Three.
Barnaby was not the first one on the scene. As he drew up alongside the theatre entrance and climbed from his car, he was greeted by a cacophony of chattering, talking and bustling. Uniformed officers were talking to blanket-clad, shocked theatre-goers, paramedics and staff were chipping in together and passing round hot drinks, and squad car lights mixed in with those of the ambulances to create a strange blue light-show that rotated slowly.
He slipped through the chaos like a professional, extending greeting nods to officers he recognised, eyes scanning for one particular person.
"Cully!"
She was standing by one of the ambulances. Peering in through the open doors and up into the bright lights, her coat pulled tightly around her. She turned to him, smiling in relief,
"Dad,"
He bustled over to her, resting a hand on her arm,
"Are you all right?"
She smiled, as if expecting such a question,
"I'm fine,"
There was the sound of a panicky voice from inside the ambulance, and he turned to look as a very pale figure, swathed in blankets slowly levered himself up from the trolley inside, a worried looking woman crouched on the floor next to him, her hand on his cheek, muttering his name.
Barnaby screwed up his eyes,
"Is that Roger?"
Cully, following his gaze, nodded,
"Yes. Poor Roger didn't take it very well at all I'm afraid."
Somehow, Barnaby wasn't terribly surprised. He looked back at his daughter.
"You're sure you're all right?"
She smiled again,
"Yes Dad, I'm fine,"
He nodded, still unconvinced,
"Scott inside is he?"
Cully nodded,
"Yes, someone arrived from forensics and he showed them in," she paused to consider Scott's role in the night's events, "I suppose it was just as well he was in the audience tonight,"
Barnaby took in her comment and smiled, mildly amused,
"I'm not sure he'd necessarily agree with you."
Cully shook her head softly,
"No, probably not."
A short silence fell between them, and Barnaby clapped his hands together to signal a subject change.
"Well, you'd better get home, your mother's waiting for you."
Cully nodded.
"Ok, thanks dad," she bent over, kissing him on the cheek, "I'll see you later."
He watched her head off across the car park, trying to push the fatherly concern away and focus on the task at hand. She'd been through much worse after all, and besides, Scott had been there the entire time. He frowned, did that mean he trusted Scott? Even more, did that mean he trusted Scott with his daughter? Knowing all he knew about Scott's general attitude to women, and his usual approach for that matter? He frowned inwardly as he thought, before a surprised smile crossed his face.
I believe I do.
"Sir?"
He turned. Someone in a uniform was in the doorway behind him, respectfully beckoning him over,
"This way Sir."
It had always fascinated Barnaby how quickly George Bullard responded to murders. It seemed to him sometimes as though the man lived in his overalls, forever going back and forth to corpses lying in mortuaries, or spread-eagled across rose patches, sixteenth century chaise lounges, and, when the occasion called for it, quiet village theatres.
George, identifiable from the various other officials, by his short, white hair, was bent over a prone form, crumpled in a heap towards the edge of the stage.
Scott was fairly easy to spot also, crouched down at the head of the body, gazing around the theatre as if for something to do. His eyes rested on Barnaby, and at once he stood up, trotting down the few steps into the aisle and striding towards him.
"Sir."
"Scott."
They greeted each other with the customary single head-nod, before Scott launched into his well-rehearsed breakdown of the facts.
"Victim; male, looks to be late forties, early fifties, fell from a metal walk-way above the stage used to control the curtain, at, approximately nine-forty…" Scott paused, and Barnaby looked away from where the body was lying, to his second-in-command, who seemed, almost uncomfortable, "You err, found Cully all right did you Sir?"
Barnaby smiled despite himself,
"Yes, yes thank you Scott. I sent her home. She's fine."
Scott nodded, looking relieved,
"Good."
As they wandered towards the stage, Scott realised that his boss was looking at him, a suspiciously cheeky smile across his face. Scott cleared his throat and gestured towards the body in embarrassment,
"Well, err, Mr. Bullard's almost done now Sir,"
He surged ahead, back up the stairs, and gazed down at the body. Barnaby let his amusement slide and instead, greeted his long-time friend.
"George,"
"Evening Tom,"
Barnaby crouched down, taking in the dark hair of the victim, and the worn but strong-looking face.
"So, what have we got George?"
George Bullard sat back with a sigh, flicking his hand dismissively as if the information retrieved was scarce.
"Well, I'd say late forties. Death appears to be from this stab wound here," he pulled at the victim's jacket with his gloved hands, and indicated a red stain seeping across the man's shirt, "And there appear to be multiple fractures," his finger skimmed across fierce bluey purple areas of skin, "Course I can't be sure 'til I get him back to the lab,"
Barnaby nodded, intently focussed on the victim. Slowly, he looked up,
"So we are looking for a murderer?"
George met his gaze, equally as serious.
"Well he didn't stab himself in the back."
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Thanks for reviewing people! I recently discovered this half-written and decided to finish it and put it back up as a tibute to my fave sidekick! Glad to see I'm not alone!