Murder in the Second Row (10 page)

‘Hello? Jessica
here.’

She waited,
hearing only a faint buzz then some breathing.

‘Hello?’ More
suspiciously this time.

‘Hey, Jessica.
How ya doing?’ The voice was so slurred that she couldn’t work out
who it was. ‘Jessica, it’s me, I really need to talk to you…’

She frowned.
‘Who is this?’

The silence
returned and she was about to hang up when the voice said
‘Wait.’

She waited,
holding her thumb over the off button. If this was a crank call
they weren’t going to get the satisfaction.

Just then there
was a thump at her front door.

‘Just a
second,’ she barked.

She padded
towards the door, still holding the phone to her ear, trying to
place the vaguely familiar voice.

Nobody was
visible through the spyhole, but when she opened the door Nick was
sprawled on the ground, clutching his phone. His face was oozing
blood from several raw scratches down his cheek.

‘Hey, Jessica.
Don’t hang up. I really need to talk to you. Is that OK?’ He looked
up at her blearily. ‘I might be a bit drunk.’

‘Just a bit?
You think? What the hell are you doing here, Nick?’ She switched
off her phone and shoved it into her pocket, looking down at him
with distaste.

‘I’m – I’m
sorry, Jessica. I’m really, really sorry.’ His words were so
slurred she could barely make out what he was mumbling. ‘I didn’t
mean it. Oh God, I’ve been so bloody stupid. Oh Jess, I wanted you,
you, not her.’

He retched,
producing nothing but a string of spittle that hung down and
dampened his shirt. His eyes closed and his head dropped
forward.

‘Jesus, Nick –
what the hell did you show up here for?’ she muttered. ‘You’re not
going to communicate much in this state, are you? Just sit there
for a sec while I ring your flatmate. He might as well take you
home and put you to bed before you pass out completely.’

No way was he
coming inside her house to puke and spit!

She pulled out
her phone and rang Nick’s home number, explaining the situation to
his flatmate who promised to come round with his van straight away.
In the meantime she cleaned off Nick’s grazes and put sticking
plaster on them, turning her head away from the stink of alcohol
and vomit on his breath.

‘Lie him on his
side in the back to drive home,’ she told the flatmate when he
arrived. ‘When you get him there, put him to bed in the recovery
position, and you’d be wise to put a bucket beside him. Get as much
water into him as you can, otherwise he probably won’t make it to
work in the morning. And can you keep an eye on him now and again
through the night?’

The flatmate
promised to take good care of him and drove off carefully, intent
on keeping the victim’s volatile stomach contents from erupting in
the back of his van.

On the way back
to her front door, Jessica found where most of it had already ended
up in her flowerbed.

‘Nick, you’re
really losing points as a romantic hero, buddy. Spewing in a girl’s
garden is not the way to win her heart.’

Jessica decided
to shut out the world for the rest of the night. She switched off
her cell-phone, fed Jellicoe his supper, made a healthy snack for
herself, and curled up on the sofa to watch TV.

Lying in bed
that night she heard several heavy rain showers pass over. Damn,
she’d have to go in to the theatre in the morning and mop the
stage. But on the plus side, at least it would wash away the puke
in her garden. With that happy thought she rolled over and went
back to sleep.

On Monday
morning she unlocked the theatre door, keying in the combination
for September, which she could recall from memory after using it
for a full week.

The familiar
smell of rope and paint met her in the corridor. She leant her
umbrella among the No Parking signs beside the door, flicked the
stage and Green Room lights on at the switch panel, and went
through to the back of the theatre to fetch a mop and bucket. On
the stage, a wide puddle had spread right across the floor to the
wings, reaching one of the black cloth legs hanging there and
soaking the heavy material to about two feet up from the floor.
Jessica pulled one corner right offstage, clipping it to a rope
that would let it hang clear of the floor till it dried.

Then she mopped
up all the water, checking to see if she could see where the new
leak had come from. Nothing was obvious from ground level, so she
climbed all the way up the solid wooden ladder at the side of the
stage to get to the fly floor. She didn’t mind heights, but was
always relieved to reach the top and get off the ladder, and pass
through the open trapdoor into the room above.

