‘Sorry,’ he said, fishing in his pocket. ‘Didn’t know I had it with me.’
Paloma watched in amusement, half expecting him to produce a phone set with receiver, cord and stand. In the event, he took out the mobile she herself had given him over a year ago. Some playful member of his team had programmed a ring tone from the nineteen-sixties.
He switched off and raised an apologetic hand to the people at the next table.
‘Who was it?’ Paloma asked.
‘No idea.’
‘You can find out.’
‘I have better things to do.’
‘Like?’
‘Like asking for the bill and getting them to call a taxi. Did we settle what to do about your wine?’
‘Our wine. All right, let’s take it with us. But I think you should check that call.’
He handed the mobile across.
Paloma pressed two keys. ‘Bath Central.’
He winced. ‘At this hour?’
‘Hadn’t you better call them back?’
A few minutes later, two taxis left the Olive Tree. One took Paloma home to Lyncombe; the other, Diamond to the Theatre Royal.
Saw Close was crowded when he arrived. The theatre crowd had not been out long and many were waiting for transport. His taxi was hired before he stepped out of it.
This time he didn’t pander to his anxieties by using one of the side doors. Taking a grip on his nerves he marched straight into the foyer, braced for the personal challenge of entering the auditorium. But there was no need for heroics.
After making himself known, he was directed down some stairs and along the red-carpeted passageway leading to the front stalls and boxes. Through open doors to his right he couldn’t avoid glimpsing the stage itself, yet he was relieved to see that the house lights were on, the safety curtain down and the cleaning staff at work along the rows. The access to the boxes was up the curved stairs at the end of the passage. This little theatre was an obstacle course of different levels. Grabbing the rail, he climbed upwards, passing the box on the royal circle level and then higher to where a uniformed female constable guarded the door of the upper box. She recognised him and actually gave a cursory salute.
‘No need for that. Who are you?’ he asked.
‘PC Reed, sir.’
‘I expect you have a first name.’
She blinked in surprise. ‘It’s Dawn.’
‘Who’s inside, Dawn?’
‘DI Halliwell and the manager, Mr Shearman. Oh, also the deceased.’
‘Bit of a squeeze, then. Don’t let anyone else in.’
He pushed open the door. The single wall light didn’t give much illumination. Keith Halliwell was bending over the body of a woman, shining a torch on the face. Shearman was in shadow on the far side.
‘Have you checked for a pulse?’
Halliwell looked up. ‘Ah, it’s you, guv.’
‘I wasn’t asking about me.’
‘She’s been confirmed as dead by the paramedics.’
‘Any idea who she is?’
Halliwell sidestepped the question. ‘Mr Shearman identified her.’
But at this minute Shearman was reluctant to repeat the name. He was looking deathly pale himself. ‘It’s a nightmare,’ he said, ‘and just when I thought we were getting over our difficulties.’
Diamond moved in for a closer look. He wasn’t often thrown by surprises. This ranked high in the register and he took several seconds to absorb it. He knew the features at once and the torchlight showed the skin damage. The dead woman was Clarion Calhoun.
‘For the love of God. She’s only just out of hospital.’
‘Discharged this morning,’ Shearman said.
‘What’s she doing here?’
‘She called Mr Melmot with a special request. She wanted to see the play before it closes, but not from the public seats where people would recognise her. She was brought in through the side door wearing one of those hoodie things and given this box for the evening.’
‘Did you know about this?’
Some colour returned to his face. ‘I was in on it, yes. Mr Melmot told me.’
