Moving back to the stage, Briggs asked. “Who found the body, other than the entire audience?”
“Still trying to determine whether the first person on the stage was Paul Price, or his stage manager Steve Rogers,” replied Gardener. “As soon as I got here, I checked that Leonard White was dead, then went out and spoke to the audience.”
“Where have you been since then?”
“Over there to talk to Rogers.” Gardener pointed to him.
“In that case,” said Briggs, “you stay here with Fitz until he’s completed his examination and the body is removed. I’ll interview Steve Rogers.”
Gardener and Fitz had to wait for the SOCOs to finish the ESLA before approaching the corpse. During that time, Gardener asked the sound technician to check all of the equipment to see if it had been tampered with. He requested all tapes – whether they belonged to the theatre or not – to be taken away for analysis.
Fitz eventually donned a pair of surgical gloves. “So, what happened?”
Gardener repeated what Paul Price had told him.
“Was this how you found him when you came backstage?” asked Fitz, checking each of the man’s joints.
“Yes.”
“Let’s cut him down, then.”
Gardener ordered a couple of uniforms to cut the rope from the beam but to save the knot. He also wanted photos before they made the cut.
The pathologist inspected the skin around the neck. “The rope marks on the neck don’t bear the inflamed edge of a vital reaction.”
“Meaning?” inquired Gardener.
Fitz sighed, clicked his tongue. “There are no signs of a struggle, which suggests it wasn’t suicide.”
When the body was finally on the floor, Gardener leaned nearer. “I know he’s dead, but why is he so pale?”
Fitz produced a thermometer from his surgical case, removed the actor’s trousers and underpants, and placed it inside his rectum. After a short period of time he removed it, noting the reading, before reaching into the bag for a razor blade.
Gardener felt hollow inside. How was he going to break the news to his father? Leonard White had been a close friend.
“I can’t believe all this has happened in, what...” – he checked his watch – “...four or five hours.”
“It hasn’t,” replied Fitz, slicing the right thigh of the corpse.
“It must have done,” protested Gardener. “I came to pick my father up at four o’clock. We exchanged a few words.”
“Not with him you didn’t.” Fitz pointed to the thigh. “Leonard White’s body is stone cold. The reason he’s so pale is because he has no blood. At a guess, I’d say Leonard White has been dead since yesterday.”
Chapter Four
Once the body had been removed, Gardener and Reilly decided to interview Paul Price.
The SIO glanced curiously around the manager’s office. It was small, sparsely furnished, and disorganised. A desk had been placed in the middle of the room without a moment’s thought to the symmetry. Along the left wall, Paul Price’s computer was perched incongruously on another small desk that could barely be seen due to a mountain of paperwork. A couple of wall-mounted shelves on the right contained an assortment of files without labels. The decor consisted of a carpet that had probably been left over from a production when the theatre had first opened. A pale green emulsion covered the walls. It was extremely warm, but despite appearances smelled fresh: lavender, and something Gardener couldn’t put his finger on.
Sean Reilly was sitting in the only chair available. He had a notebook and pen in his hand. Paul Price leaned forward and removed a bottle of whiskey and three glasses from one of the desk drawers.
“For emergencies, you understand,” he offered, as if excusing himself. “Would either of you two officers like a drink?”
“No, thank you, Mr Price,” said Gardener. “We’re on duty.”
The manager poured himself one before very quickly draining the glass. He then poured another, placing the bottle back in the drawer, along with the two unused glasses. Sitting back in his chair, he sighed very loudly.
Gardener closed the office door and leaned back against it, arms folded. “Has a murder ever occurred in your theatre before?”
Price sipped his whiskey, clasping the glass with both hands. He was dressed in a pale blue suit, white shirt, and blue tie. He had a large head with a round face, dark blue eyes, and a pencil thin moustache. What hair remained around the sides was still black. Gardener suspected his nose had been broken and reset, and then broken again. On the bridge of his nose, a line suggested glasses were an everyday item, but he had chosen not to wear them. His frame was abnormally thin and emaciated, and the white spots on his teeth and fingernails indicated a lack of calcium within his diet.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Over thirty years. In its 127-year history, the theatre has only had six managers. I took over from the late George Green in 1994, who’d taken the position in 1963 after his father had vacated.”
“You did say late,” interrupted Reilly.
“Yes.”
“Be no good calling him, then.”
Price didn’t reply. He merely continued to sip the whiskey.
“What are you actually responsible for, Mr Price? What do you do?” asked Gardener.
“I’m pretty much a one-man band. I look after the general running of the theatre. I book all the shows, take care of the marketing, supervise the team that works for us, oversee the finances, and I cover all the health and safety as well. It’s a very demanding position.” Price let out another heavy sigh before draining the contents of his second tumbler of whiskey.
Gardener wondered what all the sighing was about, and how many whiskies he was going to drink before the night was
