this afternoon and said that the Tasaka Corporation were returning to Japan at the end of the month. They’ve canceled their plans for the production and all subsequent events, and they’re selling the theatre to a British consortium. The deal has already been completed. They’ve fired the entire production team. Miyagawa was very apologetic.”
“Why couldn’t they have told you earlier?” asked Jerry.
“Perhaps they thought we might jeopardize their deal somehow. I’m out of a job.”
“What are you going to do now?” she asked. The thought of his leaving chilled her.
“Head back to San Diego, I suppose.” He looked up at the starless sky, his voice betraying the hurt he felt. “There’ll be other times. Other opportunities. They paid me for next month. It wasn’t the money. It was the chance to do something I believed in.”
“I’m so sorry, Joseph.” She thought for a moment. “Why don’t we find out who they’ve sold it to? The Savoy’s a listed building. It can only be used as a theatre. Maybe you can get work with the new company.”
“I was wondering about that.”
“Then it’s worth a try. There are loads of cheap bed and breakfasts around Earl’s Court. Please, you must stay on.”
The hand he slipped around her waist took her by surprise, but when his lips pressed against hers she yielded.
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
19
Lured
Jerry watched the platform posters slide by as the Tube train lurched on towards Chelsea, and thought back to the Friday when Max Jacob had appeared at the Savoy, summoned by one of the Whitstable brothers. Could that summons have somehow concerned the Waterhouse painting?
Suppose Peter had asked his lawyer to collect the package hidden in 216. Why would a respectable professional be skulking around with a pile of obscene photographs? Could it have been why Jacob was murdered?
Removing the envelope from her pocket, she longed to remove the single damaged piece of photograph, but did not wish to shock the stern-faced woman seated next to her. She held the envelope closer and noticed a row of digits. Someone had sealed the pictures in the envelope, then written a telephone number on top in pencil, hastily erasing it afterwards. In a few moments she had worked out the sequence, seven numbers and part of a name, the letters
“Is that Andy?”
“Who’s calling?”
“A friend of his.”
“Hang on, I’ll get him.”
The receiver was set down and taken up a few moments later.
“Who’s this?” The voice had a heavy cockney accent. “My name is Jerry. I’m a friend of one of your clients.”
“Yeah? Which one?”
She cleared her throat. Time to take a chance. “I saw the set of photographs you left at the Savoy. Very impressive. Did you take them yourself?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t take no photos.” Andy was indignant, or at least feigning it. She doubted his reluctance to talk would hold up for long if money was mentioned. Across the capital, the recession was biting deep; jobs were competitive on both sides of the law.
“I have some of them in front of me right now, and one has your telephone number written on it.” She tried to sound as friendly as possible. “I thought you might be available for another job. I’ll make sure you’re well paid.”
“What have you got there?”
Jerry turned the piece of photograph over, trying to see it in the dim light of the booth. Two bodies, naked, a full breast, unappetizing buttocks, a sausage-like erection. The man was still wearing black socks. No light in the room apart from the camera flash. Judging by the odd angle of their limbs, the revelers hadn’t expected to be captured for posterity.
“Well,” said Jerry casually, “the first one shows a gentleman enjoying himself with a very young lady in one of the suites, two sixteen, I think. I’ll pay you double the amount you were paid before.”
She held her breath and pressed her ear hard to the receiver. For a moment there was only the hiss of the open line.
“What, you want some more done?”
“That’s right, with the same couple. Could you do that?”
“I can’t get hold of the girl again. It’d have to be a different one.” So he supplied the woman, too. Handy service. “He’s not going to go for it twice, though.”
“Leave that part to me,” said Jerry. “I want you to get whoever you think he’d like.”
“Well, the Japs love blond girls. I could – ”
“Kaneto Miyagawa.” Suddenly it was obvious. Jerry drew a slow breath as the realization dawned.
She quickly replaced the receiver and left the booth. She needed to think. Andy had sent a girl to the Japanese executive at his hotel. She must have been a real professional; the Savoy would never have let her near his room without a valid reason. It meant that Miyagawa had arrived in London earlier than Joseph had realized. The Tokyo executive had been careful, but someone knew of his libidinous nature, and had exploited it.
She tried to reconstruct the order of events. The girl had come to Miyagawa’s hotel room, leaving the suite door unlocked, ready for someone to burst in and take compromising pictures. Which meant that someone had paid to have Miyagawa set up. Had the Tasaka Corporation been blackmailed out of the Savoy deal by the lawyer Max Jacob? Could the photographer have been instructed to do so by the Whitstables? She imagined the dishonour: the respected head of the Tasaka Corporation caught red-handed and blackmailed into abandoning his plans for the Savoy. By doing so he would avoid a scandal that would shatter company confidence and slump share prices. But could the Japanese have hit back by taking their revenge on both Jacob and his employers? And if this was true, why go to the trouble of killing the lawyer with a
She needed to go to the police with the information, but first she would put her theory to the test. It would mean calling Joseph as soon as she reached home.
¦
Elton John’s ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’ came to an end, and Paul McCartney and Wings launched into ‘Band On The Run’.
Michelle turned off her transistor radio and listened for a moment, but no sound came from upstairs. From the window overlooking the lawn she could see low clouds shielding the weakening sun, like courtiers protecting a dying monarch. The garden foliage had darkened to the colour of tinned spinach. The bare winter branches of the cherry trees knocked in the rising wind.
“Daisy, what are you doing?” she called.
Small footsteps crossed the ceiling, then stopped.
“Playing.”
“Do you want a glass of milk?”
“No, thank you.” A tiny clipped voice, precise and polite. Michelle shrugged and headed for the kitchen to make some tea. At the age of twenty-three she had retained the plump figure and bad complexion of her late teen years, and was resigned to the fact that unless she lost some weight she would be unlikely ever to find a boyfriend. Not that she particularly cared. The magazines went on about finding a partner, as if it was the only thing in life
