‘I’ll leave you in peace for a bit,’ says the paramedic. ‘I’ll come back and check on you in a while. I’m sure someone from production will come and see how you are between shows too.’
‘You’ve been so kind,’ says Elizabeth, and tries to raise her hand to thank her. ‘I should have had something to eat; it’s my own fault.’
Elizabeth watches the paramedic leave and, as soon as she hears the door shut, removes the cold towel from her forehead and sits up.
‘What a nice woman,’ says Elizabeth. ‘A credit.’
‘You really couldn’t have waited?’ says Joyce. ‘Twenty minutes? I barely saw the first round.’
‘You could have stayed,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Fine friend I would have looked then,’ says Joyce. ‘They don’t know you’re a terrible fake, do they? I couldn’t say, oh, she’s a spy, she does this sort of thing all the time. Honestly, slumping to the floor and groaning. You might have warned me.’
‘Oh, Joyce,’ says Elizabeth, helping herself to a banana from the dressing-room fruit bowl. ‘How were we ever going to be able to ask questions from the audience?’
‘We can’t ask questions from here either,’ says Joyce. ‘I’ve missed the whole thing.’
‘You’ll thank me when Fiona Clemence walks through that door to check on me,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Why would she do that?’
‘Joyce, a frail old woman just collapsed on the set of her show,’ says Elizabeth. ‘A frail old woman who collapsed because she wasn’t allowed anything to eat. A frail old woman who would be mollified by Fiona Clemence simply popping her head around the door between shows and asking after her health.’
‘And then what?’
‘And then we play it by ear, Joyce,’ says Elizabeth. ‘As we always do.’
‘I will bet half my Bitcoin account that Fiona Clemence won’t –’
There is a knock at the door. Elizabeth springs back onto the sofa and lies down, just in time for a man in a headset to poke his head around the door.
‘Now, you ladies must be Elizabeth and Joan?’
‘Joyce,’ says Joyce.
‘We are the laughing stock, I know,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Not a bit of it. A little someone wanted to say hello,’ says the man. ‘If you’re up to it?’
‘She is,’ says Joyce.
‘Right you are,’ says the man, and disappears again. Now the door opens, and Fiona Clemence pops her head around it. That auburn hair, so famous from the shampoo adverts, the full smile, so famous from the toothpaste adverts, and the cheekbones honed by genetics and Harley Street.
‘Knock, knock, guess who,’ says Fiona Clemence. ‘You must be Elizabeth and Joan?’
‘Yes,’ says Joyce. Elizabeth sees she is mesmerized.
‘Just wanted to check there was no lasting damage?’ Fiona gives a warm laugh. She is leaning around the door, not troubling the threshold. Clearly not planning to stay. ‘Before I head back out.’
‘If we could detain you for just one moment?’ says Elizabeth.
‘Have to get back,’ says Fiona, smiling. ‘Bosses cracking the whip. Just wanted to check in.’
‘Perhaps we could get a photo?’ Joyce suggests. Good Joyce, good. Elizabeth sees indecision in Fiona’s eyes, and then resignation.
‘Of course,’ says Fiona. ‘Quick one. Forgive the rush.’
Fiona commits to the room, albeit reluctantly, and perches by Elizabeth on the sofa, as Joyce rummages in her cardigan pocket for her phone. Fiona’s photograph smile is already fixed in place.
‘Now,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Time is short, and I need to convey a lot of information to you.’
‘I’m sorry?’ says Fiona, smile still in place. For now.
‘I didn’t faint, I’m not ill, and I don’t want a photograph,’ says Elizabeth quickly. ‘I also pose you no risk, wish you no harm and, indeed, before today, I had no idea who you were.’
‘I …’ says Fiona, smile now drifting off. ‘Really need to be getting off.’
‘I won’t keep you,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Myself and my friend Joyce, by the way, not Joan …’
‘You can call me Joan,’ says Joyce.
