‘Mr Wilkes!’ she hissed back. ‘If you persist in these interruptions, I shall have to ask you to leave.’ ‘This is a theatre, policewoman, not an extension of your bloody Incident Room.’ Wilkes was a patient man. But his theatre had come into disrepute recently. He felt fingers pointed at him wherever he went over Gordon Goodacre and the whole place felt like an endless crime scene. It was like doing An Inspector Calls for ever. Jane had no time to take the awkward bastard out. ‘Jane. Over here.’ Magda Lupescu stood stock still centre stage right, looking up, her elegant hands posed theatrically on her pointed chin. Jane scowled at Wilkes and pounded off down the gentle, carpeted slope of the central aisle. She found herself climbing the steps and standing downstage of the strange woman. ‘Something?’ she asked. Magda’s eyes were closed, one foot pointing downward on tip-toe. ‘How old was Gordon Goodacre?’ she asked.
