Free Orchestrated Death by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

civilization: lights,
     sounds, and the smell of indoors.
    She stopped and rounded on him again. ‘It’s so terrible about Anne-Marie. I suppose there’s no doubt that it is her? I simply
     can’t believe she’s dead.’
    ‘There’s no doubt,’ he said, and showed her one of the mugshots. She took it flinchingly, fearing God-knew-what sketch of
     carnage. Her first glance registered relief, her second a deeper distress. Few people in this modern, organised world ever
     see a corpse, or even the picture of a corpse. After a moment she drew a sigh.
    ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Sue said it was murder. Is that true?’
    ‘I’m afraid so.’
    She frowned. ‘Look, I want to help you, of course, but I’ve got to get changed and warm up, and I’ve only just got time. But
     I’m only on in the first piece – can you wait? Or come back a bit later? I should be finished by a quarter past eight – then
     I’ll be free and I can talk to you for as long as you like.’
    As long as you like. She looked up at him again, straight into the eyes. This directness of hers, he thought, was verydisturbing. It was childlike, though there was nothing childish about her. It was something outside the range of his normal
     experience, and made him feel both exposed and off-balance – as if she were of a different species, or from a parallel universe
     where, despite appearance, the laws of physics were unnervingly different.
    ‘I’ll wait,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I could take you to supper afterwards,’ he heard himself add. What in God’s name was he doing?
    ‘Oh, that would be lovely,’ she said warmly. ‘Look, I must dash. Why don’t you go in and listen? The auditorium’s through
     that door there.’
    ‘Won’t I need a ticket?’
    ‘No, it won’t be full, and no-one ever checks. Just slip through and sit somewhere near the side, and then at the end of the
     first piece come back through here, and I’ll meet you here when I’ve changed again.’
    She was a quick changer; and at half past eight they were sitting down in an Italian restaurant nearby. The tablecloths and
     napkins were pale pink, and there were huge parlour palms everywhere, one of which shielded them nicely from the other diners
     as they sat opposite each other at a corner table. She moved the little lamp to one side to leave the space clear between
     them, put her elbows on the table, and waited for his questions.
    Close to her, he wondered again about her age. Clearly she was quite a bit older than Anne-Marie: there were lines about her
     eyes, and the moulding of experience in her face. Yet because she wore no make-up and no disguise, she seemed younger; or,
     well, perhaps not really younger, but without age – ageless. It troubled him, and he took a moment to ask himself why, but
     he could only think it was because if she asked him a question about himself, he would feel obliged to tell her the truth
     – the real truth, as opposed to the social truth. And then, this immediacy of hers made him feel as though there were no barrier
     between them and that touching her, which he was beginning to want very much to do, was not only possible, but inevitable.
    He had better not follow that train of thought. He got a grip on himself.
    ‘I suppose we must make a start somewhere. Do you know of anyone who would have reason to want to kill your friend Anne-Marie?’
    ‘I’ve been thinking about that, of course, and I honestly don’t. Actually, I can’t imagine why anyone would ever want to kill
     anyone. Death is so surprising, isn’t it? And murder doubly so.’
    ‘Would you have found suicide less surprising?’
    ‘Oh yes,’ she said at once. ‘Not because I had any reason to think she was contemplating it, but one can always find reasons
     to hate oneself. And one’s own life is so much more accessible. Murder, though –’ she paused. ‘It’s such an affront, isn’t
     it?’
    ‘I’d never really thought of it like that.’
    ‘It must be