I went inside.'

‘So whose dressing room did you think it was?'

‘Sam Newton-Reid's.'

Detective Inspector Shelley consulted some handwritten notes. ‘The actor who's playing Hamlet.'

‘Yes.'

‘And why did you want to see him?'

‘He'd been stunningly good in the first half. I wanted to congratulate him.'

‘Oh yes, of course. I dare say a lot of that kind of thing goes on in your profession.'

Charles bridled. He could sense the Inspector was within an inch of saying the word ‘luvvie'.

‘So why,' asked the Detective Constable, her voice again hardening, ‘did you go to the wrong dressing room?'

‘I didn't know it was the wrong dressing room. It's what's called the star dressing room.' Charles knew he was sounding flustered and as guilty as hell. ‘So I assumed, since Hamlet is the ultimate star part, the actor playing Hamlet would be in the star dressing room. It was the dressing room that Jared Root had been in.'

‘Ah yes, Jared Root,' Detective Inspector Shelley repeated thoughtfully and again looked at his notes. ‘And it was the accident to him that led to Sam Newton-Reid being drafted into the cast?'

‘Precisely, yes.'

‘How did you get on with Jared Root, Mr Paris?' asked the Detective Constable, elaborately casual.

‘Much as I did with Katrina Selsey. He was someone I was working with. Working more closely perhaps than I was with her.'

‘Oh?' She picked this up as if it was some great revelation.

‘Because,' Charles explained patiently, ‘I was actually acting in scenes with him. The Ghost of Hamlet's Father, one of the parts I'm playing, appears to Hamlet on the battlements of Elsinore Castle. And the First Gravedigger, my other part, also has a scene with him. So I spent more time with Jared at rehearsal than I did with Katrina. But I didn't spend time with him socially,' he hastened to add before the question was asked.

‘And what were your views, Mr Paris,' asked Detective Inspector Shelley, ‘of Jared Root's abilities as an actor?'

‘I don't see why that's relevant.'

‘Oh, come on, you must have had views. Your opinion of Sam Newton-Reid's acting was so high that you wanted to congratulate him halfway through the performance. Did you think as highly of Jared Root's abilities?'

‘No,' Charles admitted.

There was a satisfied silence between the two police officers, as though they had in some way scored a point. Detective Inspector Shelley again consulted his notes before saying, ‘Did you believe that Jared Root's involvement in this production threatened its chances of success?'

‘I don't see that that's relevant either to what we're talking about.'

‘Ah, but what are we talking about, Mr Paris?' the Detective Inspector responded gnomically. ‘We've only just met. We don't know each other. You might be talking about one thing, the Constable and I might be talking about something else entirely.'

There were a lot of sharp ripostes Charles Paris could have made to that, but sensibly he didn't voice any of them, just waited to see in which direction the next question would lead.

‘What the Inspector was asking, Mr Paris,' said the Detective Constable, ‘was whether you thought Jared Root's performance as Hamlet might jeopardize the chances of this play opening in the West End as planned?'

‘It wouldn't matter what my view was about that. Such decisions are taken by the production company who're putting on the play.'

‘But you must have had an opinion on the matter.'

‘All right, I did … though my opinion would not have carried any weight in discussions about the subject. As someone who's been in this profession for a very long time, no, I didn't think that Jared Root had much talent when it came to acting. On the other hand, as a singer he apparently has a very big following among the younger generation. Tony Copeland, the producer of this show, is far from being a fool, and he believed Jared Root's appeal was strong enough to compensate for any shortcomings he might have had as an actor. So I have no reason to disbelieve him. And take my word for it, I've seen many actors with considerably less talent than Jared Root go on to have extremely successful careers in the theatre.'

‘And is that something you feel bitter about?' asked the Detective Constable pointedly.

Charles Paris let out a weary sigh. ‘No. I've been in this business far too long to bother getting bitter about things like that.'

There was another silence. Detective Inspector Shelley straightened up his sheets of notes and said, ‘That will be all for now, Mr Paris. Thank you for your cooperation. We may need to speak to you again, but we have your mobile number and I assume we can contact you through the theatre.'

‘Don't worry, I'm not about to leave the country.' The look on both of the police officers' faces made Charles regret his attempt at levity.

‘And is there anything you'd like to ask us before you go?' asked the Inspector stonily.

‘There are one or two questions, but I'm not sure that they're ones to which you're likely to give me answers.'

‘Well, you can only find that out by asking them, can't you, Mr Paris?'

‘All right.' Charles looked Detective Inspector Shelley straight in the eye. ‘Can you tell me what actually killed Katrina Selsey?'

The reply was as formal as he would have anticipated. ‘Until a variety of examinations and tests have been conducted by the appropriate police departments, it is impossible to answer that.' Shelley returned his stare. ‘Anything else?'

‘Just one thing …' No harm in asking. ‘Do you think there is a connection between what happened to Jared Root and Katrina Selsey's death?'

‘Why?' demanded the Detective Constable. ‘Do you, Mr Paris?'

The press interest in Jared Root's accident had been as nothing compared to the feeding frenzy over Katrina Selsey's demise. Injury is never going to be as sexy as death. And the girl's comparatively recent arrival in the public consciousness meant that whatever she did was hot news. Also, she had been pretty, and there's nothing the press likes better than a pretty victim of an unexplained death. (None of the papers was yet using the word ‘murder', but without actually saying it they left the obvious implication to be picked even by the least astute of their readers.)

