‘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 demode 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.’
