‘Yes, but he doesn’t go carrying boxes of toys around, does he, if he’s the general manager. He gets some dogsbody to do that.’

Richmond fingered his moustache. ‘Maybe you’re right. What was your impression of him? Do you know him well?’

She shook her head. ‘Not well, no. He’d drop in once in a while. We might have a cup of tea and a chat about how things were going.’

‘That’s all?’

She raised her left eyebrow and squinted her right eye almost shut. ‘And just what might you mean by that?’

‘I’m not sure, really. He didn’t make a pass at you or anything?’

‘Mr Cooper? Make a pass?’ She laughed. ‘You obviously don’t know him.’

‘So he never did?’

‘Never. The thought of it…’ She laughed again.

‘Did he ever talk about things other than business? Personal things.’

‘No. He kept himself to himself.’

‘Did you ever hear him mention a woman called Caroline Hartley?’

She shook her head.

‘Veronica Shildon?’

‘No. He hardly ever mentioned his own wife, only when I asked after her. I’d met her once or twice at company do’s, you see, so it’s only polite to ask after her, isn’t it?’

‘Was there anything odd about him at all?’ Richmond asked. ‘Think. Surely you must have felt or noticed something at some time?’

Rachel frowned. ‘Look, there is something… but I don’t like to speak out of turn.’

‘It’s not out of turn,’ Richmond said, leaning forward. ‘Remember, this is a murder investigation. What is it?’

‘Well, I could be wrong. It was just a couple of times, you know.’

‘What?’

‘I think he’s a drinker.’

‘In what way? We’re drinking right now.’

‘I don’t know, but not like this. A secret drinker, a problem drinker, whatever you call it.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I could smell alcohol on his breath sometimes, early in the day, when he hadn’t bothered to take one of those awful breath mints he usually smelled of. And once I saw him take a little flask out of his pocket in the stockroom when he thought I wasn’t looking. I can’t be sure what it was, of course, but…’

Could there be anything in it? Richmond wondered. Rachel Pierce had certainly given him a new perspective on the Coopers, but whether it would lead him to a murderer, he couldn’t tell. So the man drank, so he had lied about his alibi – a silly lie, at that, an easy one to check – but it might not mean anything. One thing was certain, though, Banks would want to visit the Coopers again very soon, and he wouldn’t be as gentle as he had been on previous occasions.

Richmond looked over at Rachel. Her glass was nearly empty.

‘Another?’ he asked.

‘I shouldn’t.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘I think I can say I’m officially off duty now,’ he said. ‘Come on, it won’t do any harm.’

She looked at him a long time. He couldn’t fathom the expression on her face. Then she said, ‘All right, then. Another one.’

‘Wonderful. There’s just one thing I have to do first.’

She raised an eyebrow.

‘Call my boss,’ Richmond said. ‘Don’t go away. I won’t be a minute.’

He glanced back and saw her smiling into her glass as he made for the telephone.

FOUR

Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness

Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.

How easy is it for the proper – false

In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms!

Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we!

For such as we are made of, such we be.

How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly,

And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;

And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.

What will become of this? As I am man,

My state is desperate for my master’s love.

As I am woman – now alas the day! -

What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!

O Time, thou must untangle this, not I;

It is too hard a knot for me t’untie!

‘Better, Faith darling, much better! Perhaps just a bit more introspection – remember, it is a soliloquy – but not too serious.’ James Conran turned to Banks. ‘What did you think?’

‘I thought she was very good.’

‘Do you know the play?’

‘Yes. Not well. But I know it.’

‘So you know how it “fadges” then?’

‘They all marry the ones they want and live happily ever after.’

Conran stuck a finger in the air. ‘Ah, not quite, Chief Inspector. Malvolio, remember, ends by vowing revenge on the lot of them for making a fool of him.’

All that Banks remembered about the end of Twelfth Night was the beautiful song the Clown sang alone when everyone else had walked off to their fates. It was on his Deller Consort tape. ‘For the rain it raineth every day,’ the refrain went. It had always seemed a curiously sombre song to end a comedy with. But nothing was black and white, especially in Shakespeare’s world.

‘Perhaps you’d care to see us on opening night,’ Conran said. ‘Complimentary tickets, of course.’

‘Yes, I would. Very much.’ Accepting free tickets to an amateur production could hardly be called being on the take, Banks thought. ‘Will you be much longer here?’ he asked. ‘I’d like to talk to some of the cast members. Maybe it would be more comfortable over in the Crooked Billet.’

Conran frowned. ‘What on earth would you want to talk to them about?’

‘Police business.’

Definitely not pleased, Conran looked at his watch and clapped his hands. The actors walked off stage and went for their coats.

After they had dashed down the alley in the chilly evening, the warmth of the Crooked Billet greeted them like a long lost friend. They unbuttoned their coats and hung them by the door, then pulled two tables together near the fire to accommodate the thirsty thespians. Banks tried to keep track of the introductions and the links between actors and roles. Olivia, played by Teresa Pedmore, and Viola, Faith Green, interested him the most Marcia Cunningham, the costumes and props manager, was there too. It was a casual and unorthodox method of questioning possible suspects, Banks was aware, but he wanted to get as much of a feel of the troupe as he could before he decided where to go from there.

‘I still can’t imagine why you want to talk to the cast,’ Conran complained. ‘Surely you can’t think one of us had anything to do with poor Caroline’s death?’

‘Don’t be so bloody naive, Mr Conran. There’s a chance that anyone who knew her might have done it. Certainly she seemed to know her killer, as there was no sign of forced entry. How long did you stay at the pub the night she died?’

‘I don’t know. About an hour, I suppose. Maybe a bit longer.’

‘Until just after seven?’

‘About that, yes.’

‘Then you went home?’

‘Yes. I told you.’

‘There you are, then. You could be lying. You’ve got no alibi at all.’

Conran reddened and his hand tightened on his glass. ‘Now just wait-’

But Banks ignored Conran completely and went to the bar for another drink. The director certainly seemed jumpy. Banks wondered why. Maybe it was just his artistic temperament.

When he got back to the table, his seat had been taken by a distraught Sir Toby Belch, who seemed to think his part could do with some expansion (perhaps to match his stomach) despite the limitations Shakespeare had imposed.

Banks managed to squeeze himself in between Teresa Pedmore and Faith Green, not a bad place to be at all. Teresa was deep in conversation with the man on her right, so Banks turned to Faith and complimented her on her rendering of Viola’s soliloquy. She blushed and replied quickly, her breathy voice pitched quite low.

‘Thank you. It’s very difficult. I have no formal training. I’m a schoolteacher and I do like to get involved with the plays the department puts on, but… It’s so difficult doing Twelfth Night. I have to remember that I’m really a woman dressed as a man talking about a woman who seems to have fallen in love with me. It’s all very strange, a bit perverted really.’ She put her hand to her mouth and touched Banks’s arm. ‘Oh God, I shouldn’t have said that, should I? Not after poor Caroline…’