They said their farewells and Danny turned to his terminal. He started looking on the wire for stories about people trafficking. Since the fall of the Iron Curtain it seemed that business was booming. It was a depressingly familiar story. And it was already evident this was potentially his most dangerous investigation so far.
* * *
I thought about trying Ben again, but then remembered the way Mitch had smiled at me and decided against it, for now. It was weird. Normally I keep myself to myself, but suddenly I was spoilt for choice.
That said, I decided not to call Mitch either. There were two main reasons. Despite the obvious appeal of an uncomplicated relationship with somebody new, unencumbered by the expectations of friendship or work issues, my heart still very much belonged to Danny. I’d had offers before. In fact, we’d both been on dates before. I went out with an anaesthetist once but it was really boring. He sent me to sleep. Ultimately, though, Danny and I seem to have a connection that goes beyond anything I’ve ever known, and I just can’t imagine that with anyone else.
The second reason? Danny was still very much on the naughty step, and if he had anything at all to do with Clare, ever again, I’d be quite prepared to rethink all of the above and frankly he could go and stuff himself, devotion or not. I was that pissed off. And in that eventuality, it would pay to keep Mitch waiting, to make him even more grateful and even more keen to see me when I finally picked up the phone.
So, either way, a call was out, but I made sure Mitch’s business card was in a safe place on my desk at Passion Fruit - my photographic studio. I can’t deny that I occasionally cast a glance in its direction, pondering the possibilities. And it would be a fib to deny that I’d copied his number into my phone memory already, just for safekeeping. Where was the harm in that? Part of me was flattered. But a further part of me seemed to be curiously smitten. And that part was nudging me in the direction of recklessness.
I developed the films from the previous day, made contact sheets of the lot, and quick 10x8 enlargements of a few of my favourites. I hung them up to dry then made sure of it with my hairdryer. It’s never ideal as the heat can mess with the resin coating of the paper, but better that than having them stick together. Once that was done, it was time to head to the rehearsal studio in Hackney.
I didn’t fancy public transport - even though it was an overground train from Camden Road rather than the tube - so I took my Honda Prelude and arrived exactly on time, if you use a fairly loose definition of the term “exactly” and allow a fifteen-minute margin on top.
I pressed the button for the doorbell. It was a fairly bleak-looking place, in a side street, near a parade of shops. I tried to listen for music as I waited for the bell to be answered, but I could just hear traffic, and a passing train.
After a moment, the door buzzed and seemed to become unlocked. I pushed it and it gave way. I found myself in a musty hallway with a set of stairs at the end leading down to a cellar that presumably served as the rehearsal space.
“Hi,” I called, but there was no answer. I made my way to the stairs and just as I reached the top, a door opened below. Holly appeared.
“Hi, Anna, good to see you,” she said. “Come on down.”
She held the door open for me at the bottom of the stairs. I found myself in a room with several sets of big speakers, several flight cases, a couple of keyboards on stands, a desk with an old-looking computer, and a microphone in the middle. There was a sofa against one wall, and the walls themselves were painted black but decorated with newspaper cuttings, all sorts of foam shapes that were presumably for sound reasons, and the occasional picture. There was a mustiness about the place, coupled with the distinctive aroma of marijuana. Curiously, nobody was there apart from Holly.
“Are the others not here?” I asked after she’d offered to make me a cup of tea. She seemed on reasonable form, although she still had a slightly spaced-out look, as though she’d taken something earlier in the day.
“No, sorry,” she replied. “I’m not sure what they’re up to. They were supposed to be here but I’ve not heard anything from them.”
“That’s a shame. I’ve brought some pictures.”
She seemed enthusiastic to see them. Far more enthusiastic than she’d been to have them taken, anyway. I laid them out on top of one of the keyboards. It said Roland on the front and had an array of knobs and nice coloured switches. Danny would have recognised it, I’m sure.
“Wow, I love them,” said Holly, as she examined the contact prints. She pointed out her favourites. It was good to have feedback but I was a bit miffed the others weren’t there to see them as well. We chatted for a while, although she seemed reluctant to talk about the band. On the upside, she was considerably friendlier than I’d expected. Maybe she just took time to get to know someone before opening up, and there’s nothing wrong with that.
“We’re playing again tonight if you’re interested in coming down,” she said, eventually.
“Yes, Steve said. Definitely.”
“The others can see the pictures then. Sorry again they’re not here. They should be. We’re supposed to be rehearsing.” She wrote the venue details on a piece of paper and handed it to me.
“I said to Steve I’d attempt some live shots, if I don’t get crushed.”
“Wow, yes, that would be amazing. Are you sure?”
“Of course.” I remembered a night in a night club, elbowing my way through the crowds, taking pictures. The bruises lasted a few days but it had been lots of fun, and the challenge of capturing the energy and mood of the performance intrigued me.
“Thanks, Anna,” she said. There was the merest hint of a wobble in her voice.
“Is everything okay?” I asked. It was worth a go.
“In terms of?”
