Blood Never Dies

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘He’d have to wait for ’em to heal,’ Connolly said. ‘First they bleed, then they weep, then they scab and peel—’

  ‘Thank you,’ Atherton interrupted hastily. ‘Two weeks or so later he goes for an audition at a porn-film firm. That’s nearly a tongue twister.’

  ‘I wonder what they have to do in an audition,’ Fathom mused.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Swilley sharply. ‘Boss, we don’t know he was going for an audition. You don’t put your hand on your heart and swear truth to a cabbie.’

  ‘No,’ said Slider, ‘but he went there, and he seemed nervous, and why else the wax and ink?’ That was what had stirred in his mind while talking to Barnes. ‘Anyway, we haven’t got a whole lot of other leads to follow. And I don’t have to remind you, detecting is like an electric kettle – you have to cover the elements.’

  ‘At least they might be able to confirm his name,’ Atherton said. ‘That would be a step forward.’

  ‘See what else you can find out about Ransom Publications,’ Slider said to Swilley.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ she said.

  ‘And the Marylebone Group.’

  Brook Green was a subsection of Hammersmith, between it and Kensington, taking its name from the open area of grass and trees also called Brook Green. There once had been a brook, too, but as London had spread westwards in the nineteenth century it had been put into a pipe, where it still ran under the Brook Green Hotel. The area was home to an elite independent girls’ school, St Paul’s, where Monica Dickens had once been a pupil. In an earlier age, Gustav Holst had been its music master, and wrote The Planets during his tenure there.

  Slider wondered what the school authorities thought about having Ransom House as a neighbour, but when he and Atherton arrived he concluded that it was discreet enough for them not to know about it. It was a small nineteen-thirties office block, half the ground floor of which had been rented off to a printing firm. Beside the main door a brass plaque simply had RANSOM HOUSE engraved on it, with no indication as to the nature of the business. A check with Paxman, the uniform sergeant on duty downstairs, had told him there had never been any trouble there.

  The heat was less oppressive than yesterday, and there was a pleasantly verdant smell on the air from the grass and trees. The late sun was filtering through the leaves of the plane trees in a flickering, gold-green, Hollywood sort of way, and there ought to have been swelling string music in the background signifying a romantic encounter was about to unfold. But there was only the muted roar of traffic from Hammersmith Road, and two police detectives with hot feet, and suits they’d had on all day, ringing the bell of an extremely closed-looking office door.

  There was an intercom grille in the wall, and a woman’s voice answered simply ‘Yes?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Slider of Shepherd’s Bush. I would like to speak to somebody in charge, please.’

  There was a pause, and then a buzz. They pushed in, to find themselves in a small, anonymous hall, with stairs visible straight ahead through a half-frosted door, and to the left, an open door into an office. The office was also anonymous, containing nothing that might give a clue to the nature of the business conducted here. The Crittall windows were frosted, the carpet was green, the walls cream-painted. There were two desks, filing cabinets, cupboards, computers and telephones, everything you would expect; and it was very tidy. But the one occupant – a middle-aged woman, smartly dressed and still handsome – seemed to have settled herself in comfortably, with a fleet of framed photographs on her desk, a row of plants along the windowsill and a reproduction of Monet’s ‘Poppies at Argenteuil’ on the wall. Slider got the feeling she had been there a long time.

  She looked up at them with a motherly smile. ‘May I see your identification, please?’ Having inspected their briefs thoroughly, she said, still smiling, ‘Well, what can I do for you? I hope we’re not in trouble? Not a complaint? We like to get on well with our neighbours and everything upstairs is soundproofed.’

  ‘No trouble, no complaint,’ Slider said. ‘We’re trying to find out something about a man who came here one day a couple of months ago. We think he might have worked for you.’ He offered her the photograph, and she took it, looked, frowned unhappily as she realized what it was, and handed it back.

  ‘Yes, I think he did work for us for a time. Look, I think you’d better speak to Paul. Paul Barrow. He’s the boss. Let me buzz up to him for you.’ She had a brief conversation, muted, turned away from them so they couldn’t hear, on the telephone, and then said, ‘You can go up to the studio. Through there, turn left through the door and up the stairs.’

  On the way up, Atherton said, ‘I’ve never seen the inside of a porn studio. I’m not sure I’m ready for this.’

  ‘Steady, boy,’ Slider said. ‘Don’t expose yourself.’

  At the top of the stairs was a vestibule with swing doors, which they pushed open into the studio. It was the width of the building and ran most of the length, making a room about twenty feet wide and thirty feet long. The windows, which were on the left, on the street side, had blackout blinds over them, and the opposite wall was windowless and painted off-white with a floor to ceiling grey backdrop curve in the middle of it. There were diffusers, reflectors, light stands and lamps, and an electric fan on a tall stand. On one side of the room was a jumble of props – a large bed, cheval mirrors, plastic plants in pots, tables and chairs. On the other side was an IKEA-type metal storage frame with shelves covered in technical equipment and smaller props, a wheeled rack of costumes, and a table covered in empty polystyrene cups, plates with screwed-up paper napkins on them, and overloaded ashtrays.

  On a high stool in the middle of the curve sat a young woman in red high heels, white stockings and a suspender belt, being photographed by a man all in black, while a pixie-like girl in leggings and enormous boots clutched a clipboard and looked on. As they came in the model put her arms unhurriedly over her more important naked parts, and the man made a sound of exasperation and turned to see who had interrupted them.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded, scowling. He had a strong Neil Oliver Scottish accent. ‘You can’t just come waltzing in here. It’s not a friggin’ tourist destination.’

