Did I think Jordan had killed Harriet Throsby? Despite what had happened that night, I thought it unlikely. He was a method actor. He’d mentioned Stanislavski. It seemed that some of the violence of the part had spilled over into his real life. But the murder had taken place at ten o’clock in the morning, long after the party had ended. I could see Jordan lashing out in a fit of anger, in much the same way that he had managed to hurt Sky, but premeditated murder was something else. It just didn’t fit with what I knew of his character. And there was another question. The killer had attempted to frame me. Why would Jordan have done that? We’d become quite friendly during the rehearsals and the out-of-town run. I was quite put out by what he’d just said.
It was as if Hawthorne had been reading my mind. He looked at me with those muddy, innocent eyes. ‘Don’t worry about Jordan Williams, mate. I’m on your side.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘We’ll ask everyone who was in the room what they saw. And then we’ll know the truth.’
Well, I thought, that’s a vote of confidence.
We went downstairs. Dressing Room 6 was the first one we came to, a short way down a brightly lit corridor. The door was half-open and I could hear someone moving on the other side. I looked in to see Tirian Kirke wearing a sweatshirt but no trousers, getting into his costume for the performance, which was now about thirty minutes away. He saw me and smiled, unembarrassed. ‘Hi! I didn’t expect to see you tonight.’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, Tirian. Can we come in? This is Hawthorne. He’s a detective. He’s looking into what happened to Harriet Throsby.’
‘I don’t suppose he’s going to find anything here.’ Tirian grabbed Mark Styler’s trousers and pulled them on. ‘But sure. Come on in. I can make you some tea if you like.’
We made our way in and closed the door behind us.
The room was a little smaller than Jordan’s, but it was much less cluttered, which gave an impression of space. I noticed that Tirian had received just three good luck cards and a single bunch of flowers – much less than the older actor. These first-night offerings were looking a little sad, arranged on a single table with nothing else around them. Everything was very neat and tidy. No dirty clothes or dog-eared paperbacks here. The cushions on his sofa had been arranged at exact intervals and I noticed the towels beside the sink hanging with almost military precision.
As we sat down, he pulled off his sweatshirt, exposing a well-toned chest and shoulders that suggested a lot of time spent in the gym. There was something about him right then that reminded me of James Dean, who had become a cultural icon when he was just twenty-four and who had died the same year. Tirian had the same careless good looks combined with a sense of disengagement, the rebel without a cause. I was reminded that he had just been cast in a major Hollywood picture that might make him a household name and I could already see that he was halfway there. Star quality is hard to define, but I’ve met many young actors before they’ve become famous and they’ve all had it. It’s not exactly physical. It’s not even a force of personality. It’s just a sense of being different; the prescience that one day, quite soon, they’re going to be loved.
‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard about Harriet,’ he said. ‘It’s the most terrible thing to have happened. That poor woman …’
‘You feel sorry for her?’ Hawthorne sounded surprised.
‘Well, of course I do! She’s been killed!’ He stopped himself. ‘I know she said bad things about the play, and I have a suspicion she wasn’t exactly sweetness and light in real life either, but murder is murder and for what it’s worth, she was actually quite nice about me. She said I was one of the most promising actors of my generation.’ He couldn’t resist an approving glance in the make-up mirror. ‘You don’t think one of us did it, do you?’ he went on. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ Hawthorne replied.
‘Well, I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, if you don’t mind me saying so. I mean …’ he held up his hand and began to count the various names off on his thumb and four fingers ‘… Sky. She couldn’t have been kinder to me when I joined the company and she clearly doesn’t have a bad bone in her. Ahmet and Maureen. They’re just a joke. Do you think they’re having it away? I do. They really are the world’s worst producers, as witness those ridiculous daggers they gave us on the first night. I still have mine, by the way. The police came round to my place asking to see it. It was lucky I hadn’t put it in the skip. Funny, isn’t it. So many murder weapons. All identical.’