Golden Mile to Murder by Sally Spencer

standing.
    â€˜I’m afraid you’ll have to go now, sir,’ he said.
    â€˜Are you the manager?’ Woodend asked.
    â€˜No, but that’s got nothing to do with—’
    Woodend produced his warrant card. ‘Central Lancashire CID,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see the manager.’
    â€˜The show was within the bounds of what’s permitted by law,’ the barker protested. ‘Well within the bounds.’
    â€˜Maybe it was,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But I’d still like to see the manager.’
    For a moment it looked as if the barker were about to argue further, then he shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘You’d better follow me.’
    He led Woodend to a door at the edge of the stage, knocked and then turned the handle without waiting for a reply.
    â€˜There’s a bobby here to see you, Mr Gutteridge,’ he said.
    Over his shoulder, Woodend got a clear view of the office and the man the barker had been addressing. Gutteridge was in his early fifties, and had a mane of grey hair swept dramatically back, almost touching his shoulders. His office – in contrast to his own distinguished appearance – was little more than a cubbyhole. Most of the space was taken up by an old metal desk and two chairs. The rest was occupied by props from the various tableaux which, under the harsh light of a single naked bulb, looked even tattier than they had on stage.
    â€˜A bobby?’ the manager repeated. ‘A guardian of the law? But I was under the impression that all our little difficulties in that direction had been satisfactorily resolved.’
    â€˜He’s not from the
local
force,’ the barker said hastily. ‘He’s come from Central Lancs Headquarters.’
    The manager ran the fingers of his left hand through his mane. ‘I see,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘And he would be –?’
    â€˜I would be Chief Inspector Woodend,’ Woodend said, answering for himself. ‘Would you mind if I asked you a few questions, Mr Gutteridge?’
    â€˜Not at all, my dear man,’ the manager assured him. He turned his attention to the barker. ‘Your public awaits you, Clive. Fly to them! Tread the boards like a colossus. Do all that is in your power to make them part with their five bobs.’
    The barker shook his head as if he’d just been addressed in a foreign language – but had somehow managed to understand anyway – and departed. Woodend stepped into the office, closed the door behind him and manoeuvred his way around the props to the vacant chair.
    â€˜So how can I be of assistance you, Chief Inspector?’ the manager asked.
    â€˜When your lad Clive told you I was from the police, you said you thought that – what were your exact words? – that the
matter
had been “satisfactorily resolved”. What exactly did you mean by that?’
    â€˜That the difficulties we strolling players all so often have to face had been dealt with.’
    â€˜Would you care to be specific?’
    Gutteridge laughed. ‘I have toured the length and breadth of this great country of ours with my troop,’ he said. ‘I have given my audiences
Hamlet
and
Antigone
,
Doctor Faustus
and
Lady Windermere
. My company has brought tears to eyes of the many, but there are always the few – the groundling element – who have attempted to cause disruption. And if that is true of presentations of the classics, think how much more common it must be in a show which has less merit than the crudest Elizabethan burlesque.’
    â€˜You’re sayin’ you’ve had a bit of trouble with your punters,’ Woodend translated.
    â€˜Precisely!’ Gutteridge agreed enthusiastically. ‘They come not to hear the immortal words of the Bard, but to gaze at naked flesh. Many of them arrive already fired up with alcoholic beverages –’
    â€˜Drunk,’ Woodend supplied.