‘Lawyers are involved already?’
‘Anything like this and they home in like sharks. They’ll sue the theatre for millions if it can be held responsible.’
‘The theatre can’t afford millions. Are they insured?’
‘I hope so, or Bath may end up with no theatre at all.’
Even Diamond regarded that as not to be contemplated. He’d survive, but the city would be a poorer place.
Georgina said, as if reading his thoughts, ‘To me, it would be a personal loss.’
He lifted an eyebrow.
‘I joined the BLOGs this year,’ she said.
‘Really?’ he said, not impressed. ‘Rather you than me, putting your private life on the internet.’
‘Not blogging,’ she said. ‘Singing. The Bath Light Operatic Group. You know I’ve been in various choirs. Well, I thought I might go solo this year, in a small way. I’m hoping to get a part in
That was the hidden agenda, then. The BLOGs could not be deprived of their week on the professional stage. Diamond had a vision of Georgina as Mrs Lovett, the pie lady. He did well to keep his face straight.
She continued, ‘If, God forbid, the dear old theatre were to shut down, we’d all be devastated.’
‘It won’t come to that,’ he said in an automatic response.
She said through her teeth, ‘It had better not. I hope you can steer a way through this mess.’
‘Me, ma’am?’
‘It won’t be easy.’
He could see that. A victim unwilling to speak. An injury of uncertain origin. And a potential law suit. ‘Whoever takes it on,’ he said, meaning anyone except himself, ‘getting started won’t be easy. Everyone’s going to be on their guard.’ ‘Uniform managed to get some interviews at the theatre this morning.’ ‘That’s something, then. Who did we send?’ ‘Sergeant Dawkins.’ Diamond’s face creased as if caught by a sudden Arctic gust. ‘Him, of all people? That’s not good.’ ‘What’s the matter with Dawkins?’ ‘How long have you got? Five minutes in his company would tell you. He keeps asking to join CID. He thinks it’s personal each time I turn him down.’ ‘And is it?’ Diamond blew a soft raspberry. ‘He’d be a nightmare.’ Georgina said, ‘My contacts with him have always been agreeable. In my estimation he’s a man of culture.’ In Georgina’s estimation most policemen were not cultured,
and some were uncouth, Peter Diamond more than most. ‘Opinionated.’ ‘I don’t hold that against him. But enough of Dawkins.
It’s your case from now on. Handle it with kid gloves, Peter.’ His case? This wasn’t how she’d started. Hadn’t she talked about being primed and ready to spring?
‘I’d rather not. Theatre people aren’t my cup of tea.’ How feeble was that? He berated himself as the words came out. Working in a theatre is your worst nightmare. Tell her there’s no way you’re getting lumbered. But he was too late.
‘They’re very friendly,’ she said. ‘That’s half the problem. I’ll delegate.’ ‘What?’ ‘A good opportunity for one of my more experienced people.’ ‘No.’ A flat, unqualified negative. ‘I want you for this, Peter.’ He changed tack. ‘I’ll call in forensics, then.’ She gave a gasp of disapproval. ‘We’re not being as obvious as that. The make-up is being analysed in the hospital lab. There was a towel Clarion pressed to her face after she left the stage. Quite a lot of the greasepaint, or whatever she was wearing, rubbed off. They need to know if it was contaminated in some way, so that they can give the right treatment. We’ll find out soon enough.’
‘It’s strange,’ he said, getting drawn in, in spite of all his misgivings.
‘What is?’
‘If the make-up was responsible, why didn’t it hurt her when it was first put on? She got on the stage before the pain kicked in. She must have been made up – what? – ten minutes earlier. Twenty? If it was acid, or something, you’d expect her to have been screaming long before she made her entrance.’
‘It is rather hard to understand,’ Georgina said.
‘To me it sounds more like an allergic reaction that took time to develop.’
‘If that’s all it was, we can breathe again. I hope you’re right, Peter. But can a skin allergy be as violent as that? Does it actually burn the flesh?’
3
There were lunchtimes when Diamond escaped from Man-vers Street police station and found sanctuary in places where no one would bother his head about targets and budget reports and activity-based costing. The city of Bath had enough pubs to suit all his moods, from the Old Green Tree, sedate as a private club with its home cooking and wood panelling, to the garish Hobgoblin, where the boneshaking beat of heavy metal was enough to drive out anybody’s demons. Today he’d decided on the Garrick’s Head, adjoining the Theatre Royal. A couple of beers with the backstage lads would be an agreeable way to check Georgina’s story.
Originally – in about 1720 – the building had been a private house, the home of Beau Nash, the Master of Ceremonies who made the city fashionable. It became a drinking house in 1805 when the theatre was built next door. Outside, a bust of the actor David Garrick dignifies the facade, but Diamond wasn’t looking upwards. He stepped in, ordered his pint of British Red and took it to the black sofa under the window. The dark wood panelling, board floor and traditional fireplace fitted his expectation of what a public bar should be. He didn’t care for patterned wallpaper and fitted carpets. Even better, someone had left the
