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“Yes.”
As if to back up Price’s story, a door to the side of the steel shutter opened and a man wearing jeans and a plain black T-shirt came through it.
“Are you Steve Rogers?” asked Gardener.
“Yes.”
“Stay there, please. Where have you been?”
“I stepped outside for a bit of fresh air.” He glanced at the corpse. “It’s not every day you see one of those.”
“Did you see what happened?”
“Not really,” replied Rogers.
Not really. What did that mean?
Gardener heard voices on the other side of the safety curtain. Judging by their impatient comments, he would have to say something.
“Can you get me a microphone?” he asked Price. “When I’ve finished talking to the audience, I’d like a word with your stage manager.”
The man behind the mixing desk, a few feet from Gardener, handed the mic over as he approached the curtain. He stepped around it and walked to the middle of the stage. A hush fell over the crowd. He stood in the centre, unsure what to say, realising that although every one of these people was a possible witness, they were also suspects.
From the stage the theatre was different, particularly as the house lights were on. It was cavernous, and as he gazed upwards, much higher and more daunting than he had ever noticed before. He couldn’t imagine what it took to tread the boards night after night, performing in front of others. He glanced toward the box where he understood his father to be sitting, and nodded.
He focused himself, then addressed the restless crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener.” He flashed his warrant card, aware that no one could actually tell whether or not it was genuine. “I realise how inconvenient all this is going to be, but I have to ask that every one of you remain in your seats until you are told otherwise. I’m afraid there will be no show tonight as planned. I’m sure that most of you will have guessed what you’ve seen is real. It was, and the whole building is now a crime scene. In due course, each and every one of you will be asked your name and a few other details. So, please do not try to leave the theatre before we have spoken to you.”
He couldn’t help but notice the concerned expressions; whether it was for themselves or the death of the actor he wasn’t sure, but knowing the depth of human nature he could guess.
As he turned to leave, the people seated in the front row tried to question him. He ignored them and returned backstage, thankful of the approaching sirens.
He glanced at Paul Price. “Can you confirm for me that the dead man is Leonard White?”
Price simply nodded.
Chapter Three
Back on stage, Gardener switched off the microphone and handed it back to the sound technician. He found Steve Rogers where he’d left him, near the roller shutter door. The fact that it was open when he’d arrived had really bothered him. If the murderer had used it as a means of escape, he could be anywhere by now.
“What time did you start work?”
Rogers glanced at his watch. “About two o’clock this afternoon.”
“I know we’re in a theatre and people come and go, but have you seen anyone suspicious lurking around the place, anyone who is not connected to the production?”
Steve Rogers shrugged his shoulders. “No one I can think of. I mean, it’s only a one-man show, we don’t need much in the way of staff.”
“When was the last time you saw Leonard White?”
“The dead man, you mean?”
“Is there anyone else called Leonard White around here?”
“No, sorry... er... when I came in, just after two.”
“Where was he?” asked Gardener.
“In his dressing room.”