‘… are here to investigate the murder of Bethany Waites, who, I know, you knew –’
‘OK, I don’t know what this is …’ says Fiona.
‘Fiona, Fiona,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I won’t be a second. We’re very happy to wait around and speak to you later.’
‘I’m going to talk to security,’ says Fiona. ‘Come on, you know this isn’t right.’
‘Oh, gosh, right, wrong,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Who cares? Two harmless old women, a couple of questions about a murder I’m sure you had nothing to do with.’
‘No one’s saying I had anything to do with it,’ says Fiona. ‘And this is … weird.’
‘A colleague is murdered, and you step into her job,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Threatening notes had been written. You would be a clear suspect, Joyce has left me in no doubt about that.’
‘Well, no, I didn’t exactly say –’ says Joyce.
‘And another woman, Heather Garbutt, has also just been murdered,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Now we’ve spoken to Mike Waghorn, your erstwhile colleague, and we would love to speak to you. I had to fake a fainting fit to get the opportunity, so what do you say?’
‘I say no,’ says Fiona. ‘Obviously.’
There is a knock at the door. ‘Fiona? Back on floor please.’
‘I have to get changed,’ says Fiona, getting up.
Elizabeth stands with her. ‘Fiona, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I mention it in case you find it interesting. My friend Joyce here would not be able to tell you herself, for obvious reasons, but she was, for many years, a very highly decorated member of the British security services.’
Fiona looks at Joyce.
‘I know, you wouldn’t believe it to look at her,’ says Elizabeth.
‘I actually would believe it,’ says Fiona.
‘So we are many things,’ says Elizabeth. ‘A nuisance, yes. Something you could live without, certainly. A pain in the backside, spot on, you’ve got us. But we are also serious, we are also no threat, and we are, believe it or not, once you get to know us, rather a lot of fun.’
There is a knock on the door again. ‘Fiona?’
‘So what I’d love,’ says Elizabeth, ‘is for you to go out and finish your shows, for Joyce to sit in the audience and watch, and then afterwards the three of us can have a drink and a chat, and see if you can help us solve the murder of Bethany Waites.’
Fiona looks between the two of them.
‘There’s a Wimpy on Borehamwood high street,’ says Joyce.
‘Admit it,’ says Elizabeth. ‘We do seem fun? And we are investigating two murders.’
Fiona looks at Joyce. ‘You were really in MI5?’
‘I can’t say,’ says Joyce. ‘I wish that I could.’
‘Take a look in her bag if you don’t believe her,’ says Elizabeth.
Joyce, understandably, looks puzzled as Fiona peeks into her bag. There, in pride of place, is Elizabeth’s gun.
‘Whoah,’ says Fiona.
‘I know,’ says Elizabeth. ‘The worst thing I’ve got in my bag is a packet of Fruit Pastilles.’
Elizabeth sees Joyce take a quick look into her own bag, and, seeing the gun Elizabeth recently slipped into it, shakes her head and gives her friend a despairing look.
‘And you’ve spoken to Mike Waghorn?’ says Fiona.
‘We do little else these days,’ says Elizabeth.
Fiona’s mind is made up. ‘OK, done. A quick drink after the show. I was very fond of Mike Waghorn.’
‘And Bethany?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘You were fond of her?’
Fiona is about to respond, but thinks better of it. ‘Well, we can discuss that after the show, can’t we?’
‘You have been very patient with us, Fiona, thank you,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I promise you will enjoy talking to us.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ says Fiona.
‘Unless you murdered Bethany Waites,’ says Elizabeth. ‘In which case we will be your worst nightmare.’
‘I should think if I murdered Bethany Waites and have been smart enough to get away with it all these years,’ says Fiona, her brilliant smile filling the dressing-room once more, ‘then I might just be your worst nightmare.’
Elizabeth nods. ‘Well, I must say I’m looking forward to this immensely. See you anon. Break a leg.’
52