“You know, with the band. I thought there seemed a bit of tension.”
Her expression changed. I couldn’t work out if it was annoyance or a warning in her eyes.
“We’re fine,” she said. That was it.
“Okay,” I said, in the absence of anything more constructive.
“Right,” she continued. “I’d better get on. There’s some programming to do even if nothing else.”
“Of course. I’ll leave you to it. Keep the pictures and show the others and I’ll chat about them tonight.” I moved towards the staircase. She opened the door again.
“Press the buzzer by the door upstairs and it’ll open,” she said. There was a definite sense of being rushed out. But then, as I started climbing the stairs, she spoke after me.
“We just work hard, you know?”
I turned.
“Sorry?”
“We work hard. It’s a creative business. Of course, there’s tension occasionally. Don’t worry, Anna.”
I walked back towards her. I still couldn’t read her eyes but there was definitely something there.
“Are you okay?” I asked with genuine tenderness.
She nodded. I stepped forward, arms extended. She seemed in need of a hug.
“Call me any time you need me, or if you just want to talk,” I said.
“I will.” She smiled, but it was the sort of smile that hid a hundred secrets. I made my way back to the door. She stayed, leaning on the door frame, as I ascended the stairs.
“Thanks again,” she said as I reached the top. I wasn’t sure what she was thanking me for: just the pictures or the olive branch of friendship. Either way, I left her there alone. There’s often something self-destructive about creative genius. It was bothering me for reasons I couldn’t explain, let alone begin to understand.
11
I ARRIVED home before Danny and was having a bit of a snoop on the computer, trying to find any evidence of communication with Clare, when I heard him open the door. I quickly stopped and pretended to be tidying the desk, then picked up several teacups and headed in the direction of the kitchen.
He followed me in. We hadn’t seen much of each other the previous even
ing and there was still an air of an unresolved argument. I gave him a hug, but it was less enthusiastic than normal. I think he noticed.
“Cup of tea?” I asked. He nodded.
“Thanks, Anna. Good day?”
I brought him up to speed on the visit to the studio and mentioned the gig later that evening. He said he’d love to come with me, which I took to be a positive. At least he wasn’t meeting her, then, not that I’m paranoid. (I am.) In return Danny filled me in on the latest with Graham March, his meeting with his editor, and the looming deadline.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.
“Well,” he began, “I want to follow him. See where he goes. And photographic evidence would be a massive help...” He was grinning.
“Do they not have photographers at the Echo?”
“They do, and I’ve been offered one, but I’d rather be with you. If you’re interested, of course.”
“Danny, I’d love to help but that’s a bit like you being asked to concoct a poem just because you’re a writer of crack investigative news stories. Different discipline. Just because there’s a camera involved, it doesn’t mean that anything I’ve learned shooting fashion is in any way relevant to a stake-out.”
“Oh,” he said. He looked genuinely upset. “Is that a ‘no’ then?”
I did one of those “what do you think” faces.
“I’m sorry to have asked. I should have thought.”
I couldn’t help a grin from surfacing.
“Of course I’ll help,” I said, punching him on the arm, harder than was strictly necessary. “Just no promises that I’ll be any good. Okay?”
He gave me a hug. Then, as he let go, I noticed him rubbing his arm and I felt a bit guilty, but neither of us mentioned it again.
“When do we start then, Poirot?” I asked. I called him that occasionally, much to his annoyance.
“How are you fixed this week?”
“Completely free if you need me. I’ve finished everything I needed to do for autumn-winter, so unless a commission comes up I’m yours.”
“Fantastic. Tomorrow then?”
“I’m on.”
Danny took his tea through to the living room. I stayed in the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher.
“What time are we heading out tonight?” he called after a few minutes, through the open doorway.
“In a couple of hours. Just over. We need to be there about 8.30-ish. Is that okay?”
“Yup, perfect,” he replied.
A few minutes later I walked through to join him. He was typing on the computer keyboard, but as soon as he spotted me he grabbed the mouse and minimised the window he was working in.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to. Sod the pair of them. I continued past, straight to my room and closed the door with considerable vigour. I had a phone call to make.
Forty minutes later I emerged. This time I really had made an effort. Best outfit, impeccable make-up given the time constraints, new tights without any snags, and shoes that you wouldn’t want to walk very far in.
“Change of plan,” I said. “The gig’s off. I’m going out.”
“Anna?”
“Don’t wait up.”
“Anna? What’s up?”
I ignored him, grabbed my jacket and headed out into the night.
* * *
“Sorry about the short notice,” I said, taking a sip of my first glass of Sauvignon Blanc. I didn’t think it would be the last.
“That’s okay. Spontaneity is good,” said Mitch. “Cheers.” He had a pint of some sort of lager. I don’t know what - he’d paid for them. We chinked glasses.
“At least I don’t need to worry about you following me if I know where you are,” he said with a smirk.
I laughed.
“Here we go, starting already. Do women often follow you? Is that something to do with you being a film star? And just for the record, again, I wasn’t.”
