He focused himself, then addressed the restless crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener.” He flashed his warrant card, aware that no one could actually tell whether or not it was genuine. “I realise how inconvenient all this is going to be, but I have to ask that every one of you remain in your seats until you are told otherwise. I’m afraid there will be no show tonight as planned. I’m sure that most of you will have guessed what you’ve seen is real. It was, and the whole building is now a crime scene. In due course, each and every one of you will be asked your name and a few other details. So, please do not try to leave the theatre before we have spoken to you.”
He couldn’t help but notice the concerned expressions; whether it was for themselves or the death of the actor he wasn’t sure, but knowing the depth of human nature he could guess.
As he turned to leave, the people seated in the front row tried to question him. He ignored them and returned backstage, thankful of the approaching sirens.
He glanced at Paul Price. “Can you confirm for me that the dead man is Leonard White?”
Price simply nodded.
Chapter Three
Back on stage, Gardener switched off the microphone and handed it back to the sound technician. He found Steve Rogers where he’d left him, near the roller shutter door. The fact that it was open when he’d arrived had really bothered him. If the murderer had used it as a means of escape, he could be anywhere by now.
“What time did you start work?”
Rogers glanced at his watch. “About two o’clock this afternoon.”
“I know we’re in a theatre and people come and go, but have you seen anyone suspicious lurking around the place, anyone who is not connected to the production?”
Steve Rogers shrugged his shoulders. “No one I can think of. I mean, it’s only a one-man show, we don’t need much in the way of staff.”
“When was the last time you saw Leonard White?”
“The dead man, you mean?”
“Is there anyone else called Leonard White around here?”
“No, sorry... er... when I came in, just after two.”
“Where was he?” asked Gardener.
“In his dressing room.”
“And?” pressed Gardener.
“I was on my way to see Mr Price, but I knocked on his door and introduced myself. He had his back to me, facing his mirror.” The stage manager stopped as if that was the end of the sentence. Like a wind-up toy, he suddenly started again. “He, er, just nodded and said something, but I didn’t catch what it was.”
The technician was provoking Gardener. It wasn’t that he was slow, but he didn’t seem to realise how important his information may be. Even more annoying was his habit of protruding his bottom lip and blowing upwards to clear a lock of hair which kept falling across one eye; the option of having his hair cut had obviously escaped his attention.
“Did you see him after that?”
“No. I passed by his dressing room at around four, but the door was closed.”
Gardener thought back. That was when his father must have been there. He recollected his father mentioning Leonard White’s mood: the actor had seemed subdued, not his usual self, but nothing further had been said.
“Do you know Leonard White?” asked Gardener.
“Not really.”
There was that phrase again. You either knew the man, or you didn’t.
Gardener and Steve Rogers were disturbed by the arrival of his partner DS Sean Reilly, the Home Office pathologist Dr George Fitzgerald, DCI Alan Briggs, and a team of SOCOs. A number of constables remained by the stage doors, craning their necks to see what had happened. All his team had already donned their protective paper suits so as not to contaminate the scene.
Gardener quickly took Briggs through what he’d found. The DCI listened without interfering. A sharp rapping on the roller shutter door attracted their attention.
“I imagine that’s Steve Fenton with the ESLA gear,” said Gardener.
Briggs shouted over to Steve Rogers, “You, open the door and let him in.”
The DCI, a physical bear of a man originating from Liverpool, had held the position for a little over a year, having taken it shortly after the death of Gardener’s wife. In the early days, neither he nor Gardener had seen eye to eye. Time had settled their differences, though, and both officers now held a great deal of respect for each other.
Briggs had a huge barrel chest. Little could be seen of his face due to his thick black beard and moustache. A few inches shorter than Gardener, he carried his authority well. In Gardener’s opinion, Briggs’ only failing was his short temper; during those outbursts he spoke extremely fast, never fluffed his words, and grew in confidence with each one spoken.
As the senior officer, Briggs allocated the tasks. He asked Gardener’s second-in-command Reilly to interview the two stagehands on the other side of the auditorium. He then stepped outside the stage area, calling Colin Sharp over.
“Colin, take a number of uniformed officers and cover all the exits. Go to the entrance and set up tables. Sort out a couple of digital cameras for the officers, mouth swab kits, and personal description forms. I want names, addresses, and any available ID. After that, send them to a table for a DNA mouth swab and get the officers to write down all details, including what they’re wearing.”
Sharp sighed. “Looks like we’re in for a long night, sir. Are we allowed to take their DNA?”
“Not by law,” replied Briggs. “You’ll need to ask their permission, sign a form. Explain to them it’s only for this investigation. After that we’ll destroy it. If anyone gives you any trouble, call me and I’ll come
