Banks followed him upstairs, where Craig had turned his spare room into a makeshift darkroom. He didn’t need complete darkness for this stage of the process, so a dim light glowed on the wall. With expert, economic gestures, Craig emptied the tank of developer, poured in the stop bath and shook the tank again for a while. After that, he emptied it out again and poured in the fixer.
Banks noticed a number of photographs of Emily Riddle tacked to a corkboard. Not nude shots, but professional-looking folio stuff. In some she wore a strapless black evening gown and had her hair pinned up. In another she was wearing a vest and baggy jeans, showing her bare midriff with its spider tattoo, trying to look like Kate Moss or Amber Valletta.
‘These are good,’ he said to Craig.
Craig glanced over at them. ‘She could be a model,’ he said sadly. ‘She’s a natural.’
The harsh chemical smells transported Banks back not to his life with Sandra, who was a keen amateur photographer, but to his childhood, when he used to go up to the attic darkroom with his Uncle Ted and watch him processing and printing. He liked the printing best, when the blank piece of paper went in the developing tray and you could watch the image slowly forming. It seemed like magic. Every time they went to visit, he pestered his Uncle Ted to take him up. There was a safe light on the wall, too, he remembered, just enough to see by, and it gave an eerie glow in the small room. But mostly it was the sharp, chemical smells he remembered, and the way constant exposure to the chemicals made his Uncle Ted’s fingernails brown, the same way nicotine stained Banks’s fingers when he started smoking. He used to scrub it off with pumice stone so his mother wouldn’t notice.
Then the visits to Uncle Ted’s stopped abruptly and nobody ever said why. It was years before Banks thought about those days again and managed to work it out for himself. He remembered his uncle’s hand on the small of his back, perhaps rubbing just a little, or the arm draped casually across his shoulders in an avuncular way. Nothing more. Never anything more. But there was some kind of scandal – not involving Banks, but someone else. Uncle Ted suddenly broke off his connection with the local youth club and no longer acted as a Boys’ Brigade leader. Nothing was said, no police were involved, but he was suddenly a pariah in the community. That was how things like that were dealt with back then in that sort of close working-class community. No doubt one or two of the local fathers lay in wait one night and gave him a beating, too, but Banks heard nothing about that. Uncle Ted was simply never mentioned again, and if Banks ever asked to visit or mentioned the name, his mother’s mouth formed into a tight white line – a definite warning sign to shut up or else. Eventually, he forgot Uncle Ted and moved on to discovering girls.
‘Okay,’ said Craig, emptying out the fixer and inserting a hose attached to the cold water tap. ‘We’re all right for half an hour now.’
Banks followed him downstairs, still half-lost in memories of Uncle Ted, slowly moving to memories of Sandra and how they made love in the red glow of her darkroom once.
Back in the living room, The Simpsons had given way to a documentary on Hollywood narrated in a plummy, superior accent. Craig turned the TV off and they sat down opposite one another in the narrow room.
Banks reached for his cigarettes; he’d been a long time without. ‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘No, not at all.’ Craig passed him a small ashtray from the mantelpiece. ‘I don’t indulge, myself, but it doesn’t bother me.’
‘Not cigarettes, anyway.’
Craig blushed. ‘Well, a bit of weed never did anyone any harm, did it?’
‘I suppose not.’
He continued to study Banks, his look wary and suspicious. ‘So, you’re Louisa’s father,’ he said. ‘Funny, you don’t look Italian. She said her father was Italian. Met her mother in Tuscany or somewhere like that on holiday.’
‘What did she say about me?’
‘Not much. Just that you were a boring, tight-arsed old fart.’
Well, Banks thought, if you will go around assuming other people’s identities, you have to be prepared for the occasional unflattering remark – especially if that identity is Jimmy Riddle’s. On that score, Emily Riddle probably wasn’t far wrong. ‘Do you know where Louisa is?’ he asked.
‘Haven’t seen her for a couple of months,’ said Craig. ‘Not since I moved out here.’
Banks showed him the photo. ‘This is the person we’re talking about, isn’t it?’
Craig looked at the photo and gasped. ‘You’ve seen them, then?’