“No, just you. And I’m not a film star.”
“Yet.”
“Probably never, but it’s fun trying.”
“So, what do you do when you’re not on the silver screen?”
I have to confess, I should have been paying full attention at this point, but inwardly I was still fuming, my mind full of dark thoughts. He mentioned something about a petrochemical company which I’m sure was a lot more intriguing than I would give it credit for, although when he then went on to mention marketing, a part of me died inside.
“Basically a salesman then?” I said, hoping I hadn’t missed anything important.
“Haha, no, not a salesman. I get involved in brand extension, business development, all that kind of stuff.”
“And business development isn’t sales because...?”
“God, are you always this awkward? Been single long by any chance?” I was warming to his sense of humour. This was exactly what I needed.
“Tell me about this band then,” he said, when I’d got our second round of drinks.
“They’re called Lumière Rouge, which means red light I think.”
“Seedy.”
“Indeed, but with added French-ness to give the illusion of sophistication, I expect. The singer’s my friend’s brother. Then there are two keyboard players who both look like they’re on drugs most of the time, but they’re good.”
“Sounds encouraging.”
“That they’re on drugs?”
“No, that they’re good.”
“Ah, yes. Well, it’s probably all backing tapes with a bit played over the top, but the singing’s live. That’s who I was doing the pictures of in Bromley-by-Bow yesterday.”
“The singer?”
“No, the three of them.”
“Got you. How’d it go?”
“Better than I thought it would, actually. The girls are a bit strange.”
“Girls?”
“Yes, sorry. The keyboard players. Leah and Holly.”
“Ah, I’m with you. And the music is...?”
“Kind of goth-y but with synthesisers. Actually, surprisingly decent.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Play your cards right and I’ll introduce you. I was supposed to be doing some pictures tonight as well, some live shots, but I left in a bit of a rush and didn’t bring the camera.”
“So, it’s a night off then?”
“Looks like it.”
“That’s good. We shall make the most of it.”
We rushed the second drink and then left the warm comfort of the pub for the short walk to the venue. I don’t often come to Islington, but I still knew enough about the area to suggest a meeting place not far from our final destination. We walked up to the front of the queue and I explained to the doorman we were on the guest list. He allowed us through to the ticket desk inside.
“Name?” asked the girl on reception. She had rather impressive bright red hair and dramatic eye make-up, but then a spike through her lower lip that looked particularly painful. I wondered how she managed to kiss anyone without stabbing them.
“Anna Burgin,” I said.
She looked down the list, then turned to me.
“You’re not down here,” she said.
“Sorry?” I said. “I must be. I’m with the band.”
“Hold on.”
She grabbed a second list from further along her desk, and started working her way down it.
“Anna Burgin?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m sorry. You were, but it’s been crossed through. Look.” She showed me my name, very definitely crossed out.
“That’s got to be a mistake, surely?” I said. My confusion was second only to my mortifying sense of embarrassment. How not to create a good impression on a first date.
“No, I don’t think so. I’ll see if I can get their manager for you.”
“Thank you.”
She disappeared behind a curtain. Their manager? I didn’t think they had a manager.
“Sorry about this,” I said to Mitch. He put his arm round me, which in other circumstances may have seemed a bit forward, but I was grateful for the moral support.
“That’s okay,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll get it sorted.”
A couple of minutes later she reappeared.
“He’s on his way,” she said. I thanked her, and we moved to the side to wait.
“If we can’t get in we can always go back to the pub,” said Mitch.
“I know, but it’s just so embarrassing. I’m sure it’ll be okay, though.”
But it wasn’t okay. A moment later the curtain was pulled back. A man stood silently, arms folded, grinning at me.
“Here he is,” said the girl on reception.
But none of it made sense. I recognised him immediately. The last time I’d seen him, he was trying to arrest me for a murder that I hadn’t committed, and which, in fact, had never taken place. The band’s new manager was the former DCI Graham March. He turned away without saying a word and disappeared back into the venue. What the fuck?
12
DANNY was still up when I got home, just after midnight.
“Anna, I’ve been so worried,” he said. “Where were you?”
“Just out with a friend,” I said.
In truth, the issue with the guest list hadn’t done much to dampen the “friendship”. Quite the reverse in fact. We thought about just buying tickets but the queue was long so we returned to the pub and soon both started to laugh about it. I proceeded to have slightly too much to drink, and our conversation flowed. I tried to ask intelligent questions about the petrochemical industry, but I think he knew I didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. He was decent about it, though.
In turn, he asked me lots of questions about my career, and the world of fashion photography. To his eternal credit it wasn’t just the obvious ones about models and the usual misconceptions about some kind of party lifestyle with beautiful people in far-flung locations. He wanted to know how commissions worked, about the interaction between brand owners and magazine stylists, and my views on how developments in technology would change working practices over time. It was thought-provoking stuff. He seemed intelligent, and refreshingly charismatic; genuinely interested in me rather than being side-tracked by the glamorous fluff that seems to obsess the less enlightened.
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