‘People really take offence at this sort of stuff?’
‘Not any more. Classical Greek scholars find the whole thing particularly amusing.’
‘So we’re not dealing with a deranged Greek?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t rule out anything at this point.’ Bryant turned his attention back to the stage. ‘But I wonder if someone wants to stop the production for another reason.’
‘You have one in mind?’
‘Actually, yes. Elspeth told me I should talk to the owner of the theatre company.’
‘I don’t see what the owner could have to do with this.’
‘Somebody’s spending an awful lot of cash, several thousands of pounds, to get the show to opening night.’
‘When the country needs money for manufacturing weapons? That’s almost treasonous.’
‘Not if you strengthen the spirit of the people. And sell the production to other countries, of course. These days plays are like motion pictures. A production can be simultaneously staged around the world.’
‘You can’t strike prints like you can a film.’
‘No, but you can licence other companies. No, No, Nanette is probably still going strong in Addis Ababa.’
‘I don’t see what someone would gain by stopping the show from opening.’
‘That’s where it gets murky. Rival businesses could be searching for a way to lower the value of their enemies’ stock. Or the backers themselves could sabotage their own production because it has to be insured to the hilt. If they found they’d misjudged the market, or sensed that the show was shaping up badly, they could halt it and claim the insurance. It depends on the equity structure, how the deal is underwritten.’
‘They’d have a tough time convincing the insurance company in this climate,’ said May. ‘War damage must be bankrupting them. Can we check out the backers?’
‘I’ve already briefed the pen-pusher Biddle on that.’
‘I take it you’re not intending to do any more work today, then.’
‘Look here, I had four hours’ sleep last night. There was a frost this morning, and my bedroom ceiling has a hole in it that’s open to the sky. I actually felt like kipping down in the tube, just for warmth.’
‘I don’t know how people can do that. The smell of unwashed bodies on the platform of Covent Garden this morning was terrible.’
‘John, people can get used to anything. Our job is to make sure they don’t get used to murder. I’m going up to place some telephone calls.’ Bryant hauled himself from his seat. ‘Enjoy the rehearsal.’
‘Wait,’ said May. ‘Tanya Capistrania’s role in the show. The method of death. A dancer loses her feet. And the performer assigned to play Jupiter—’
‘Is hit by a planet,’ said Bryant. ‘Yes, the idea had occurred to me that perhaps there’s some grander plan. It’s just so odd that it should happen on a stage.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, the illusory nature of the theatre, I suppose. The whole thing about the stage is that it’s a huge trick, a visual paradox. If you could see the set from overhead, you’d realize that the scenes you see from the stalls only exist as a series of angled flats, with actors slipping between them. The perspectives are far more false than you realize. Designs have an almost Japanese sense of construction, layer upon layer.’
‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at,’ said May.
‘I’m not sure I’m getting at anything,’ Bryant conceded. ‘I need to sleep on the problem. If indeed any of us are allowed to get some sleep. We’ll have to see what the moonlight brings.’
26
REPAIRING THE PAST
What did the moonlight bring? John May walked to the centre of Waterloo Bridge and stopped. Behind him, the suspended wheel of the London Eye stared out along the line of the Thames. May adjusted the nylon Nike backpack strapped between his broad shoulders. He liked modern clothes; they had freed an older generation from constricting suits and ties and tight-fitting toe-capped shoes. He wore trainers and jeans without embarrassment. He was too old to be concerned with the strictures of fashion.
The river had the flat grey dullness of a plastic groundsheet. There were hardly any boats to be seen in either direction. If he closed his eyes he could see the wartime fire barges. The sound of traffic faded from his ears, and the city fell silent. Those Blitz mornings were so quiet and still that one could slip further back in time, to an age of cart-tracks and wooden slums. Now, the past and the silence were gone for ever. The city survived in fragments, as though it had been painted on glass and the glass had shattered.