‘Yes. Is it the same girl we’re talking about?’
‘Yeah. That’s her. Louisa.’
‘My daughter. What happened? The photos on the website?’
‘Look, I’m sorry. It was just a lark, really. It was her as much as me. More, really. Though I don’t expect you to believe me.’
‘You took the photos?’
‘Yes. We were living together at the time. Three months ago.’
‘Here?’
‘No. I was still in London then. Had a little flat in Dulwich.’
Emily Riddle was a fast worker, Banks thought. Only away from home three months and she was living with someone. ‘How did they get on to the GlamourPuss website?’
Craig looked away, into the empty fireplace. ‘I’m not proud of it,’ he said. ‘I used to do some work for them. I went to school with one of the blokes who run the site, Rick, and I met him in a pub when I was a bit down on my luck, just after college. I’d studied photography, got my diploma, but it was hard to get started in the business. Anyway, he offered me a bit of paying work every now and then. Models. It didn’t seem that much different from life studies in college.’
It probably didn’t, really, Banks thought. Sandra was a photographer, too, and Banks had seen plenty of life studies she had taken at the camera club, male and female. He pointed to the cropped photo of Louisa. ‘You got paid for this?’
‘No. Good Lord, no. This wasn’t paid work. Like I said, it was a lark. A bit of fun. We were . . . well, we’d been smoking a bit of weed, if you must know. After I’d taken them, Louisa said I should put them on the web with some of the other stuff I’d done – the professional stuff. She said it would be really cool. Rick said he liked them, so we put them up in the amateurs’ gallery. But that’s all. I mean Louisa doesn’t have any connection with the rest of the GlamourPuss business.’
Just what Aitcheson had said at the office. Maybe it was true. ‘I’m glad to hear that. Are you sure?’
‘Certain. She never did. The photos were just a one-off. A joke. I was trying out a new digital camera and . . . well, one thing led to another.’
‘Okay,’ said Banks, waving his hand. ‘Let’s put that behind us. I’d really like to find Louisa, just to talk to her. I’m sure you understand. Can you tell me where she is?’
‘I wasn’t lying. I don’t know where she is. I haven’t seen her in two months.’
‘What happened?’
‘She met another bloke.’
‘And left you?’
‘Like a shot.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t know his name . . . I . . .’ Craig turned away again.
‘Craig? Is something wrong?’
‘No. Maybe. I don’t know.’
‘Talk to me, Craig.’
Craig stood up. ‘How about a drink?’
‘If it’ll help loosen your tongue.’
‘Lager okay?’
‘Lager’s fine.’
Craig brought a couple of cans from the fridge and offered one to Banks. He took it and popped the tab, watching the foam well up and subside. He took a sip and leaned back in the chair. ‘I’m waiting.’
‘You sure you’re not a copper?’
‘I told you. I’m Louisa’s father. Why?’
‘I don’t know. Just something . . . Never mind. Besides, you don’t really look old enough to be her father. Not like I imagined, anyway. I would’ve expected some bald wrinkly in a suit, to be hones
t. With a funny accent, waving his arms around a lot.’
‘I’m flattered,’ said Banks, ‘but how old did you think she was?’
‘Louisa? Nineteen. When I met her, that is.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘About three or four months. Why?’
‘Because she’d just turned sixteen, that’s why.’
Craig spluttered into his beer. ‘She never! I mean, for crying out loud. I wouldn’t’ve touched . . . You’ve seen the photos. You’re her father, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Calm down,’ said Banks. ‘Louisa always did look older than her age, even if she didn’t always act it.’
‘She had that . . . I don’t know . . . she seemed young but mature, worldly and innocent at the same time. That was one of the attractive things about her. To me, anyway. She was a walking mass of contradictions. I swear, if you were me, and she told you she was nineteen, twenty-one even, you’d believe her.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-seven. Look, I’m sorry. I really am. About everything. But she told me she was nineteen and I believed her. What can I say? Yes, I was attracted to her. But I’m no cradle-snatcher. That wasn’t it at all. Most of my girlfriends have been older than me, as a matter of fact. She just had this aura, like she knew what it was all about, but when it got right down to it she was vulnerable, too, and you felt like you wanted to protect her. It’s hard to explain.’
