Cast in Order of Disappearance (6 page)

‘Jacqui?'

‘Yes.' She sounded very low.

‘All right?'

‘Not too good.'

‘Listen, Jacqui, I think I may be on to something about the way Steen's behaving.'

‘What?' She sounded perkier instantly.

‘Jacqui, you've got to tell me the truth. When you bought those photographs . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘Did you buy the negatives too?'

‘No. I didn't. But he'd destroyed them. He said so.'

‘I see. And did you mention to Steen that you'd got the photographs at any time?'

‘No. I wanted it to be a surprise—a present. He had mentioned them vaguely, said he was a bit worried. So I fixed to get them.'

‘When were they actually handed over to you?'

‘Last Saturday evening.'

‘And you never mentioned them even when you tried to ring Steen?'

‘I started to. On the Sunday evening when I first rang him. I spoke to Nigel. I said it was about the photographs, but even before I'd finished talking, he gave me this message from Marius to . . . you know . . . to get lost.'

‘Right. Give me the name and address of the bloke you got the photos from.'

As Charles limped along Praed Street, he began to regret dressing up for the encounter, but when he reflected on the exceptional violence of blackmailers in all detective fiction, he decided it was as well to conceal his identity. The disguise was good and added ten years to him. He'd greyed his temples and eyebrows with a spray, and parted his hair on the other side. He was wearing the démodé pinstriped suit he'd got from a junk-shop for a production of Arturo Ui (‘grossly overplayed'—Glasgow Herald) and the tie he'd worn as Harry in Marching Song (‘adequate if uninspiring'—Oxford Mail). He walked with the limp he'd used in Richard III (‘nicely understated'—Yorkshire Post). He wasn't sure whether to speak in the accent he'd used in Look Back in Anger (‘a splendid Blimp'—Worcester Gazette) or the one for When We are Married (‘made a meal of the part' —Croydon Advertiser).

‘Imago Studios', the address Jacqui had given him, proved to be in a tatty mews near St Mary's Hospital in Paddington. The downstairs stable-garage part had apparently been converted into a studio. On the windows of the upper part the curtains were drawn. Charles rang the bell. Nothing. He rang again and heard movement.

The door was opened by a woman in a pale pink nylon housecoat and pink fur slippers. She had prominent teeth and dyed black hair swept back in the style of a souvenir Greek goddess. Her face was heavily made up and eye-lashed. Charles couldn't help thinking of a hard pink meringue full of artificial cream.

She looked at him hard. ‘Yes?'

‘Ah, good afternoon.' Charles plumped for the
When We are Married
accent. ‘I wondered if Bill was in.' Jacqui had only given him the Christian name. It was all she knew.

‘Who are you? What do you want with him?'

‘My name's Holroyd. Bill Holroyd.' On the spur of the moment he couldn't think of another Christian name. He grinned weakly. ‘Both called Bill, eh?'

‘What's it about?'

‘Some photographs.'

‘What is it—wedding or portrait? Because my husband—'

‘No, no, it's a more . . . personal sort of thing.'

‘Ah.' She knew what he meant. ‘You better come in.'

She led the way up the very steep stairs. The large nylon-clad bottom swished close to Charles' face as he limped up after her. ‘Can you manage?'

‘Yes. It's just my gammy leg.'

‘How did you do it, Mr Holroyd?'

‘In the war.'

‘Jumping out of some tart's bedroom window, I suppose. That's where most war wounds came from.'

‘No. Mine was a genuine piece of shrapnel.'

‘Huh.' She ushered him into a stuffy little room lit by bright spotlights. It was decorated in orange and yellow, with a leopardette three-piece suite covering most of the carpet. Every available surface was crowded with small brass souvenirs. Lincoln imps, windjammer bells, lighthouses, anchor thermometers, knights in armour, wishing wells, everything. On the dresser two posed and tinted photographs rose from the undergrowth of brass. One was the woman, younger, but still with her Grecian hair and heavy make-up. The other was of a man, plumpish and vaguely familiar.

The woman pointed to an armchair. ‘Sit down. Rest your shrapnel.'

‘Thank you.'

She slumped back on to the sofa, revealing quite a lot of bare thigh. ‘Right, Mr Holroyd, what's it about?'

