'Yes?'
'Sir, has it crossed your mind that we're going to stand out a mile? Surrounded by little kids, with a few young mums.'
'So?'
'This Uncle Evan is going to spot us the minute we walk in.'
'We could be dads.' After a pause, he added, 'All right, grandad in my case.'
'Thought I'd mention it, that's all.'
'I'm going to mention something, too,' said Diamond. 'Once upon a time, I went into a house to make an arrest. I pushed a kid out of the way and he hit a radiator and cracked his head. I lost my job over it. We're going in to ask Uncle Evan to step outside and give us some help, right? That's all. Gently, gently. If anything goes wrong in there and kids are hurt…'
Inside, the Little Terrors were not so fastidious, ripping off their shoes and slinging them on racks, a rule of the house, it seemed. The noise was deafening. They could have called it Bedlam.
But at the point of entry some order was imposed. When the kids were in their socks they paid-or were paid for-and passed through a small turnstile.
'Yes?' said the chewing teenager with cropped hair dyed green who collected the money.
'We're police.'
She was silent, stunned, it seemed. Until she grinned and said. 'Is it, like, a bust?'
Diamond returned the grin. 'They start young in Frome, do they?'
'So what's the problem?' she asked. 'The council know about us. We're licensed.'
'No problem,' said Diamond. 'Community relations.' A useful phrase.
She had to shout to be heard. 'You picked the wrong day. We got something special, a treat for the end of the summer holiday. Puppet show. You won't be able to move in there. I've never seen so many.'
'We'll manage,' Leaman bawled back. 'We'll enjoy the show.'
'It takes all sorts. Just watch where you put them big feet.'
They passed through the turnstile into what would normally have been a place where the parents sat and drank coffee while the kids exhausted themselves playing. Today the serving counter was in use as the upper tier of the auditorium, with Little Terrors perched along its length banging their heels against the woodwork. Diamond and Leaman side-stepped around the mass bunched together seated on the floor. The idea was to reach the back, where the adults were. The show was already under way, the stage set up at the far end. Two skeletons on strings were being put through a dance and some of the young audience were enthralled. Plenty continued to fidget and talk as if nothing was going on.
A woman whose view was blocked said, 'D'you mind?'
'Sorry.' In trying to reach a space behind, Diamond made matters worse by nudging her chest with his arm. There just wasn't room for two men their size, so they had to progress right round the other side to where a sort of infants' assault course, clearly the centrepiece of the building, was set up. It was the only observation point left to them.
'House rules,' said another woman, pointing to their feet. Obediently they took off their shoes and carried them in.
Some children, bored with the puppets, were playing on the apparatus. The space extended a long way back into the building and was equipped with rope ladders, balance beams, trampolines, tubes to climb through, shutes arid rings. Plunging their feet into a sunken area filled with thousands of plastic balls, the murder squad waded kneedeep to their vantage position. Two resourceful mums and their kids were already sitting in there watching the show through the mesh that kept the balls from spilling out.
They joined them, and it felt more comfortable than it looked.
After all the trouble it was some relief to catch a line of dialogue that went, 'I work for Uncle Evan. Who do you work for?'
On the stage, the skeletons had been supplanted by a caterpillar and a butterfly on a stick. The man working them was visible, in fact prominent, standing up in an inset in the stage; his presence didn't seem to affect the illusion. The kids had their eyes fixed on the puppets; and, just as fixedly, the policemen had theirs on the puppeteer.
Diamond would have put him at younger than forty, Joe Dougan's estimate, but these things are always subjective. Hippy? Well, the hair was longish, blond, untidy. Hardly enough for a ponytail, he would have thought. No beard, not even a coating of stubble. Black T-shirt and jeans. The real surprise was that a young woman was assisting, getting the next set of puppets ready to hand to him. She was clearly visible from this side angle, her brownish-red hair tied Indian-fashion with a pink scarf.
The story-line quickly became clear. A boy puppet called Daniel was looking for his long-lost sister and meeting some strange, comical and whimsical characters in the process. They were borrowed freely from film, fairy tale and cartoon, and each had a few moments' interaction with the Daniel puppet. Half the fun for the kids was bawling out the names of characters they recognized: Donald Duck, Kermit, Popeye, Paddington, Barney, the Teletubbies. The copyright infringements were legion. And when a monster figure lumbered in, to spooky music, there were knowledgable shouts of 'Frankenstein!'
After ten minutes Diamond said in an aside to Leaman, 'Is there much more of this, do you think?'
'They must be running out of puppets.'
'They could easily bring them on again.'
The puppets themselves were superbly crafted, no question. It was a pity the script-if you could call it that- was so abysmal. Even a half-intelligent four-year-old must have found it repetitive.
The performance reached its finale-or ran out of puppets- mercifully soon, with the slaying of a giant and the release of Daniel's little sister from a spell that had put her to sleep.
There were cheers from the kids and the grown-ups clapped.
'That's the end of the show, boys and girls,' announced the female puppeteer in her natural voice. 'Don't all move at once, will you? And, whatever you do, please don't touch the puppets.'
Just about everyone stampeded towards the activity area. A few tried to go against the tide in search of their mums. Some gave up, some cried and others used their elbows. Three remained helpless on the serving counter, sucking their thumbs. At the front, the puppeteers were totally occupied in preventing their stage being pulled apart.
Scattering plastic balls, the murder squad stumbled out of their vantage point, getting puzzled looks from some of the small children coming the other way.
In a short time, the area where the audience had been was almost clear. The hidden interior of the building must have been large to absorb so many.
The puppeteers started dismantling the stage. Diamond went over, tapped the man on the shoulder and said, quietly, 'Police.'
He turned, startled. 'What's up?'
The woman was more controlled. 'Is it the van? Did we park in the wrong spot?'
'Nothing to do with the van. Would you mind telling me your name, your real name?'
The man frowned and ran his fingers nervously through his blond hair. 'Paul Anderson. What am I supposed to have done?'
'Where do you live, Mr Anderson?'
'Larkhall.'
'Up near the Brains Surgery?'
'That direction, anyway.'
'Where you're a regular?'
'I wouldn't call myself that.'
'You met a man there a few days ago-Thursday of last week-Professor Joe Dougan, from Columbus, Ohio.'
'Did I?'
Diamond was beginning to be annoyed, but he persevered.
'American, middle-aged, on the short side.'
'Doesn't mean a thing to me.' He added, gathering confidence, 'Listen, mate, I think you may have got your