Banks felt sad and angry, as if this really was his own daughter he was discussing. Stupid. ‘What happened? You say you don’t know where she is, that she found another boyfriend. Who?’
‘I told you I don’t know his name. I’d tell you if I did. I don’t know who he is. All I know is the last time I saw her she was with him. They were coming out of a pub in Soho, not far from the GlamourPuss offices. I’d been there having a pint with Rick and trying to shake a bit more business out of him. I’d been taking a few candids out in the street. I was upset about her leaving me without a word, so I went up to her and tried to talk to her.’
‘What happened?’
‘A couple of goons attacked me.’ He pointed to his nose. ‘That’s how I got this.’ Then he pointed to his head. ‘And I had to have seven stitches where my head hit the pavement.’
‘Two goons?’
‘That’s what they looked like. Bodyguards. Minders. Nobody said a word. It all happened so quickly.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘About a month ago.’
‘What was Louisa doing at the time?’
‘She was hanging on this bloke’s arm, not doing anything really. She looked high. I mean really high, not just like a couple of drinks and a spliff high. I heard her giggling when I went down.’
‘And the man she was with? What did he look like?’
‘Stone-faced. All sharp angles, like it was carved from granite. Hard eyes, too. Didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Not a word. When I was on the ground, one of the goons kicked me, then they all just disappeared. Someone came out of the pub and helped me up, and that was that. I was lucky they didn’t break my camera. It was a Minolta. An expensive one.’
Banks thought for a moment. He didn’t like what he was hearing at all. ‘Can you tell me anything more about this man?’
Craig shrugged. ‘Don’t know, really. I didn’t get a really good look at him. Tall. Maybe about six two or three. Looked older.’
‘Than who?’
‘More your age than mine.’
Banks felt his stomach rumbling and realized he hadn’t eaten all day, except for a slice of toast with his morning coffee. He hadn’t finished with Craig yet, though; there were still things he needed to know. ‘Is there anywhere decent to eat around here?’ he asked.
‘Couple of good Indian places down the high street, if that’s your sort of thing.’
‘Fancy a meal? On me.’
Craig looked surprised. ‘Sure. Why not? Just let me hang up the negs to dry. Won’t be a minute.’ He left the room. Banks stayed where he was, finishing his lager, and thought a bit more about darkrooms, Uncle Ted, and Sandra naked in the infrared light. Dinner. Tomorrow.
They walked down to the narrow high street. The wind had dropped, but it was a chilly evening and there weren’t many people out. Banks was glad of his warm leather jacket. They passed a sign on the wall of one of the buildings that made some reference to Richard III. Historical too, then, Stony Stratford.
‘It’s supposed to be where he picked up the Princes in the Tower,’ said Craig. ‘Before they were in the Tower, like. You know, the ones he killed.’
Craig picked a relatively inexpensive Indian restaurant. It was comfortably warm inside, and the exotic smells made Banks’s mouth water the minute they got in the door. When they had ordered beers and were nibbling on poppadoms in anticipation of their main courses, Banks picked up the subject of Louisa again. ‘Did she ever mention this boyfriend to you before?’
‘No. One day everything seemed fine, the next she packed her stuff – what little she had – and she was gone before I got home. I had a wedding to shoot that day. My first, and it was a big deal. When I got home, all I found was a note. I remember it word for word.’ He closed his eyes. ‘“Sorry, Craig, it’s just not working out. You’re a sweet lad. Maybe see you around. Hugs and kisses, Louisa.” That was it.’
‘You had no idea at all what was going on? That she’d met someone else?’
‘Not at the time, no. But the bloke’s often the last to find out, isn’t he?’
‘Had you been arguing?’
‘Yeah, but that was par for the course with Louisa.’
‘You argued a lot?’
‘A fair bit.’
‘What about?’
‘Oh, the usual stuff. She was bored. Our life lacked glamour and excitement. She wanted to go out more. She said I wasn’t paying enough attention to her, that I was taking her for granted.’
‘Was it true?’