‘I was hoping to see your husband.'

‘He's . . . er . . . he's not here at the moment, but I know about the business.'

‘I see. When are you expecting him back?'

‘You can deal with me,' she said. Hard.

‘Right, Mrs . . . er?'

‘Sweet.'

‘Mrs Sweet.' Charles was tempted to make a quaint Yorkshire pleasantry about the name, but looked at Mrs Sweet and decided against it. ‘This is, you understand, a rather delicate matter . . .'

‘I understand.'

‘It's . . . er . . . the fact is . . . Last summer I was down in London on business and . . . er . . . it happened that, by chance . . . through some friends, I ended up at a party given by . . . er . . . well, some people in Holland Park. Near Holland Park, that is . . .'

‘Yes.' She didn't give anything.

‘Yes . . . Yes . . . Well, I believe that . . . er . . . your husband was at this particular party . . .

‘Maybe.'

‘In fact, I believe he took some photographs at the party.

‘Look here, are you from the police? I've had enough of them round this week.'

‘What?' Charles blustered and looked affronted for a moment while he took this in. Obviously the police had been making enquiries about the Sally Nash case. Marius Steen's anxiety was justified. ‘No, of course I'm not from the police. I'm the director of a man-made fibres company,' he said, with a flash of inspiration.

‘Thank God. I couldn't take any more of that lot.'

‘No, no. The fact is, Mrs Sweet, that . . . er . . . I am, you see, a married man. I have two lovely daughters at boarding school and . . . er . . . well, I have become rather anxious about these . . . er . . . photographs.'

‘Yes.' She didn't volunteer anything.

‘I have come to the right place, have I? I mean, your husband was at this party in . . .?'

‘Yes. He was there.' She paused and looked at him, assessing. ‘Well, Mr Holroyd, I think I know which photographs you are referring to. Of course, photography's an expensive business.'

‘I understand that, Mrs Sweet. How much do you think your husband would part with the . . . er . . . photographs for?'

‘Two thousand pounds.'

‘That's a lot of money.' The price has gone up, thought Charles. ‘And would that be for the negatives as well?'

‘Ah, Mr Holroyd. How shrewd you are. No, I'm afraid not. The photographs
and
the negatives would cost you five thousand pounds.'

So, as he suspected, Jacqui had been done. A thousand pounds for one set of photographs; there might be any number of others about. Bill Holroyd blustered. ‘Oh, I don't think I could possibly raise that.'

‘That's the price. Mind you, when things start moving in a certain court case, they might get even more expensive.

‘Oh dear.' Charles let a note of panic creep into Bill Holroyd's voice and looked anxiously around the room.

‘No point in looking for them, love.' It was ‘love', now she knew she had the whip hand. ‘You won't find them here.'

‘How do I know you've got them?'

‘I'll show you.' She opened a drawer in the dresser, pulled out a folder and handed it to him. ‘Only copies, love. You'll never find the negatives, so don't try.'

‘No.' Charles opened the folder and looked at all the photographs. There were a lot and they included some identical to the set still bulging in his pocket. His hunch about the morals of blackmailing photographers was right. He handed them back. ‘You don't think there's any possibility that the price might be—'

‘Five thousand pounds.'

‘Hmm.' (A pause, while Charles tried, according to the best Stanislavskian method, to give the impression of a man torn between the two great motives of his life—love of money and fear of scandal.) ‘Of course, it would take me some time to put my hands on that amount of money. Some days.'

‘I can wait.' She smiled like a Venus fly-trap. ‘I'm not so sure that you can. Once they start getting deeper into this trial, I'm sure the interest in photographs of this sort will—'

‘Yes, yes. I'm sure it won't take too long. It's unfortunate not having my bank in London. It's in Leeds. But . . . er . . . perhaps by Wednesday . . . Would Wednesday. . .?'

‘I'll be here. With the negatives.'

‘Oh good.' Although he was only acting the part, Charles felt Bill Holroyd's relief. And in his own character he'd found out what he wanted to know. If there were other copies of the photographs, there was no doubt that Bill Sweet was blackmailing Steen. Steen had assumed from Jacqui's message to Nigel that she was involved too. Charles was relieved that the information put her in the clear; she had been telling the truth. All he had to do now was what she had asked—get to see Steen, give him the photographs and explain that Jacqui was nothing to do with Bill Sweet. If Sweet himself continued his blackmail, that wasn't Charles' concern.

