“Anyway, if there was something in it he’d be a Category A by now.”
“He’s dead.”
“Perhaps he passed the gene on to his daughter. She’s Category A all right.”
She got busy with her nail file.
“Where did you get it, as a matter of interest?”
“The photograph? Why do you ask?”
Mamie tapped the top right-hand corner with her finger.
“I know where it was taken.”
Roz looked where she was pointing. In the background beyond Martin’s head was part of a lampshade with a pattern of inverted ys round its base.
“In his house, presumably.”
“Doubt it. Look at the sign round the shade. There’s only one place anywhere near here has shades like that.”
The ys were lambdas, Roz realised, the international symbol of homosexuality.
“Where?”
“It’s a pub near the waterfront. Goes in for drag acts.” Mamie giggled.
“It’s a gay knocking-shop.”
“What’s it called?”
Mamie giggled again.
“The White Cock.”
The landlord recognised the photograph immediately.
“Mark Agnew,” he told her.
“Used to come here a lot. But I haven’t seen him in the last twelve months. What happened to him?”
“He died.”
The landlord pulled a long face.
“I shall have to go straight,” he said with weary gallows humour.
“What with AIDS and the recession I’ve hardly any customers left.”
Roz smiled sympathetically.
“If it’s any consolation I don’t think he died of AIDS.”
“Well, it is some consolation, lovey. He put himself about a bit, did Mark.”
Mrs. O’Brien regarded her with deep displeasure. Time and her naturally suspicious nature had persuaded her that Roz was nothing to do with television but had come to worm information out of her about her sons.
“You’ve got a flaming cheek, I must say.”
“Oh,” said Roz with obvious disappointment, ‘have you changed your mind about the programme?” Lies, she thought, worked if you kept repeating them.
“Programme, my arse. You’re a bloody snooper. What you after? That’s what I want to know.”
Roz took Mr. Crew’s letter out of her briefcase and handed it to the woman.
“I explained it as well as I could last time, but these are the terms of my contract with the television company.
If you read it, you’ll see that it sets out quite clearly the aims and objectives of the programme they want to make.”
She pointed to Crew’s signature.
“That’s the director. He listened to the tape we made and liked what he heard. He’ll be disappointed if you back out now.”
Ma O’Brien, presented with written evidence, was impressed. She frowned intelligently at the unintelligible words.
“Well,” she said, ‘a contract makes a difference. You should of shown me this last time.” She folded it, preparatory to putting it in her pocket.
Roz smiled.
“Unfortunately,” she said, whisking it from Ma’s fingers, ‘this is the only copy I have and I need it for tax and legal purposes. If it’s lost, none of us will get paid. May I come in?”
Ma compressed her lips.
“No reason not to, I suppose.” But suspicion died hard.
“I’m not hanswering hanything fishy, mind.”
