forehead
almost down to his eyes. He was also wearing denims: a mistake easily made by those aspiring to youth from the wrong side. And he was short. Five foot two or three. Now Holmes began to see the relevance of the secretary’s pun. His highness, indeed.
He had a harassed look on his face, but had left the camera through in the back bedroom or box room or whichever room of the smallish flat served as his studio. He stuck out a hand, and Holmes shook it.
‘Detective Constable Holmes,’ he announced. Hutton nodded, took a cigarette from the packet on his secretary’s desk and lit it. She frowned openly at this as she sat down again, smoothing her tight skirt beneath her. Hutton had not yet looked at Holmes. His eyes seemed to be mirroring some distraction in his mind. He went to the window, looked out, arched his neck to blow a plume of smoke towards the high, dark ceiling, then let his head go limp, leaning against the wall.
‘Get me a coffee, Christine.’ His eyes met Holmes’s momentarily. ‘Do you want one?’ Holmes shook his head.
‘Sure?’ said Christine kindly, rising out of her seat again.
‘Okay then. Thanks.’
With a smile she left the room, off to the kitchen or darkroom to fill a kettle.
‘So,’ said Hutton. ‘What can I do for you?’
That was another thing about the man. His voice was high, not shrill or girlish, just high. And slightly rasping, as though he had damaged his vocal cords at some point in his youth and they had never recovered.
‘Mr Hutton?’ Holmes needed to be sure. Hutton nodded.
‘Jimmy Hutton, professional photographer, at your service. You’re getting married and you want me to do you a discount?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘A portrait then. Girlfriend perhaps? Mum and dad?’
‘No, this is business, I’m afraid. My business, that is.’
‘But no new business for me, right?’ Hutton smiled, chanced another glance towards Holmes, drew on his cigarette again. ‘I could do a portrait of you, you know. Nice strong chin, decent cheekbones. With the proper lighting—–’
‘No, thanks. I hate having my picture taken.’
‘I’m not talking about pictures.’ Hutton was moving now, circling the desk. ‘I’m talking about art.’
‘That’s why I came here actually.’
‘What?’
‘Art. I was impressed by some of your photos I saw in a newspaper. I was wondering whether you might be able to help me.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s a missing person.’ Holmes was not a great liar. His ears tingled when he told a real whopper. Not a great liar, but a good one. ‘A young man called Ronnie McGrath.’
‘Name doesn’t mean anything.’
‘He wanted to be a photographer, that’s why I was wondering.’
‘Wondering what?’
‘If he’d ever come to you. You know, asking advice, that sort of thing. You’re an established name, after all.’ It was almost too blatant. Holmes could sense it: could sense Hutton just about realising what the game was. But vanity won in the end.
‘Well,’ the photographer said, leaning against the desk, folding his arms, crossing his legs, sure of himself. ‘What did he look like, this Ronnie?’
‘Tallish, short brown hair. Liked to do studies. You know the sort of thing, the Castle, Calton Hill.
‘Are you a photographer yourself, Inspector?’
‘I’m only a constable.’ Holmes smiled, pleased by the error. Then caught himself: what if Hutton were trying to play the vanity game with him? ‘And no, I’ve never really
done much photography. Holiday snaps, that sort of thing.’
‘Sugar?’ Christine put her head around the door, smiling at Holmes again.
‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘Just milk.’
‘Put a drop of whisky in mine,’ said Hutton. ‘There’s a love.’ He winked towards the door as it closed again. ‘Sounds familiar, I have to admit. Ronnie. .. . Studies of the Castle. Yes, yes. I do remember some young guy coming in, bloody pest he was. I was doing a portfolio, some long-term stuff. Mind had to be one hundred percent on the job. He was always coming round, asking to see me, wanting to show me his work.’ Hutton raised his hands apologetically. ‘I mean, we were all young once. I wish I could have helped him. But I didn’t have the time, not right then.’
‘You didn’t look at his work?’
‘No. No time, as I say. He stopped coming by after a few weeks.’
‘How long ago was this?’
