Kate glanced back over her shoulder to the photographers’ desks which were, as usual, littered with cameras and photographic equipment, some of it expensive.
‘They took prints?’ she asked, surprised. She had her own camera in her bag, so she was not worried on that score, but most of the photographers generally left their own heavier gear lying around on open view.
‘Well, they seem to have gone through the files. The stuff was scattered all over Ken’s office when I came in. I started clearing it up but he started shrieking at me when he saw the mess so I packed it in. I don’t know where it all came from or where it all goes. I expect you’ll have to do the filing all over again.’ She gave Kate a satisfied smirk and went back to her own corner of the office to put the kettle on.
‘I suppose we’re insured?’ Kate said to no one in particular, but Ken seemed to hear her higher voice above the hubbub and fixed her with a beady eye.
‘You can’t insure pics that haven’t been sold yet,’ he snarled. ‘Or repeat the moment they were taken, you silly cow. Can you go back and get those shots of randy Lord Francome and his little tart again? Fortunately the negs should still be in the darkrooms. You’d better go and check.’
Kate felt her colour rise and she turned away from the crowd of men quickly and went to do as she was told. But as soon as she opened the first darkroom door she knew that they were not dealing with a casual thief who had wandered in off the street. In one sense, the negatives were still there, but the intruder had carefully piled them into a metal tray and set them alight. All that was left was ash and a smell of burnt film amongst the normal stink of chemicals, and on the floor the shards of glass plates, everything coated with a residue of black smoke, which explained the smell which had permeated the whole office. She put her head round each of the darkroom doors in turn but with the same result. The firm’s recent negatives and plates had been destroyed and it was a miracle that the whole building had not gone up in smoke with them. Feeling sick, she went back to Ken Fellows’ office and she knew that she did not even need to give him an answer to his question. He could read it in her face. She wriggled through the crowd of photographers to face her stricken boss across the heaps of material on his desk.
‘Smashed up or burnt,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some of my thirty-five millimetre negs. I kept the ones of Dave Donovan’s band because I thought he might like them reprinted, and a few of the shots I took at the Delilah Club were on the same reel of film. And the film I shot in Liverpool is still in my camera. I bundled all the negs up together and locked them in my desk drawer as you didn’t seem sure you were interested in the bands.’
‘Well, that’s great,’ Fellows said. ‘So it looks as though the sum total of our recent negs consists of shots of a third rate rock band from Liverpool, some second rate band leader’s pregnant girlfriend and a few VIPs who took the trouble to go to Ray Robertson’s boxing match at the Delilah. Plus whatever old stuff is stashed in the cellar. Jesus wept, we’ll get rich pickings out of that lot. Did anyone else keep their recent plates somewhere safe?’ Most of the men laughed and shook their heads ruefully. The plates from their heavy flash cameras were not so portable.
‘Right,’ Fellows said. ‘The rest of you get on with your jobs. Kate and I are going to sort through the prints and see what can be rescued and what’s been nicked.’
‘Are you going to call the police?’ Kate asked timidly after the photographers had left her uneasily alone with Fellows.
‘No point, is there?’ Fellows said dismissively. ‘The negs are gone and I guess if they took any prints they’ll have destroyed them as well. Though God knows why. So, let’s split these prints into a set for each photographer. They’ve all got the names on the back. Then I’ll know what should be there and what’s gone. Come on, girl. Don’t look so miserable. It’s a bloody pain but worse things happen at sea.’
‘I suppose so,’ Kate said, but she could not get rid of the feeling that somehow this calamity was connected to her own troubles with Tom, her rejection of Dave Donovan or even, though she quickly dismissed the idea as too far-fetched, with the fact that, as she had been about to leave the Delilah Club the previous Friday night, she had refused a lift with an importunate and obviously drunken Georgie Robertson, who had stormed out of the club ahead of her, audibly cursing as he went. She spent the morning sifting through the tumbled heaps of photographs until they were assembled in some sort of order, at which point Fellows began to put them back into the cardboard folders from which they had been tipped.