‘Maybe. Some of it. I was working a lot, getting paying jobs, like that wedding. I suppose I was probably spending more time in the darkroom than I was with her. And I didn’t know where she was half the time. I mean, we’d only been living together a month or so. It wasn’t as if we were an old married couple, or something.’
‘She went out alone a lot?’
‘She said she was out with her mates. Sometimes she didn’t come back till two or three in the morning. Said she’d been clubbing. Well, you don’t hold on to a girl like Louisa by clipping her wings, so there wasn’t a lot I could do about it. It got me down a bit, though.’
‘Did you know any of her friends?’
‘Only Ruth. She introduced us.’
‘Ruth?’
‘Yeah. Ruth Walker.’
‘How did she know Louisa?’
‘Dunno. But Ruth’s always taking in strays. Heart of gold, she’s got. Do anything for you. Louisa was staying with her when we met. I’ve known Ruth since I was at college. She was doing a computer course at the university, and she helped me out with some digital photography software. We got to be friends. I’d see her once in a while, you know, take her down the pub or out to see a movie or a band or something – she’s really into the live-music scene – and one time I went, there was Louisa, sitting on her sofa. I won’t say it was love at first sight, but it was definitely something.’
Lust, no doubt, thought Banks. ‘Were you and Ruth lovers?’
‘Ruth and me? Nah. Nothing like that. We were just friends.’
The food came – Balti prawns for Craig and lamb korma for Banks, along with pilau rice, mango chutney and naan – and they paused as they shared out the dishes. The ubiquitous sitar music droned in the background.
‘Okay,’ said Banks after a few bites to stay the rumbling of his stomach. ‘What happened next?’
‘Well, Ruth got Louisa a job at the same company she worked for out Canary Wharf way. Nothing much, just fetching and carrying, really. Louisa didn’t have any great job
skills. But it brought in a quid or two, helped get her on her feet.’
‘Did Louisa talk much about her past?’
‘Only to put it down. Sounds as if you gave her a pretty rough time. Sorry, but you asked.’
‘I suppose I did.’ Banks tasted the lamb. It was a bit too greasy, but it would do. He soaked up some sauce with his naan.
‘Anyway,’ Craig went on, ‘she didn’t last long there. Didn’t seem to take to office work at all, as a matter of fact. Or any work, for that matter.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I think it was mostly her attitude. Louisa thinks other people are there to work for her, not the other way around. And she’s got attitude with a capital A.’
‘How did she survive after that?’
‘She had a few quid of her own in the bank. She never said how much, but she never seemed to go short. Sometimes she borrowed off Ruth or me. She could go through money like nobody’s business, could Louisa.’
‘And the new boyfriend?’
Craig nodded. ‘If he’s the sort of bloke who can afford minders, then he’s probably not short of a few quid, is he? Gone up in the world, she has, young Louisa.’
That’s right, Banks thought. And if he’s the sort of bloke who needs minders, then the odds are that he makes his money in a dodgy way, a way that could make him enemies who want to do him physical harm, a way that could also put Emily in jeopardy. The more Banks heard, the more worried about her he became. ‘Are you sure you’ve got no idea who he is, where I can find them?’
‘Sorry. If I knew, I’d tell you. Believe me.’
‘Do you think Ruth Walker might know?’
‘It’s possible. She wouldn’t tell me when I asked her, but I think Louisa must have told her I was obsessed with her, stalking her or something.’
‘Were you?’
‘Course not.’
‘Then what makes you think that?’
‘Just the way she looked at me. We haven’t been quite the same since that whole thing with Louisa, Ruth and me. But she might tell you.’
Banks shrugged. ‘It’s worth a try.’
Craig gave him the address of Ruth’s flat in Kennington. ‘You know, I really liked Louisa,’ he mused. ‘Maybe I loved her . . . I don’t know. She was pretty wild, and her mood swings . . . well . . . all I can say is she could make one of those divas look stable. But I liked her. Still, maybe I’m better off without her. At least I can concentrate on my work now, and I need to do that. Lord knows, she ran me ragged. But for a while there, when she’d first gone, there was a big hole in my life. I know it sounds corny, but I’d no energy, no real will to go on. The world didn’t look the same. Not as bright. Not as interesting. Grey.’
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