A dilapidated
couch was pushed against the sloping ceiling where it came down to
the wall. Drifts of tattered girly magazines lay like skin-toned
scatter rugs, with empty beer bottles as bookmarks. Around the
rectangular opening above the stage, coils of heavy rope hung at
intervals, secured on massive metal cleats. Stout wooden beams ran
crosswise above the stage, ready for drops or lights to be hung
from them.

Jessica looked
up, trying to figure where rain might have found a way in through
the rough-sawn planks that carried many decades of chalked-up
names. Above her head was “Julius Caesar, Feb 1899”, with a list of
crew who had worked on the show. Just to the left of “Annie get
Your Gun, 1948” she saw a damp streak and watched a drip run down
to plop onto the stage far below. She tore a piece of paper from
one of the magazines and wedged it into the crack – more to mark
the spot than to block the leak. Howard or Gazza could have a look
at it the following night during rehearsal.

After giving
the rest of the roof a once-over, she eased herself back through
the trapdoor and down the ladder, breathing a sigh of relief to be
back on solid ground instead of hanging twenty feet above the
floor. With nothing else she could do for the day, she quickly
checked the answer-phone in her office, turned off the lights, set
the lock and left the building.

When she
returned to the theatre for rehearsal at 6.30 that evening, things
weren’t right. The front door stood wide open, and, more
worryingly, an ambulance was parked outside. Instantly, her mind
raced with the most likely reasons. Had someone slipped on the wet
stage and broken a leg? Had there been a fall from that damned fly
floor ladder? Had one of the more senior actors had a heart attack?
Her feet raced towards the theatre as a police car pulled into the
loading bay, its siren blaring.

Now she was
really panicked. She dived through the door and started down the
corridor towards the stage, but heard voices in the auditorium. She
yanked hard on the bar holding the fire-exit closed and pulled the
double doors open.

There were two
safety-jacketed ambulance staff bending over a blond figure slumped
in a seat with his head between his knees. One of them eased him up
enough to hold an oxygen mask to his face. Beyond them, another
figure looked up at the noise of her entrance. When she recognised
Nathan’s dreadlocks, she looked harder at the patient being treated
and realised it was Stewart.

‘Is he all
right?’ she blurted, running along the cross-aisle towards them.
‘What’s happened?’

The ambulance
man held up a warning hand.

‘Stop where you
are, please. He’s OK. Now, could you go back to the door and see if
the police are here yet?’

As if hearing
their cue, two blue-shirted police officers appeared in the doorway
behind her. The ambulance man gave them a tiny nod towards the back
of the auditorium. The policemen skirted round Jessica, approached
the back row of seats, and leaned down briefly. They both stood up
and one of them pulled out his radio. In clipped bursts of speech,
sprinkled with spoken numbers, he communicated with what Jessica
decided was probably a higher authority, his demeanour changing
from watchful assessment to barely-suppressed excitement.

Stewart pulled
the mask away from his face and looked towards Jessica. Even from
fifteen feet away she could see the dull horror in his eyes. She
took a step towards him but pulled up short, turning to the nearest
police officer for permission. He shook his head. She gestured
helplessly to Stewart and sent him a supportive smile. Behind him,
looking equally shaken, Nathan rested a hand on Stewart’s
shoulder.

One police
officer stayed at the aisle end of the back row. The other spoke
quietly to the ambulance men, then approached Jessica.

‘Hi, I’m
Constable Wilkins. You are?’

‘Jessica Jones.
I’m the theatre manager. Can you tell me what’s happened?’

Adrenaline was
flooding her system and she could barely stop her voice from
shaking.

‘We need to get
a few things organised first, Jessica,’ he said calmly. ‘Are more
people likely to be arriving here any time soon?’

‘Er, yes.
There’s a rehearsal due to start in half an hour. The cast should
be turning up in ten or fifteen minutes.’

‘Then I’m
afraid you’ll need to stand out front and let them know it’s been
cancelled. We’re going to be closing off this place as soon as the
team gets here and nobody will be allowed in. Is there anybody else
in the building?’

