Stagestruck

urgently.’

Paloma sighed and shook her head. Their walks were supposed to be the chance to get away from it all. And how ironic that she’d bought him the phone as a present. ‘Go on. It must be important.’

He got through and issued instructions to Inge.

After the call was over, Paloma said, ‘You could have gone yourself instead of sending Ingeborg.’

‘But I’m with you.’

She smiled. ‘Has that ever got in the way of police business?’

They walked in silence for a short way, each reflecting on that last remark. They’d reached the other end of the gardens and the towpath stretched ahead through an eighty-metre tunnel under Beckford Road. There was light at the end, but it was not an inviting place to walk through. ‘I’m not proud of this,’ he said, ‘but to tell you the truth I don’t like going into that theatre. It has an effect on me.’

‘I noticed, the only time we’ve been there together,’ she said. ‘You made a huge effort that evening, didn’t you? I appreciated it.’

‘It’s not as if I’m a wimp. I’ve attended some gruesome scenes in my time and not turned a hair. Step in there and I can’t wait to get out. I’m sure my body temperature drops several degrees.’

‘Is it just the Theatre Royal?’

‘Any theatre.’ He sniffed. ‘But we don’t have to talk about my hang-ups.’

‘There must be a reason for it.’

‘Whatever it is, it’s deep-seated. My parents gave up trying to take me to pantomimes.’

‘You must have had a bad experience as a child.’

‘If I did, I don’t remember. No, it’s more about my personality. Theatre is make-believe and I’ve never wanted to have anything to do with it. I’m a logical guy. I prefer the real world.’

She shook her head. ‘Forgive me for saying this, Peter, but that’s bunk. You’re rationalising, giving in to this hang-up, as you call it.’

He was silent. Not many people could talk to him like that and get away with it.

‘And you’re missing so much. For me, that moment when the house lights start to dim is magical. I’d hate to be deprived of it.’

‘Bully for you and I understand why, but it doesn’t alter the feeling I get each time I go there.’

‘How are you going to head this investigation, then?’

He laughed. ‘With difficulty.’

‘Would you like to overcome your problem?’

Now he exhaled sharply. He was wary. ‘I’m not sure. What do you have in mind?’

‘I know someone who helps people with phobias – ’

‘I wouldn’t call it a phobia,’ he said at once, ‘and I certainly don’t want to see a shrink.’

‘Raelene isn’t a shrink. She’s an earthy Australian, probably the wisest person I know. She can help you, I feel sure, but you have to be willing to unblock whatever it is that your brain is hiding from you.’

‘I don’t want to do this.’

‘Fair enough. Think it over.’ She looked away, across the canal, and changed the subject. ‘I may be stating the obvious, but could the Clarion incident be a case of stage fright?’

He shook his head. ‘The burns must be genuine, or she wouldn’t have been moved to Frenchay.’

‘I mean if she was terrified of appearing, really terrified, she could have induced the burns herself. How’s this for a theory? She makes her entrance, does the screaming fit, gets off the stage and covers her face with the towel, giving her the chance to apply some chemical that burns.’

‘There must be less painful ways.’

‘It would explain the delay in her reaction. You said the make-up was thought to be the cause, but if that was the case, she’d have been hurting before she got on stage.’

‘You’re quite a sleuth yourself,’ he said. ‘Yes, the delay has to be explained, but until we get the make-up analysed we won’t know for sure.’

‘You must be champing at the bit.’

‘We’re ready to go, yes.’ They had almost reached Candy’s footbridge, spanning the canal and the railway. ‘Shall we change the subject?’ he said. ‘What’s the project that’s taking up so much of your time?’

‘Oh, it’s a costume piece. Sweeney Todd.’

Outside the Theatre Royal was a Morris column, one of those cylindrical billboards common in Paris and beloved of Proust. It was plastered with posters of I Am a Camera showing Clarion smoking a cigarette in a holder. Leaning nonchalantly against it, waiting for Ingeborg, was Keith Halliwell. He had borrowed a camera from one of the police photographers and was carrying a professional-looking shoulder bag that was supposed to be filled with camera equipment. In reality it contained his raincoat and the camera. He wouldn’t know how to change a lens or what to do with a light meter.

‘Yoo-hoo.’ Ingeborg stood only a pace away from him, making a circling movement with her hand.

He hadn’t spotted her in the crowd in front of the theatre. She had her hair pinned up and was wearing a black velvet skirt, the first time he’d seen her in anything but jeans.