stage.’
‘How long after she was made up?’
‘Twenty minutes, at least. If there was going to be a reaction, why was it delayed? I’m mystified.’
‘Have you impounded the make-up?’
Shearman clapped his hand to his head. ‘God, you’re right. I must see to that. I’ll speak to Denise. We’ll confiscate everything that was used last night and lock it in the safe.’
His phone beeped. He snatched it up and said without waiting to hear who was on, ‘I told you I’m in a meeting.’
The switchboard girl said, ‘The police are downstairs, sir.’
‘The police? That’s all we need.’
Melmot was already moving to the door. ‘I must leave you to it, old man. Urgent calls to make.’
2
Hedley Shearman’s job was all about telling others what to do. He prided himself on his social skills. He told the police in a calm, considerate way that they weren’t needed.
The senior of the two uniformed officers, a sergeant whose bearing suggested he was nothing less than a chief constable, said, ‘It’s not your call, sir.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘We don’t work for you.’
‘I’m aware of that, but this is my theatre. I’m the director here.’
The sergeant said to his female colleague, ‘He’s the director here. We’re in the right place, then.’
It sounded like sarcasm. Already under strain, Shearman said with more force than the first time, ‘But you’re not needed.’
‘Like London’s Noble Fire Brigade?’
‘What?’
‘Belloc.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
The sergeant chanted, ‘“Until Matilda’s Aunt succeeded in showing them they were not needed.”’
‘I’m a busy man.’
‘Then permit me to introduce Constable Reed. Reed can write at speed, so Reed is needed. Oh, yes, there is a need for Reed.’
The young policewoman looked at Shearman and winked, as if asking him to make allowance. To confirm that this was for real, she had opened a notebook and was writing in it.
‘And I’m Sergeant Dawkins,’ the ponderous introduction continued, ‘in pursuit of the truth, and as the poet said, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” So I’m needed also. Dawkins and Reed, addressing the need. We’re here about the occurrence last night.’
Out of all the verbiage one word struck home, and to Shearman’s ear it carried dangerous overtones. ‘Occurrence?’
Sergeant Dawkins said, ‘In your theatre, on your stage.’ Then he had the cheek to reach into one of the model stage sets on Shearman’s bookcase and touch the figure of an actor, tipping it over, face down.
Shearman was incensed. He wanted to tell this smart-arse to go to hell, but you don’t say that to a policeman. ‘You didn’t have to do that. I know what you’re talking about and I wouldn’t call it an occurrence.’
‘What would you call it, then?’
‘I don’t know. It didn’t amount to anything.’
‘An incident?’
‘Nothing like that. One of the cast was taken ill, that’s all.’
‘Occurrence.’ Dawkins made a horizontal gesture with his right hand like a cricket umpire signalling. Then he repeated the movement six inches higher. ‘Incident.’ Then higher again. ‘Offence. Occurrence, incident, offence.’
‘It’s not an
‘I bet you are.’
Blatant insolence. If this man had been on the theatre staff he wouldn’t have lasted a moment longer. ‘It’s the responsible thing to do,’ Shearman said.
‘Dealing with it?’
‘Of course. That’s my job.’
‘And we investigate. That’s our job.’
‘But I didn’t send for you.’
