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Price stared hard at both detectives. “This is not an inside job, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nearly all of the people who work for the theatre retire. As I’ve said, we’re all happy to work here.”
Gardener doubted that very much. “If you say so.”
The DI changed topics again. “Let’s talk about the general public. We all know that it can’t be easy dealing with them. People tend to complain about all sorts of things. The price of tickets, seating availability, have you experienced anything of the sort recently? Received any intimidating letters? Complaints about the standard of shows, for example?”
The manager snorted and then laughed. “You really do watch too much Agatha Christie. Do you honestly think someone is going to murder for the price of a ticket?”
Gardener had had enough of Price’s demeaning manner. “You’d be surprised why one person decides to murder another. But it doesn’t really matter what I think. The information I extract from others is far more important.”
Gardener moved away from the door, leaning over Paul Price’s desk. He spoke slowly and methodically, his anger having reached its peak.
“Now, as I’ve already said, we’re conducting a murder investigation. I don’t think you realise how important it is. So, when I ask you a question, I would like a straightforward answer, not some snotty-nosed derogatory remark filled with sarcasm. Or, for that matter, your opinions. That way, we’ll all be through a lot faster and still be friends.”
Price’s expression would have stopped electricity travelling through cables.
Gardener continued. “And where tickets are concerned, I’d like to see your bookings for the whole of this year.” He then added, “Last year as well.”
“Why?”
“So that we can check any last-minute cancellations, advanced bookings made at the start of the season for a reduced rate, see if a new customer has suddenly started appearing at Saturday afternoon matinees when he normally attends evening performances.
“You see, Mr Price, whoever killed Leonard White knew this theatre. He managed to not only get himself in here, but a dead body as well, not to mention concealing it somewhere. Perhaps he’s fooled your staff into thinking he has a connection with the theatre.
“I want to know everything about this place. Attempted break-ins, trespassers, threatening or strange phone calls, obsessive fans, mysterious events at previous performances by earlier theatre groups, everything! Whatever you know about this theatre, I want to know.”
Gardener stood back, folding his arms again. “And for that matter, I’m going to make it my job to find out everything you don’t know.”
A resounding knock on the door broke the tension. Reilly stood up, but Gardener opened it and was met by his colleague, DC Colin Sharp.
“Sir,” said Sharp. “We need you on the stage.”
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
He turned back to the theatre manager. “Well, I think I’ve outlined everything I want, Mr Price. I’ll leave one of my officers on hand to collect the information as soon as you have it.”
“Just hold on, I can’t do all that by myself.”
“Why not?” Gardener replied. “You seem to manage everything else.”
Gardener opened the door to leave, and then turned back. “Two more things. The theatre will be closed until further notice. Second, I’d like a list of all your meetings for today, names and contact numbers.”
“I’m a suspect now, am I?” asked Paul Price.
Both detectives left without answering.
Chapter Five
Albert Fettle was a small stump of a man with a rotund belly that stretched a pair of brown braces almost to breaking point. His legs were too small, his shoes too big. He was bald, had blue eyes, and wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, which he kept pushing back up his nose. His mouth was cavernous, because his teeth were small and stumpy like him. He walked with a limp, his voice was high pitched, and his accent broad West Riding. He was dressed in a checked blue and red lumberjack shirt with rolled-up sleeves and brown pleated trousers.
“Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener and Detective Sergeant Sean Reilly, Mr Fettle.”
Both men showed their warrant cards. They were standing in the corridor leading to the stage. Three of the dressing room doors were open and being searched by SOCOs.
“Aye, I remember you, Stewart Gardener. You won’t remember me, though. Caught you and your mate one time nicking wood from behind my shed.”
Fettle pointed at Gardener but chose to stare at Reilly. “He were bloody selling ’em by the bagful. Took me ages to find out who it was.” The old man smiled and turned back to Gardener. “You made good on yourself, though.”
Gardener vaguely recalled the incident and smiled. “I’m sure you must be mistaken.”