‘You know what’s missing, don’t you?’ he asked eventually, tapping a finger meaningfully on a slim folder which she could see had her own name on it. ‘It’s the pics you took at the Delilah the other night. They’ve gone, the whole lot of them. Now why the hell would anyone want those?’
‘But didn’t you sell some to the Evening Standard diary? They’ve been published, haven’t they?’
‘The Standard and the News bought a couple of them, but in the end neither of them used them. I thought it was a bit odd, but it happens sometimes, they drop things at the last minute, something juicier turns up. But I would have thought Lord F and that tart would have made it into the diaries.’
‘I told you, I’ve still got some of the negs from that do,’ Kate said. ‘We can reprint them.’
Fellows looked at Kate thoughtfully. ‘Do that,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a look at what we’ve still got and see what’s so important that someone tried to get rid of them. I can see Francome might have been embarrassed to have them in the papers, but surely not to the extent of getting this place burgled. What’s the point? They’re old news now. The Robertsons’ boxing do was days ago. No one’s going to use anything after all this time.’
Kate spent the rest of the morning in one of the darkrooms, developing and printing the stock of negatives which she had kept in her own possession, and then scanning them carefully for any hint of a reason why anyone would want to steal them. Lord Francome, she thought, might not want his flirtation with Christine Jones put on show in the papers, and John Lennon might still be keen to keep Cynthia’s pregnancy and his marriage under wraps, but the photographs she had taken were not the only means by which either secret might, and probably would, leak out sooner rather than later. It made no sense.
By lunchtime, she had put the prints in a new folder for Ken Fellows, put on her coat and dropped the folder on his desk.
‘I’m off for some lunch,’ she said and he nodded abstractedly. She walked slowly north towards Oxford Street where she normally had a frugal snack by herself in an ABC cafe, given that none of the men in the office ever invited her to the pubs where they had a largely liquid lunch, but before she got to Soho Square she became aware of a figure she recognized and, too late to avoid him, found herself face-to-face with DS Harry Barnard, looking almost as harassed as she felt herself.
‘Come and have a drink,’ he said abruptly, glancing up and down the crowded street as if worried that he might be seen.
Against her better judgement, she allowed herself to be led through the doors of the nearest pub and settled into a corner of the smoky bar. She did not trust this policeman who seemed to be able to switch from charming to alarming at a moment’s notice. While Barnard went to get their drinks, she took stock. All the pubs in Soho were different, she thought, as she took in the noisy groups who surrounded her, a motley collection of long-haired men in hairy tweeds and one or two women engrossed in fierce debate or poring over books and magazines as if their lives depended on it. It reminded her slightly of Ye Cracke in Liverpool, although these were not students. They were far too old and intense for that.
Barnard came back and put a Babycham, with a cherry on a cocktail stick, in front of her and took a long gulp of his own pint before he sat down. There was not much charm in evidence today, she thought.
‘I’m glad I saw you,’ he said. ‘There’s been another murder.’
Kate felt her mouth dry. ‘Where?�
�� she asked.
‘More or less the same place. The bookshop under Jonathon Mason’s flat, your brother’s flat, as it goes. The bookseller’s been killed in much the same way as Mason. I thought you’d want to know before it appears in the News and the Standard.’
She tried to conceal the sense of relief which almost overwhelmed her but she didn’t think she succeeded very well. ‘Well, Tom couldn’t—’ She stopped, aware that she was giving too much away.
‘Couldn’t he?’ Barnard asked, with a hint of a smile but unfriendly eyes. ‘So you do know where he is?’
Kate shook her head. ‘No, I don’t,’ she said flatly. ‘He was very careful not to tell me that when I spoke to him.’
‘When you went to Liverpool?’
‘That was a work trip,’ she said. ‘Nothing to do with Tom. I went to take some photographs. Ask my boss if you don’t believe me.’
