“Then look somewhere else,” Julian said. “You won't find him here.”
At the far end of the room the door opened and a constable escorted Julian's father into the Long Gallery. He said to Lynley, “I found this one in the parlour, sir. Emmes has gone on to the gardens.” Jeremy Britton disengaged his arm from DC Benson's hand. He looked confused by the turn of events. He looked frightened. But he didn't look drunk. He came to Julian and squatted before him.
He said, “You all right, my boy?” and although the words were ever so slightly slurred, it occurred to Julian that the enunciation was prompted by Jeremy's concern for him and not the result of his addiction to drink.
This realisation made his heart suddenly warm. Warm to his father, warm to his cousin, and warm to the connections implied by family. He said, “I'm okay, Dad,” and he made room for Jeremy on the floor by the fireplace. He did this by scooting closer to Sam.
In response, she returned her arm to his shoulders. “I'm so glad of that,” she said.
CHAPTER 30
arbara chose a venue that Matthew King-Ryder would know intimately: the Agincourt Theatre, where his father's production of Hamlet was being mounted. But after Nkata passed this message on to King-Ryder from the phone box in South Kensington, he made it clear that he wasn't about to let his fellow DC meet with a killer alone.
“Are you a convert to King-Ryder-as-killer, then?” Barbara asked her colleague.
“Seems like only one reason he'd know the number of this phone box.” Nkata sounded mournful, however, and when he went on, Barbara understood why. “Can't think why he'd go after his own dad. Makes me wonder, that.”
“He wanted more lolly than his dad left for him. He saw only one way to get it.”
“But how'd he come by that music in the first place? His dad wouldn't've told him, would he?”
“Tell your own son—tell anyone, in fact—that you're plagiarising your old mate's work? I don't think so. But he was his dad's manager, Winnie. He must have come across that music somewhere.”
They walked to Barbara's car in Queen's Gate Gardens. Nkata had told King-Ryder to meet him at the Agincourt half an hour from the moment he rang off. “You're there too early and I'm not showing my face,” he had warned King-Ryder. “You just thank your stars I'm willing to negotiate on your own turf.”
King-Ryder was to see to it that the stage door was unlocked. He was also to see to it that the building was unoccupied.
The drive into the West End took them less than twenty minutes. There, the Agincourt Theatre stood next to the Museum of Theatrical History, on a narrow side street off Shaftesbury Avenue. Its stage door was opposite a line of skips serving the Royal Standard Hotel. No windows overlooked it, so Barbara and Nkata could enter the Agincourt unobserved.
Nkata took a position in the last row of the stalls. Barbara placed herself off stage, in the deep darkness provided by a bulky piece of scenery. Although the traffic and the pedestrians outside the theatre had made a din that seemed to run the length of Shaftesbury Avenue, inside the building it was tomb-silent. So when their quarry entered by the stage door some seven minutes later, Barbara heard him.
He did everything as Nkata had instructed him. He closed the door. He made his way to the backstage area. He flipped on the working lights above the stage. He walked to stage centre. He stood pretty much where Hamlet would probably lie dying in Horatio's arms, Barbara realised. It was such a nice touch.
He looked out into the darkened theatre and said, “All right, damn you. I'm here.”
Nkata spoke from the back, where the shadows obscured him. “So I see.”
King-Ryder took a step forward and said unexpectedly in a high, pained voice, “You killed him, you filthy bastard. You killed him. Both of you. All of you. And I swear to God, I'll make you pay.”
“I didn't do no killing. I done no traveling to Derbyshire lately.”
“You know what I'm talking about. You killed my father.”
Barbara frowned as she heard this. What the hell was he on about?
“Seems like I heard that bloke shot himself,” Nkata said.
“And why? Just why the hell do you think he shot himself? He needed that music. And he would have had it—every sodding sheet of it—if you and your fucking mates … He shot himself because he thought … he believed … My father believed …” King-Ryder's voice broke. “You killed him. Give me that music. You killed him.”
“We need to make ourselfs an arrangement first.”
“Come into the light where I can see you.”
“Don't think so. What I figure is this: What you can't see, you don't hurt.”
“You're mad if you think I'll hand over a wad of money to someone I can't even see.”
“Expected your dad to do the same though.”
“Don't mention him to me. You're not fit to speak his name.”
“Feeling guilty?”
“Just give me that God damn music. Step up here. Act like a man. Hand it over.”
“It's going to cost you.”