All the Colors of Darkness

“Then let’s see if we can find out where he lived the rest of it,” said Annie. “Fancy going to the theater?”

T H E E A S T VA L E Theatre was a masterpiece of restoration, Annie thought, and it managed to pack a great deal into two stories hardly more than forty feet wide. Clearly its original patrons hadn’t cared much about wine bars and cafes, so they had been added on to the side of the original building in the same stone and design. Only the large, long plate-glass windows on the addition bowed in the direction of a more modern style. Beside the entrance were posters for the major production now running, the Eastvale Amateur Dramatic Society’s version of Othello.

The foyer was far livelier than she would have imagined at that time of day, mostly because a children’s matinee of Calamity Jane, put on by the Amateur Operatic Society, had just finished. Annie and Winsome went first to the box office, where an overly made-up woman sat talking on her mobile phone.

They showed their warrant cards. “Excuse me,” Annie said. “Is the manager here?”

The woman held the phone against her ample bosom and said,

“Manager? Do you mean the stage manager, dearie?”

“I mean the person in charge,” said Annie.

A gang of children dashed by singing “The Deadwood Stage” and pretending to shoot at one another. They almost knocked Annie over. One of them apologized as he backed away, but the rest just ran on as if they hadn’t even noticed her. One of them whistled at Winsome.

The woman in the box office smiled. “Kids,” she said. “You should see the job our cleaning staff have to do after these shows. Chewing gum, sticky sweet wrappers, spilled Coke. You name it.”

A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S

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It sounded like the local f lea pit Annie used to go to with her boyfriend in Saint Ives. “The manager?” Annie said.

The woman excused herself, spoke into her mobile for a few moments, then ended her call. “There isn’t one, really,” she said. “I mean, I suppose there’s the stage manager, or the director, but he’s not really—”

“How about someone who works with the props, sets?”

“Ah, that’ll be Vernon Ross. He’s in charge of all the technical stuff.” The woman squinted at Annie. “What’s this about?”

“Please?” said Annie. “We’re in a hurry.”

“And the rest of us aren’t? I’ve been here since—”

“If you’d just point us in the right direction, you can go home,”

said Winsome, smiling.

“Yes, well . . .” The woman frowned at Winsome and nodded toward the theater entrance. “If you walk through those doors down the aisle to the stage, you should find Vernon. If he’s not there, go through one of the doors beside it. They’ll be clearing up, getting ready for tonight.”

“Okay. Thanks,” said Annie.

They headed through the double doors. Both stalls and circle were fitted with restored wooden benches, cramped like pews. There were also a few boxes close to the stage for dignitaries. It might have been better if the renovators had modernized the interior, Annie thought, though she understood why they wanted to keep the authentic Georgian experience. But the seats were hard and uncomfortable. She had watched a performance of The Mikado there once, her only visit, shortly after the grand opening. The mayor had looked miserable in his box most of the evening, constantly shifting in his seat, his wife glowering beside him, and Annie’s bum and back had ached for a week. She knew that Banks had taken Sophia to see concerts by Kath-ryn Tickell, Kate Rusby and Eliza Carthy there, even though Annie gathered that Sophia didn’t really like folk music, but he hadn’t complained. No doubt his bum had been f loating a foot above the hard surface on a cushion of bliss. Love.

The house lights were on, and a group of people in jeans and old T-shirts were carrying around pieces of furniture and shifting back-1 4 P E T E R

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drops. A young woman glanced over as Annie and Winsome approached.

“The performance is over,” she said. “Sorry. We’re closed.”

“I know,” said Annie. “I’d like to talk to Vernon Ross.”

A man came down from the stage and walked toward her. Older than the rest, he had curly gray hair and a red complexion, as if the exertion had got to him. He was wearing khaki overalls and a checked work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. There were cuts on his hairy forearms. “I’m Vernon Ross,” he said, extending his hand to both of them in turn. “How can I help you?”

The young woman returned to her duties, glancing back occasionally. Annie could tell that her ears were well attuned to what was going on. She shook Vernon Ross’s hand. “DI Annie Cabbot and DS

Winsome Jackman, Western Area Major Crimes.”

Ross frowned. “Well, that’s quite a mouthful,” he said. “But as far as I’m aware, we haven’t had any major crimes around here.”

“No,” said Annie with a smile. “At least we hope not.”

“What’s it about, then?”

“Were you a friend of Mark Hardcastle’s?”

“Was I? We all are. Yes. Why?” His forehead creased into a frown.