‘Good evening, Keith,’ I said.

‘Oh, hello, Anthony! How are you doing?’ One thing that he’d definitely got right was that he was always cheerful. Bad reviews, poor audiences, murder … he took them all in his stride.

‘I’m OK, thanks, Keith.’ He had never told me his surname. ‘How are we doing?’

He had a rash on his neck and he scratched it. ‘We’ve taken a knock with some of those reviews,’ he admitted. ‘Critics can be bastards. But we’ve got a decent audience. Not too bad for midweek.’

It was actually Thursday.

‘It’ll pick up at the weekend,’ he went on. ‘These days it’s all about word of mouth. You’ll see.’

Meanwhile, Hawthorne had been examining the television screens. There were only four of them, but they showed six different views of the theatre, the fuzzy black-and-white images shifting as one camera took over from another. I saw the main entrance to the foyer with a few early arrivals trickling in, the stage door and a stretch of Maiden Lane, the stairs leading down to the dressing rooms, the entire length of Lumley Court looking down to the Strand, the auditorium – with row upon row of empty seats waiting, perhaps forlornly, to be filled – and the stage itself, with a stagehand sweeping the floor. ‘Do these just show you what’s happening, or do they also record?’ he asked.

‘This is Daniel Hawthorne,’ I explained. ‘He’s a detective. He’s looking into the murder of Harriet Throsby.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Keith’s face fell. ‘I’ve had it up to here with that, to be honest with you. We had the police in and out all day yesterday, asking all sorts of stupid questions. Did I see Harriet Throsby arrive? Of course I did!’ He pointed at the screen showing the front entrance. ‘That’s what I’m here for! They went on and on about those bloody knives. I didn’t buy them! I just handed them over. And they’ve only gone and closed the green room. Why would they do that? She wasn’t murdered there! They still haven’t told me if I’m allowed to open it …’

‘You saw her arrive,’ Hawthorne said, repeating what Keith had just told him.

‘That’s right.’

‘How did you recognise her?’

‘You get to know all the critics, working in this job.’ Keith eyed Hawthorne suspiciously, as if he resented this further interrogation. ‘I was at the Lyric before I came here and there was a picture of her in the laundry room.’ He smirked. ‘Complete with Hitler moustache.’

‘How long have you been at the Vaudeville?’

‘Two months.’

‘Do you enjoy it?’

‘It’s all right. I used to work in hospitality. Barman at the Best Western in Avonmouth. Night manager at the Bristol Marriott. This is a lot more interesting. We had Emily Blunt in this morning!’

‘Did she buy tickets?’ I asked.

‘No. It was the wrong theatre. She was looking for the Aldwych.’

Hawthorne cut in. ‘So, do the cameras record?’

‘You’ve got to be kidding!’ Keith shook his head disdainfully. ‘All this equipment is rubbish. It’s years out of date. I’m meant to see everything and if there’s anything funny going on, I call Pranav, the stage manager. That’s if the phones are working, but half the time the line’s down!’