‘I have no
idea. I only just got here myself. Look, can I please just go and
talk to Stewart? He may know what’s going on and he looks really
upset.’ She swallowed hard.

He put a
friendly hand on her arm and steered her towards the door. ‘You can
talk to him in a little while. He’s being looked after for now. The
most helpful thing you can do is to turn away any newcomers.’ He
paused. ‘I’m assuming you’ll know them all… and have records of
their contact details? We’ll probably need to talk to them later
on.’

‘Yes, I can
give you a cast and crew list right now if you want. There are
copies up in the office.’

‘Not this
minute, thanks,’ he said, still gently. ‘Just go out there and stop
people coming in for now, all right? Oh, and try not to touch
anything like light switches or door handles unless you absolutely
have to, OK?’

Numbly, she
walked out to the front door. The ambulance was still parked by the
kerb. Standing on the pavement, she started to shiver.

Gazza appeared
round the corner wearing his familiar cap and a ratty old
sweat-shirt from a long-ago rock concert. He glanced at the
ambulance. It was all she could do not to fling herself at him.

‘Hey, Gazza.
How are you doing?’ She tried for casual but didn’t quite make
it.

He looked at
her closely. ‘What’s going on? Somebody’s sick? Jeez, you’re white
as a sheet. You all right?’

‘I would be if
I knew what the hell was going on. Stewart and Nathan are inside,
there’s an ambulance parked out front, and now the cops are taking
over the place. I’m supposed to stop anyone from going in for
rehearsal.’

‘Hm. That
sounds a bit serious.’

‘You think?’
she laughed shakily.

‘Want me to
stick around for a bit?’

‘Yeah, all
right.’

Gazza’s solid
presence was surprisingly comforting. She took a few deep breaths
and started to feel more normal. Her pulse rate was almost down to
its usual level when the sudden blip of a police siren in a nearby
side street sent it soaring again.

‘Bloody hell!
Do they have to do that?’

‘Probably
better than running over that cyclist,’ he pointed out.

Two more police
cars pulled up outside the theatre and four officers got out. Two
were carrying equipment cases, while the other two looked more
senior.

‘I guess
this’ll be The Team. The cop inside said they were on their way.’
Jessica watched the two senior officers conferring. ‘D’you think
they’re deciding who’s good cop and who’s bad cop?’ She tried to
joke.

‘Nah, they’re
deciding who gets to use the taser,’ smiled Gazza.

The ones
carrying equipment cases approached them at the door.

‘They’re in
there,’ offered Jessica, pointing. ‘They asked me to stop anyone
else from going in.’

They thanked
her and went inside, pausing in the corridor to slip plastic covers
over their shoes.

‘Did you see
that?’ hissed Jessica. ‘That makes the theatre a crime scene! What
the hell has been going on in there? What on earth were Stewart and
Nathan up to, for God’s sake?’

The two senior
officers finished their conversation and walked over towards the
door.

‘Evening, all,’
said the younger one, earning a sharp look from his grey-haired
superior. ‘This is the Regent Theatre, is it?’

Jessica looked
up at the billboard space which displayed “Regent Theatre” in
two-foot-high letters across the front of the entire building. He
followed her gaze.

‘Ah. First
thing they teach us in police interrogation classes – start with an
easy question to get the subject talking freely.’ He smiled,
ignoring the now glaring officer beside him. ‘I’m Detective Senior
Sergeant Jack Matherson and this is Detective Inspector Carthew. I
hear you may have had a spot of bother round here then?’

Jessica
blinked. A spot of bother? Was this guy for real? He certainly
looked like a policeman. Tall, well-muscled, with dark hair cut
crisply above his collar. His clothes sat well and his shoes were
polished to the point of overkill. Nice eyes, too.

Detective
Inspector Carthew took over, tired of waiting for his subordinate
to get on with it. ‘Come on Jack, we’ve got a crime scene to
investigate.’ He nodded to Jessica. ‘We’ll come and speak to you
when we’ve had a look around. Please stay here until told
otherwise. Thank you.’

‘But hold on,’
began Jessica. ‘Can’t you tell me what’s happened?’

But Detective
Inspector Carthew was gone. Jack Matherson shrugged apologetically
and followed him.