Mrs Sweet rose from the sofa. ‘That's our business concluded. I'm glad we reached agreement in such a reasonable way. Would you like a drink?'

‘Oh, thank you very much.' Perhaps a little too readily for Bill Holroyd. ‘That is to say, I don't make a habit of it, but perhaps a small one.'

‘Gin?' She went to the door.

‘That'd be . . . very nice.' Charles just stopped himself from saying ‘Reet nice'. Would have been too much.

After a few moments, Mrs Sweet returned with a bottle, poured two substantial gins, added tonic and proffered a glass. Charles rose to take it. They were close. She didn't move back. ‘Cheers, Mr Holroyd.'

‘Cheers.'

She looked at him, hard. ‘You like all that, do you, Mr Holroyd?'

‘All what?'

‘Parties. Like the one in Holland Park.'

‘Oh . . . well. Not habitually, no. I'm a respectable man, but, you know, one works very hard and . . . er . . . needs to relax, eh?'

‘Yes.' She sat back on the sofa and motioned him beside her. ‘Yes, I find I need to relax too, Mr Holroyd.'

‘Ah.' Charles sat gingerly on the mock leopard. He couldn't quite believe the way things appeared to be going, and couldn't think of anything else to say.

But Mrs Sweet continued, softly. ‘Yes, and relaxation becomes increasingly difficult.' Her hand rested gently on top of his. The scene was getting distinctly sultry.

Charles decided to play it for light comedy. ‘I go in for a certain amount of golf, you know. That's good for relaxation.'

‘Oh really.' Her hand was moving gently over his. Charles stole a sidelong glance. The mouth was parted and thickened lashes low over her eyes. He recognised that she was trying to look seductive, and, while he didn't find her attractive (rather the reverse), he was intrigued by the sudden change in her behaviour.

Mrs Sweet leant against him, so that he could feel the lacquered crispness of her hair on his ear. Her hand drew his to rest casually on her thigh. ‘I've never played golf.'

‘Oh, it's a grand game,' said Charles fatuously. In spite of himself, he could feel that he was becoming interested. Her perfume was strong and acrid in his nostrils. ‘Champion game.'

‘But I'm sure you play others.' Quite suddenly the grip hardened on his hand and he felt it forced into the warm cleft between her legs. Instinctively he clutched at the nylon-clad mound.

But his mind was moving quickly. Mrs Sweet and her husband were blackmailers. This must be a plot of some sort. ‘Where's your husband?'

‘A long way away.'

‘But wouldn't he mind if—'

‘We lead separate lives. Very separate lives now.' Her face was close to his and he kissed her. After all, he reflected, I am one of the few people in the world who isn't worth blackmailing. And Bill Holroyd was already showing himself to be pretty gullible, so it's in character.

Mrs Sweet reached her free hand down to his flies. No impotence problem this time. Charles began to consider the irony of life—that with Jacqui, whom he found very attractive, there was nothing, and yet with this nymphomaniac, who almost repelled him . . . but it wasn't the moment for philosophy.

Mrs Sweet stood up and stripped off the housecoat. There was a crackle of static electricity. Her underwear was lacy red and black, brief and garish, the kind of stuff he'd seen in Soho shops and assumed was the monopoly of prostitutes. Perhaps she was a prostitute. The thought of another dose of clap flashed across his mind. But he was by now too aroused to be side-tracked.

He hastily pulled off his clothes and stood facing Mrs Sweet.

‘It doesn't show,' she said.

‘What?'

‘Your war wound. The shrapnel.'

‘Ah. No. Well, they do wonders with plastic surgery. He advanced and put his arms round her, fumbled with the back of her brassiere. ‘The front,' she murmured. It unclipped.

They sank down on to the leopardette sofa and he slipped off the crisp lacy briefs. Underneath he'd expected her to be hard and dry, but she was very soft and moist. Again he thought of meringues. And as he had her, he emitted grunts which he hoped were in character for the director of a man-made fibres company.

VII

Cinderella by the Fireside