‘I thought it was very good. Very witty. William enjoyed it too.’
‘You took your son?’
Hawthorne nodded. ‘His school closed early for staff training and the kids had the afternoon off.’
‘He didn’t think it was too violent?’
‘You should see his school!’ Hawthorne lit a cigarette before I could stop him. ‘He didn’t get some of it, but nor did I – and that gave us something to talk about afterwards.’
I felt an unusual sense of warmth towards Hawthorne and I was annoyed with myself for what I’d just been thinking. ‘You should have let me buy the tickets,’ I said. ‘I could have got them half-price.’
‘That’s OK, Tony. They were selling them two for the price of one anyway.’
The theatre was right in front of us. The pavement outside the main entrance was deserted. Not a good sign.
‘I suppose we’re here to see the actors,’ I said. ‘They’ll be onstage in an hour.’
‘Plenty of time, mate. Lucky it’s a small cast!’
We ducked round the side and went up Lumley Court, one of those old, forgotten alleyways that London does so well. On one side, the wall was topped with razor wire. On the other, a set of double doors provided an emergency exit from the theatre itself. Hawthorne tested the doors – he did it without thinking – and seemed to be pleased that they were firmly secured. We then climbed a short flight of concrete steps that led up to Maiden Lane and the stage door.
I remembered coming here after the first-night party when I was still hoping the play would be a success. It felt like a lifetime ago … and someone else’s life.
The back of the theatre felt even more deserted than the front, but, as always, Keith was perched at his desk, surrounded by old-fashioned telephones with large punch buttons and four small TV screens. I have described him as the deputy stage-door manager, but he’d only been at the theatre for a short while and it was unclear if he was temporary or permanent. He was only in his thirties – most of the stage-door managers I’d met had been much older than that and very much the cornerstone of the buildings they guarded. Keith was more wayward, sitting with his legs stretched out, displaying grubby jeans and trainers. Whenever I went past him, he seemed to be rolling a cigarette, although I’d never actually seen him smoke one.
‘Good evening, Keith,’ I said.
‘Oh, hello, Anthony! How are you doing?’ One thing that he’d definitely got right was that he was always cheerful. Bad reviews, poor audiences, murder … he took them all in his stride.
‘I’m OK, thanks, Keith.’ He had never told me his surname. ‘How are we doing?’
He had a rash on his neck and he scratched it. ‘We’ve taken a knock with some of those reviews,’ he admitted. ‘Critics can be bastards. But we’ve got a decent audience. Not too bad for midweek.’
It was actually Thursday.
‘It’ll pick up at the weekend,’ he went on. ‘These days it’s all about word of mouth. You’ll see.’
Meanwhile, Hawthorne had been examining the television screens. There were only four of them, but they showed six different views of the theatre, the fuzzy black-and-white images shifting as one camera took over from another. I saw the main entrance to the foyer with a few early arrivals trickling in, the stage door and a stretch of Maiden Lane, the stairs leading down to the dressing rooms, the entire length of Lumley Court looking down to the Strand, the auditorium – with row upon row of empty seats waiting, perhaps forlornly, to be filled – and the stage itself, with a stagehand sweeping the floor. ‘Do these just show you what’s happening, or do they also record?’ he asked.
‘This is Daniel Hawthorne,’ I explained. ‘He’s a detective. He’s looking into the murder of Harriet Throsby.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Keith’s face fell. ‘I’ve had it up to here with that, to be honest with you. We had the police in and out all day yesterday, asking all sorts of stupid questions. Did I see Harriet Throsby arrive? Of course I did!’ He pointed at the screen showing the front entrance. ‘That’s what I’m here for! They went on and on about those bloody knives. I didn’t buy them! I just handed them over. And they’ve only gone and closed the green room. Why would they do that? She wasn’t murdered there! They still haven’t told me if I’m allowed to open it …’
‘You saw her arrive,’ Hawthorne said, repeating what Keith had just told him.