He clung to the memory, hideous as it was. Part of his brain resisted, wanting to cut the scene. He refused. He had to know the truth. By force of will he succeeded. Out of the horror came an explanation. After all the years, he recognised the monster for what it was: a cow. His sister had told him on the phone about the distressed cow parted from its calf and keeping the family awake with its heart-rending sounds of distress. The poor beast was in the field behind the farmhouse. It had come close to the house, right up to the window, to make its protest. Man had taken away its calf. Man lived in the house. Man should hear its calls.
To a young boy unused to the country, the sudden close-up of the cow’s head at a level with his own had been horrific, enough to traumatise him. From that night on, drawn curtains would induce this petrified reaction while the censor in his brain would dumb down the real cause, refusing to revisit the image. He’d experienced the first such crisis the same week in the theatre at Llandudno. He’d panicked. He’d been incapable of explaining why. The effect had repeated itself each time he saw long curtains. Even the prospect of going into a theatre became an ordeal because of what was inside.
Was the fear conquered? Knowledge is strength. To understand is to overcome, he told himself.
Dawn Reed wasn’t where she’d said she would be. She was in danger of being murdered. It was essential to look behind those curtains.
He reached up to the stage. The level was higher than he expected and he was no athlete, but the strength returned to his limbs.
He hauled himself up, thrust his arms between the heavy drapes and parted them.
24
Some lights were on, not powerful, but dazzling to Diamond’s eyes. The set of Christopher Isherwood’s Berlin flat was still in place as he’d instructed, the three walls lined with the solid-looking furniture dominated by the stove. On the sofa at centre stage lay PC George Pidgeon, bound hand and foot with duct tape. A strip of it was across his mouth. His eyes were open, but not moving.
Dead?
Diamond pushed the curtain aside and crossed the stage.
The eyes slid to the right and fixed on him. George Pidgeon was alive. He braced his body and struggled.
Diamond leaned over the young man and started easing the gag from his cheek, but Pidgeon jerked his face away, the tape ripped from his skin and he yelled, ‘Behind you!’
In the microsecond before the shout, Diamond had seen Pidgeon’s eyes widen in alarm. He flung himself across the constable’s body and the blow intended for his skull caught his shoulder instead. It was a glancing hit rather than full impact because it slid down his ribs, but it still felt as if it had splintered his shoulder blade. All he could do for protection from another blow was make a piston movement with his arm. His elbow struck something solid. There was a grunt from behind.
Pidgeon yelled, ‘Guv!’
He rolled left. The weapon whizzed past his ear, struck the upholstery and ripped a gash in the fabric. It was a claw hammer.
Diamond’s reflex action brought him crashing to the stage floor. All he could do from here was make a grab for his attacker’s legs. He got a hand on one leg, but the other kicked his arm away. Even so, he’d done enough to unsettle his assailant. He watched the legs step away, turn and run off the stage.
Now it was down to priorities: go in pursuit, or release Pidgeon? His right arm felt numb after the hammer blow. He was going to need assistance. Besides, he had to find out what he was dealing with. He got to his feet and worked at the tape around Pidgeon’s wrists.
‘Guv, you won’t believe who did this,’ Pidgeon started to say.
‘I don’t need telling,’ Diamond said. ‘Where’s Dawn?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘I don’t know how long I’ve been here. He grabbed me from behind and put something over my face. I think it was chloroform. When I came to, I was lying here, trussed up.’ The last of the tape parted from his arms. ‘I can untie my feet.’
‘She phoned me,’ Diamond told him. ‘Said she was hiding somewhere between the seats, but she’s not there any more. He means to kill her if he hasn’t already.’
‘Dawn? Why?’
‘There isn’t time to explain. He must have got her backstage.’
‘He could have left the building.’
‘No chance. All the exits are covered. He’s in here somewhere. We need the house lights on. There must be a control room.’
‘Back there.’ Pidgeon pointed towards the auditorium. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He finished freeing his legs.
‘Right. I’ll check behind the scenes.’
‘You’re not armed. D’you want my baton?’
‘Keep it. After that whack on the shoulder I couldn’t lift it.’ He crossed to the prompt side, glanced up in the wings to make sure no one was in the DSM’s position, and moved along the passage towards the three main dressing rooms. He located a light switch and was relieved when it worked. On trying each of the doors, he found them locked. What next, then? He could dash upstairs to four, five, six and seven, but would a killer on the run risk being trapped up a staircase that led nowhere else? Anyone so familiar with the layout would surely have taken a route with more chances of escape.
