Page 7

7

Tabitha was walking to the police station when Julia drew up in her car. Julia gave a quick toot of the horn to attract her friend’s attention. Tabitha stopped and waited for her to park and get out of the car. They greeted each other with a warm hug and lingered in front of the station for a moment, neither eager to go in.

‘How are you feeling?’ asked Julia. ‘Did you manage to sleep?’

‘I feel like I was awake the entire night, but it probably wasn’t the whole night. You?’

‘Like a log.’

‘Goes without saying.’ Tabitha smiled. In the forty-something years the women had known each other, Julia had always been an excellent sleeper, and Tabitha a reluctant one. Tabitha looked grey and tired, and her smile was tight and dissipated quickly. ‘I keep thinking about Wednesday, when we were at your house sorting out the props. Do you think the prop gun was loaded then? I keep imagining, what if it had gone off? It could have been you who…’

‘Or you.’

‘I know. I mean, not that it’s not awful that it was Graham. Or anyone, of course. And I put the gun in Oscar’s pocket, Julia,’ Tabitha said. ‘From my hand to his pocket, to his hand. And it was his hand that pulled the trigger and ended Graham’s life. I can’t stop thinking about it.’

‘I’m so sorry, Tabitha. It’s horrible. But there’s no way you could have known there was a bullet in that gun. It wasn’t even a real gun.’

‘I should have checked.’

‘I’m the one who put the gun in the cupboard. I also didn’t notice anything.’

‘I just feel so responsible.’

‘Well, I don’t, and I’m as involved as you are. It was just a prop; we would never have thought it necessary to check for bullets. Would you even know how to check?’

‘No. What do I know about guns?’

‘I suppose we’d better go in,’ Julia said. The dashboard clock had told her it was three minutes to eleven, which meant it must be eleven now. Julia did not like to be late. Tabitha nodded. As they reached the door, Oscar pushed it open. He almost staggered out, unsteady on his feet. His breath came in rasps, as if he was gasping for oxygen.

‘Hello, Oscar,’ said Julia. ‘How are you feeling?’

He seemed surprised, as if he hadn’t noticed them standing right there outside the door. ‘Feeling? Oh, well, you know. I don’t know what to say. It’s awful. The accident. Graham. And poor Jane. The police. Have you seen her?’

‘Hayley Gibson? No. We are on our way in.’

‘Not her, Jane. I’m so worried about her. She must be in an awful state.’

‘Jane is with her daughter, Hannah,’ Julia said. ‘Sean gave her a lift there last night. At least they are together. ’

‘Well, that’s better than…Does she blame me, do you think? I blame myself, of course. It was madness. Amateur dramatics! The stage! And Jane. Poor Jane. The situation. What was I thinking? Quelle horreur .’

Julia was worried about Oscar, who was clearly (if understandably) distraught, and quite all over the place. His sentences seemed to emerge unrelated. And now in French.

‘Do you have someone to fetch you, Oscar? You’ve been through a lot: the accident, and the interview with the police. Wouldn’t it be best if you weren’t alone? Is there someone we could phone?’

He didn’t answer her direct questions, instead continuing his rambling. ‘I was at school with Jane, you know. We were friends then. We lost touch when I went to law school, but reconnected when I came back. And now look what I’ve done to them.’

Tabitha put an arm around him. ‘I know how you feel, Oscar. I share your feelings of culpability. I wrote the stupid play. And I was the one who put the gun in your pocket. I didn’t sleep last night because of it. But neither of us is to blame. It was a prop. It was supposed to be safe.’

Tabitha’s words and her acknowledgement of their shared experience seemed to calm him. ‘Do you think so, really?’ he asked, tentatively. ‘Maybe, I mean, you could be right. But the thing is, I…’

‘You can’t blame yourself. It was no one’s fault,’ Tabitha said. It was almost as if she was convincing herself.

‘Neither of you is to blame,’ Julia said, firmly. ‘Somebody put that bullet in the gun, and it wasn’t either of you.’

The door flew open before Julia could say anything more, almost hitting Oscar as it slammed back against the wall. All three of them stepped back as Regional Superintendent Roger Grave burst out of the station, his face a tortured grimace .

‘Out of the way,’ he snapped. His thumb pressed down forcefully and repeatedly on his electronic car key, causing a hysterical beep beep beep and a concurrent flash flash flash of lights from a smart grey BMW parked a few spaces from Julia’s little Fiat. He strode over to it, opened the door and got in, slamming the car door behind him. The BMW took off with a roar that tore the Sunday-morning quiet of the Berrywick high street.

‘Someone’s not happy,’ said Oscar. ‘He probably feels guilty too.’