‘Mystery death' was the expression favoured by the tabloid editors to accompany their front-page pictures of Katrina Selsey. This was a clever choice, because the word ‘mystery' could never fail to bring up a subliminal association with the word ‘murder'. At amazing speed, photographs were found of her grieving parents, her grieving parents' house, the first primary school Katrina had been to and her favourite Jack Russell terrier, Justin. Tributes appeared from Tony Copeland, Ned English and everyone else connected with the
StarHunt
series. Senior figures from the world of show business who felt they had been out of the spotlight too long gushed about Katrina Selsey's exceptional talent and the tragedy of ‘a great career snuffed out so young'.

And, Charles was told by younger members of the cast, her death was ‘trending like mad on Twitter'. On hearing this, he had done another of his sage, ignorance-hiding nods. Apparently, they said, what had happened to Katrina totally eclipsed interest in Jared Root's accident. Which would have cheered her enormously, had she been around to be cheered.

Sadly, no one in the
Hamlet
company seemed any better informed about how the unfortunate young woman had died than Charles Paris was. With the distinction of being the one who found the body, he was much questioned by his fellow actors about the exact circumstances of his discovery. And he was distressed to find how little he remembered.

As someone who had sometimes dabbled in a little light sleuthing, he chastised himself for not having shown more acuity at the crime scene. He should have lingered, assessed the situation, searched cold-bloodedly for clues. That's what any self-respecting amateur detective would have done. Whereas Charles Paris had been so shocked by what he saw that he'd immediately rushed out of the dressing room to find the stage management and get them to call for an ambulance.

During the next couple of days he frequently, when being questioned by other actors or just on his own, tried to focus, to bring back what he had actually seen. The blood pooled around Katrina Selsey's blonde head suggested she had received a blow from behind, but Charles hadn't had the temerity to move her to check out the wound. He knew how touchy the police could be about adulteration of crime scenes. Nor – as any Holmes or Poirot worth his salt would have done – had he examined the area for a bloodstained blunt instrument. Or recognized the distinctive aroma of a men's cologne only available from a little parfumerie on Andrássy Avenue in Budapest. Not for the first time, as a sleuth Charles Paris had been total rubbish.

The one detail that did stick with him from his sight of Katrina Selsey's corpse was that there had been something wrong with her right eye. A redness around the pupil and the mascara all smudged. It was a discordant image on a face whose make-up had always been so punctiliously perfect. As though she had rubbed fiercely at her eye shortly before she died. But for what reason she might have done that, Charles could only conjecture.

After the curtailed First Night, Tony Copeland's decision was texted to the cast the following morning. Because of all the confusion, not to mention out of respect for Katrina Selsey's memory, that night's performance would be cancelled. There would be rehearsals during the day to integrate Milly Henryson, Katrina's understudy, into the production, and the next performance of
Hamlet
for Marlborough's paying public would be the Saturday matinee.

As a result of this diktat, there was quite a lot of hanging around for the Grand Theatre company. Tony Copeland, afraid of indiscreet leaks to the press, had forbidden the cast from leaving the building until the end of the Friday's rehearsals.

And it was while he was idling in the Green Room, trying to bring his mind to bear on
The Times
crossword, that Charles Paris found the solution to one small mystery. Dennis Demetriades came in. That day the young man had no moustache but a centimetre-wide strip of beard outlining the lower contour of his jaw, a minimal Abraham Lincoln effect. Within minutes he and Charles were talking – inevitably – about Katrina Selsey.

‘She was very determined,' said Dennis. ‘When she wanted something, she just worried away until she got it.'

Charles agreed. ‘Though I'm not sure she wanted what happened to her yesterday.'

‘No. You haven't heard any more about what actually killed her …?'

Charles shook his head.

Dennis went on, ‘If it turns out she was murdered … well, there'd be quite a few candidates to have done the job, wouldn't there?'

‘You can say that again. Was there anyone in the company whose back she didn't manage to put up?'

Thoughtfully, Dennis Demetriades tapped his dark beard-fringed chin. ‘Can't think of any offhand. I mean, it's the kind of behaviour you might expect from an established star …'

‘Though I still think it's unforgivable, whoever's doing it.'

‘Maybe, Charles.' Dennis didn't sound convinced. He was still new enough in the profession to be impressed by stories of stars' tantrums and impossible demands. ‘But it certainly wasn't justified in Katrina's case. I mean, the rest of us … you know, the younger members of the cast … who've been through drama school and learnt a bit about discipline in the theatre … we were all appalled by the way she went on. The trouble is, kids from her generation, they think fame's just something that's given you on a plate. You don't have to work for it, you don't have to learn a craft – just suddenly one day you're famous. And that, they seem to think, gives them license to behave like total divas.'

Charles Paris suppressed a smile. If he'd heard that speech from one of his contemporaries, he wouldn't have been at all surprised – indeed, he
had
heard similar gripes from them more times than he cared to remember. But to hear it from an actor who had to be at most three years older than the girl he was talking about did seem a little incongruous. Not, of course, that Charles didn't agree with the sentiments.