Peter Robinson - All the Colors of Darkness

The foyer was far livelier than she would have imagined at that time of day, mostly because a children’s matinee of Calamity Jane, put on by the Amateur Operatic Society, had just finished. Annie and Winsome went first to the box office, where an overly made-up woman sat talking on her mobile phone.

They showed their warrant cards. “Excuse me,” Annie said. “Is the manager here?”

The woman held the phone against her ample bosom and said, “Manager? Do you mean the stage manager, dearie?”

“I mean the person in charge,” said Annie.

A gang of children dashed by singing “The Deadwood Stage” and pretending to shoot at one another. They almost knocked Annie over. One of them apologized as he backed away, but the rest just ran on as if they hadn’t even noticed her. One of them whistled at Winsome.

The woman in the box office smiled. “Kids,” she said. “You should see the job our cleaning staff have to do after these shows. Chewing gum, sticky sweet wrappers, spilled Coke. You name it.”

It sounded like the local flea pit Annie used to go to with her boyfriend in Saint Ives. “The manager?” Annie said.

The woman excused herself, spoke into her mobile for a few moments, then ended her call. “There isn’t one, really,” she said. “I mean, I suppose there’s the stage manager, or the director, but he’s not really—”

“How about someone who works with the props, sets?”

“Ah, that’ll be Vernon Ross. He’s in charge of all the technical stuff.” The woman squinted at Annie. “What’s this about?”

“Please?” said Annie. “We’re in a hurry.”

“And the rest of us aren’t? I’ve been here since—”

“If you’d just point us in the right direction, you can go home,” said Winsome, smiling.

“Yes, well...” The woman frowned at Winsome and nodded toward the theater entrance. “If you walk through those doors down the aisle to the stage, you should find Vernon. If he’s not there, go through one of the doors beside it. They’ll be clearing up, getting ready for tonight.”

“Okay. Thanks,” said Annie.

They headed through the double doors. Both stalls and circle were fitted with restored wooden benches, cramped like pews. There were also a few boxes close to the stage for dignitaries. It might have been better if the renovators had modernized the interior, Annie thought, though she understood why they wanted to keep the authentic Georgian experience. But the seats were hard and uncomfortable. She had watched a performance of The Mikado there once, her only visit, shortly after the grand opening. The mayor had looked miserable in his box most of the evening, constantly shifting in his seat, his wife glowering beside him, and Annie’s bum and back had ached for a week. She knew that Banks had taken Sophia to see concerts by Kathryn Tickell, Kate Rusby and Eliza Carthy there, even though Annie gathered that Sophia didn’t really like folk music, but he hadn’t complained. No doubt his bum had been floating a foot above the hard surface on a cushion of bliss. Love.

The house lights were on, and a group of people in jeans and old T-shirts were carrying around pieces of furniture and shifting backdrops. A young woman glanced over as Annie and Winsome approached.

“The performance is over,” she said. “Sorry. We’re closed.”

“I know,” said Annie. “I’d like to talk to Vernon Ross.”

A man came down from the stage and walked toward her. Older than the rest, he had curly gray hair and a red complexion, as if the exertion had got to him. He was wearing khaki overalls and a checked work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. There were cuts on his hairy forearms. “I’m Vernon Ross,” he said, extending his hand to both of them in turn. “How can I help you?”

The young woman returned to her duties, glancing back occasionally. Annie could tell that her ears were well attuned to what was going on. She shook Vernon Ross’s hand. “DI Annie Cabbot and DS Winsome Jackman, Western Area Major Crimes.”

Ross frowned. “Well, that’s quite a mouthful,” he said. “But as far as I’m aware, we haven’t had any major crimes around here.”

“No,” said Annie with a smile. “At least we hope not.”

“What’s it about, then?”

“Were you a friend of Mark Hardcastle’s?”

“ Was I? We all are. Yes. Why?” His forehead creased into a frown. “What is it? Has something happened to Mark? Has there been an accident?”

Annie became aware that work had ceased on and around the stage. People put down the chairs, plates, tables or whatever they were carrying, sat on the edge and looked toward her and Ross. Winsome had her notebook out. “Do you happen to know if he has any next of kin?” Annie asked.

“My God,” said Ross, “so this is serious?”

“Sir?”

“No. No,” said Ross. “His parents are dead. He did once mention an aunt in Australia, but I don’t think they were at all close. Why? What—”

Annie turned to face everyone. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings,” she said, “but it very much seems as if Mark Hardcastle has been found dead in Hindswell Woods.” She turned back to Vernon Ross. “Perhaps you can help us identify the body, sir, after I’ve asked you all a few questions?”

As Annie had expected, a deep hush followed the collective intake of breath at her announcement. Vernon Ross turned pale. “Mark? But how? Why?”

“We don’t have the answers yet,” said Annie. “That’s partly why I’m here. Did any of you see Mr. Hardcastle today?”

“No. He didn’t come in,” said Ross. “I... I’m sorry, but I can’t quite manage to take this in right now.”

“That’s understandable, sir,” Annie said. “Would you like to sit down?”

“No, no. I’ll be all right.” He rubbed the backs of his hands across his eyes and leaned against the edge of the stage. “Please, carry on with your questions. Let’s get this over with.”

“Very well. Excuse me if I sound as if I don’t know what I’m talking about, because so far we’ve got practically nothing to go on. Was Mr. Hardcastle expected in to work today?”

“Well, he said he was going to try and come by. He was going down to London for a couple of days with Derek Wyman, the am dram director.”

“Is Mr. Wyman here today?”

“No. He’s still in London. He’s due back tomorrow.”

“You don’t need him for tonight’s performance, or this afternoon’s?”

“No. Calamity Jane is being put on by the Amateur Operatic Society. They have their own director and cast. Quite separate.” He gestured to his coworkers. “Mark and us are the only ones actually employed by the theater—along with the box office staff, of course. We’re the only constants, you might say. And everything’s in place for tonight. We can manage without Derek for a couple of nights.”

“So Derek Wyman isn’t employed by the theater, but Mr. Hardcastle was?”

“That’s right. Derek teaches drama at Eastvale Comprehensive. Amateur dramatics is only his hobby. Mark trained professionally in theatrical costume and set design.”

“Do the actors all have other jobs, like Mr. Wyman?”

“Yes. It’s an amateur company.”

“I’ll need to talk to Mr. Wyman when he gets back.”

“Of course. Sally in the box office should be able to give you his address.”

“When did Mark Hardcastle go to London?”

“Wednesday.”

“Was he supposed to be back here this morning?”

“He said he was driving back up Thursday afternoon.”

“Weren’t you concerned when he didn’t show up for work today?” “Not really. As I said, Mark’s our set and costume designer. His job is mostly done by opening night. We’re the ones who do the donkey work. He doesn’t carry lamps and bookcases around the stage—though in all fairness he helps out with the heavy stuff when we need him. Mostly he creates the vision of the production, the blueprint of how every scene and costume should appear. Along with the director, of course.”