‘And that’s the late Dylan Thomas pickled in alcohol over there,’ Barnard said, waving at a heavily built man already the worse for wear in spite of the time of day. ‘And I’m Father Christmas. This really was his favourite pub when he was in London, by the way. Dylan Thomas, I mean. Anyway, I don’t really think the Murder Squad have your brother down for this latest killing, but I know DCI Venables still wants to talk to him about his flatmate. It’s not over yet, by any means. The only thing which will get him out of this is if he can prove he has a solid alibi for the night Mason died.’
Kate took a sip of her Babycham and wondered how long it would be before this nightmare was over. ‘We had a burglary at work last night,’ she said, wanting the subject changed. ‘Why do you think anyone would break in and steal photographs, and take the trouble to burn a whole lot of negatives?’
Barnard looked at her curiously. ‘What were the photographs of?’ he asked.
‘Some of them were the ones I took at the boxing match last week, the Robertsons’ big do.’
‘Were they likely to be embarrassing? Someone with someone they shouldn’t have been with? Something like that?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Kate said. ‘They all seemed happy enough when I asked them to pose. My boss tried to sell some of them to the papers.’
‘Not likely to have been much use to a blackmailer then,’ Barnard said dismissively. ‘Has your boss reported the robbery?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Kate said.
Barnard drained his glass and leaned back in his seat, his eyes unexpectedly drinking her in until she flushed slightly. ‘Maybe you should let me have a look at them to see if I can see anyone with someone they shouldn’t be,’ he said lightly.
‘I might take you up on that,’ she said. ‘Maybe you can help me for a change.’
‘When this business with your brother is settled – I mean when he’s off the hook, as I’m beginning to think he will be soon – will you have dinner with me?’ he asked. ‘I know a little Italian place I think you’d like.’
Kate pushed her half-empty glass away and stood up abruptly. ‘Italian?’ she said suspiciously. ‘What’s that? Spaghetti and stuff? I don’t think so. Anyway, I think that would be a bit difficult in the circumstances, don’t you?’ And she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving him smiling faintly at his empty pint glass.
Kate turned sharply after she had flounced out of the pub door and made her way to the Blue Lagoon where Marie was in sole charge of the steamy coffee machine and a handful of customers at the plastic tables. Her friend made her a frothy cappuccino and waved at the array of food.
‘Anything to eat?’ she asked. ‘You look a bit fraught.’ She brought her a sandwich and slipped into the seat opposite Kate. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, and between mouthfuls Kate told her about that morning’s discovery of the burglary at the agency, and an edited version of her meeting with Barnard. She did not know what to make of his unexpected invitation or whether her reply had been the right one.
‘But that’s good news, isn’t it? If they’re not so interested in Tom any more? If they’ve got another similar crime and you know Tom’s safely up north.’
‘He didn’t exactly say that,’ Kate said. ‘And anyway, I’m not sure I trust him an inch.’ And that at least was true, she thought, she didn’t trust him an inch either as a bizzie or as a potential friend.
FOURTEEN
Kate O’Donnell walked thoughtfully across Soho Square that evening towards the underground at Tottenham Court Road and, as she snuggled deeper into her scarf, wondered if this long, grim winter would ever end. The snow and ice which had hung about for months in grey, solid piles in the gutters and at the corners of buildings had slowly disappeared but the spring bulbs had barely struggled into life in the flowerbeds and no one had yet given up on their bulky winter coats and warm boots. As she cut through Soho Street towards the glittering lights of Oxford Street, she was suddenly overtaken by a middle-aged woman in a smart coat, with matching hat and gloves, a glimpse of pearls at the neck and a determined expression on her face, made fiercer by the lack of even a smudge of lipstick. She turned unexpectedly into Kate’s path, breathing heavily. She looked like one of the women who had occasionally turned up at her school, Kate thought, to present prizes or give a talk about the good work being done by missionaries in the heart of Africa.
‘Are you Miss O’Donnell?’ the woman asked, effectively blocking the pavement so that Kate had to stop. Kate nodded, unable to imagine why she was being accosted like this.