‘Well, he did source the prop gun,’ said Julia. ‘And he said that he checked it.’

‘Yes, that. But I meant he must feel bad because he had words with Graham before the performance last night.’

‘Words?’ Tabitha asked.

‘Yes. I suppose you would call it “creative differences”.’ Oscar made air quotes with his fingers around the last phrase. ‘Graham was not happy with some of Roger’s last-minute direction. And Roger was not happy with Graham’s sudden new tweaks for the character. There was a tension between the two of them these last few weeks, to be honest. Words were had at the last rehearsal. Roger probably feels bad. I mean, we all do, don’t we? Who of us is truly innocent in this blighted world? Not me, that’s for sure.’

Oscar’s manner was a little concerning. Julia realised she knew nothing about his life, or his family. She hoped he was going home to someone supportive and calming.

The door opened again, more gently this time, and Walter Farmer’s head appeared. ‘Are you coming in?’ he asked. ‘It’s 11.05. DI Gibson is ready for you.’

‘Yes, sorry. I didn’t notice the time. I’m ready,’ said Julia, who hated to be late, even by five minutes. ‘Goodbye, Oscar. Take care of yourself. If you need a cup of tea and a chat, give me a ring. ’

The two women followed Walter Farmer into the police station. They went straight through to DI Hayley Gibson’s office.

‘Right, hello, sit down.’ Hayley was all business, barely pausing for such niceties as a greeting. ‘I’m waiting on forensics; it’s been fast-tracked, obviously, given the circumstances. You two were responsible for the props. I need you to take me through where the gun was at all times in the last few days.’

Julia looked at Tabitha and gave her a nod, deferring to her as the chief prop master.

‘We went through all the props and accessories on Wednesday,’ said Tabitha.

‘Back up a bit,’ said Hayley. ‘When did you get the gun?’

‘It must have been Monday. Roger Grave got it from a place that supplies prop guns, and he got all the licences and stood as the registered prop master for the gun.’

‘What did Roger Grave say when he gave it to you? Did he say he had checked it for bullets?’

Tabitha nodded. ‘He did, actually. He mentioned that, just in passing. I picked it up a bit nervously. I’m not used to guns. And he said something about it just being a chunk of metal designed to look like a gun, but not actually shoot. And then he said that there was no bullet because he’d looked in the chamber and that’s what police are trained to do.’

‘And did he say anything about how you should handle it? Anything like that?’

‘No. He didn’t have to. It was just a prop. It wasn’t in use. Not for shooting . He just handed it over.’

‘And what did you do with it?’ Hayley was taking notes as Tabitha spoke.

‘I put it in the props cupboard backstage, with all the other accessories.’

‘Was the cupboard locked?’

‘No. It’s a village hall. I mean, there’s no reason…I fetched all the small accessories on Wednesday to go through them a final time, and make last-minute decisions with Julia.’

By the way DI Gibson nodded, Julia understood that Tabitha’s account tallied with Roger’s.

‘Thinking back to Wednesday. When you held the gun, did you notice any difference from when you’d held it on Monday? The weight, perhaps. Anything at all?’

Tabitha shook her head.

‘Julia?’

‘No. I held it briefly both times, but I couldn’t say that I’d even notice if there was anything different.’

‘Okay. Now, after the two of you had your Wednesday sort-through, what happened to the props?’

Tabitha answered, ‘We packed them up and I took them back to the hall, where they went back in the cupboard. They were used for the dress rehearsal, and went back until Saturday night’s performance.’

Hayley frowned. ‘At the dress rehearsal, was the gun used?’

‘Yes.’

Hayley nodded. ‘Did you take out the gun on Saturday, Tabitha?’

Tabitha looked stricken at the memory of that fateful night. ‘Yes. I did. I took it out and put it into the pocket of the jacket Oscar was wearing, so it was there when he needed it.’

‘What was your relationship with Graham Powell like, Tabitha?’ said Hayley. Hayley’s voice was casual but her eyes were sharp. Julia froze. But Tabitha didn’t seem at all worried by the question.

‘I know his wife Jane better, she’s in our book club. But Graham always seemed like a nice man. I don’t think anyone would want to hurt him, Hayley.’

‘Right.’ Hayley was quiet, seemingly deep in thought, the pen tapping rhythmically on the pad of paper in front of her. ‘So what happens now? Is it just ruled an accidental death? ’

‘No, Tabitha, I’m afraid not. There was a bullet in that gun, and that bullet killed a man. Someone put a bullet in it. Someone loaded that gun, and I can see no reason that they would do so if they didn’t mean to kill Graham. Someone who handled the gun that day is a murderer.’