‘The young lady who takes photographs?’ the woman demanded and again Kate admitted that she was. The woman’s face softened slightly, although she had looked slightly startled when she heard Kate’s accent. ‘You must think me very rude, my dear,’ she said. ‘But I’ve been looking for you. My name is Veronica Lucas and I called at your agency but you’d already left. I thought if I hurried I might catch you up. They told me what you were wearing. You’ve made yourself quite noticeable around Soho apparently.’ She glanced around. ‘Would you join me for a cup of tea?’ she asked.
‘Am I going to be told what this is all about?’ Kate asked, feeling resentful at the intrusion.
‘Of course you are, my dear. Here, come on into the warm and I’ll explain.’ Veronica Lucas, after a careful assessment of just where she was going, preceded her into a cafe in one of the streets on the quieter north side of Oxford Street and had ordered tea for two before Kate could find any reason to object to the way she had been effectively hijacked. She was, it appeared, the answer to Mrs Lucas’s prayers, and Kate could tell that she meant that literally. Veronica Lucas explained, in tones of absolute certainty, that she was one of a group of Christian women engaged in cleaning up Soho and she needed a photographer, preferably a woman, to help in that task. Having learned enough about how the square mile of Soho earned its dubious living, Kate knew the unfeasibly vast extent of such an ambition, but it was obvious that this woman would not be deterred by any objection she could make. Her eyes positively sparkled with zeal. In any case, Mrs Lucas seemed to be offering some extra employment which Kate was reluctant to turn down out of hand. It wasn’t as if Ken Fellows’ wage was generous.
‘What is it exactly you want me to do?’ she asked cautiously, sipping tea which Mrs Lucas had poured carefully from a china teapot into a china cup. This was about as far from Marie’s cheap and cheerful coffee bar as you could get, she thought.
‘We’re preparing a report on prostitution in the area to present to Parliament when they finally get around to considering the Wolfenden Report,’ Mrs Lucas said. ‘You know about that?’
Kate nodded. Since she had learned about her brother’s tastes she had taken more than a passing interest in one of its proposals which was to make some homosexual acts legal for the first time.
‘We’re especially interested in how the law should deal with the exploitation of young girls, runaways mainly. They come down from the north and from Scotland and there are evil men waiting to pick them up at the railway stations. There used to be a lot at Euston bu
t, now they’ve pulled it down, King’s Cross and St Pancras seem to be the favourites.’
Kate knew well enough that what the woman said was true. She had seen girls in unseasonable clothes hanging around the station entrance looking pinched and shivering when she had gone back to Liverpool only a few days ago. Mrs Lucas pulled an envelope of snapshots out of her bag and fanned them out across the table. They were black and white pictures, most of them blurred and slightly out-of-focus, and probably taken, Kate thought, with someone’s family Box Brownie in a bad light. Some of Mrs Lucas’s pictures showed girls sheltering under the massive stone classical arch, itself condemned, which still stood between the ruins of Euston and the main road.
‘I’m told that these won’t print very well in a leaflet,’ Veronica Lucas said, a note of irritation in her voice.
Kate smiled. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘You’ll be lucky if they’ll print at all.’ She looked at the pictures more closely. Most of them were of young girls and women on the streets, either looking cold and lost, or approaching men or being approached by policemen. The nature of the trade was obvious.
‘What we want is similar pictures of a better quality, suitable to print in our report. We have a lady journalist on our committee and she says that one photograph is worth a hundred words.’
‘You only have to look at old copies of Picture Post to know that’s true,’ Kate said. ‘Do you remember Picture Post? I used to buy it with my pocket money.’
‘A publication produced by communists and fellow-travellers, as I recall,’ Veronica Lucas said tartly. ‘I wouldn’t have it in the house personally. But I’m sure my colleague from the Daily Express is right about pictures. What I want to know from you is whether or not you can take some for us? You’re ideally placed working in the area yourself. We’ll pay you, of course. Unless you feel you can donate yourself to the cause, as it were.’
Kate smiled. ‘I wish you luck with your campaign, though I think you’ve got a mountain to climb. But I can’t afford to work for nothing. The agency doesn’t pay me much and there’s the cost of materials for developing and printing. I’ll charge you ten per cent less than the agency would charge if they took it on, if I can persuade them to let me use a darkroom.’
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