  He was slim, not very tall, in tight black jeans and a body-hugging black T-shirt. He had a rather pale, peaky face, spiky black hair that looked dyed, and a little bit of black beard from the middle of his bottom lip over his chin, like John Travolta in Swordfish – or perhaps, given his thinness and pallor, like an absent-minded Hitler.

  Slider introduced them again, and he came forward, still scowling, while in the background the pixie tossed a robe to the model, and they went and huddled out of the way, conversing in whispers and watching nervously.

  ‘We’re trying to find out something about this man,’ Slider forestalled what was obviously going to be a tirade about police persecution. ‘We think he worked here at one time.’

  He handed over the photo, and the young man looked, and then looked troubled. ‘This picture . . . he’s . . . is he?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid he’s dead. You do know him, then?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s Mike. Mike Horden. But what—?’

  ‘He seems to have committed suicide. When did you last see him?’

  ‘It must be – oh – a couple a months ago. He’s not worked here for a while. God, the poor guy! I wonder what got into him?’

  ‘What first brought him here?’ Slider asked. ‘I don’t suppose you advertise vacancies in the Guardian.’

  ‘Tommy brought him in. Tommy Flynn.’ He was still staring at the photograph, as if mesmerized. ‘He—’

  ‘You looking for me?’ They were interrupted at that moment by a powerful, sixty-a-day voice, and looked round to see a man who had come through one of the doors at the far end. He was in his late fifties, with thick, longish grey hair, a fleshy, powerful face and glasses. He had the bulky body of a sportsman gone to seed, clad in grey flannel pants, navy deck shoes and a pl
ain white shirt, open at the neck and with the sleeves rolled up. His strong hands were decorated with several gold rings and a gold wristwatch, and in one he carried a polystyrene cup and in the other an unlit short cigar. He walked towards them, his eyes sharp, suspicious, analysing.

  ‘Paul, these guys are—’ the man in black began.

  ‘Yeah, all right, Ewan, I can deal with it,’ he stopped him contemptuously. He stared at Slider. ‘I’m Paul Barrow, producer. What can I do for you, gents?’ It was asked in a tight, get-out-of-my-hair way, while guiding them gently but firmly towards the exit. Despite its fleshiness, his face was as hard as his eyes, and not built for expressiveness in the same way a brick wall isn’t. You couldn’t imagine any circumstance in which you’d appeal to his better nature. They were out in the vestibule before he stopped. Slider had got his spiel out again and Barrow, having looked briefly at the photograph, said, ‘What d’you want to know about him?’

  Slider manoeuvred himself subtly so he didn’t have his back to the stairs, and said, ‘He came here one day a couple of months ago. We think he came for an audition in one of your films.’

  Barrow gave a snort of derision. ‘Audition! That’ll be the day. Yes, he came here looking for work.’

  ‘Did he tell you anything about himself?

  ‘He said he’d done some film extra work. He certainly talked the talk – had all the vocab, knew what to do. Knew a bit about cameras too. He didn’t seem like the usual type we get – too posh – but he said he needed the money, so I said we’d give him a try. He stripped well and he was nice looking so I tried him out, but he couldn’t act. You might think there wasn’t much call for acting in our trade but you’d be surprised. Makes all the difference between dross and cult, and my movies are cult. This guy couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag. We need wood, but not that sort. I used him as background furniture in a few scenes but I can’t afford to carry people. He’d have been better suited to working the other side of the cameras – he knew his stuff all right – but I didn’t need another cameraman. So I let him go.’

  ‘You sacked him?’

  ‘Told him I didn’t need him any more. The bodies are all freelance. I only employ the tech staff and Alice downstairs.’

  ‘Was he upset?’

  ‘I don’t think he was surprised. He must have known it was muck in or sling your hook. If you ask me,’ he added, staring at them like a large dog wondering which bit to bite first, ‘he was hoping to get into directing from the beginning. Between takes he was always hanging around, nattering about the cameras and asking questions. Trying to look keen. Instead of having a coffee and a smoke like the rest of them. Anyway, he went, and I haven’t seen him since. Is that it?’ he concluded impatiently. ‘I’ve got a lot to do.’

  ‘Just an address. I presume he gave you one?’ Slider said.

  ‘You’ll have to ask Alice downstairs. She deals with all that sort of thing.’

  ‘Thank you, I will,’ Slider said. ‘We’ll leave you in peace now, Mr Barrow, and thanks for your help.’

  He started down the stairs, his neck hairs bristling as if they expected that at any moment he would be shot in the back. At the bottom he glanced back and Barrow was still standing there, watching them, to make sure they were going. The look he was giving them was so searing it could have removed warts.

  When they had pushed through the door at the bottom, Atherton muttered to him, ‘Robin Williams, Michael Hordern? Who was he kidding?’

  ‘I don’t suppose anyone would have believed Clark Gable or Alec Guinness,’ Slider said. ‘At least it suggests that Robin Williams was a false name. Better a known unknown than an unknown unknown.’

  Through the door they could see Alice Downstairs clattering away on her keyboard, her eyes on some document to the side. ‘Toss you for her,’ Atherton muttered.

  ‘You can have first go. Use the famous charm.’

  Atherton went in first, Slider effacing himself behind. Alice looked up and smiled. ‘All right?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, except that I talked to the photographer for some time thinking he was Mr Barrow.’

  ‘Oh, that’s Ewan Delamitri. He’s the director. He’s very artistic.’

  ‘Yes, he seemed like the artistic type.’ Atherton smiled. ‘Anyway, we spoke to Mr Barrow and he referred us back to you for Mike Horden’s address and so on.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a look. I expect we’ve still got it.’ She stood up and went to one of the filing cabinets.

  ‘So, do you remember when Mike Horden came in the first time? Looking for work?’

  ‘Yes, I do, as it happens. He wasn’t our usual type, so he did rather stick out like a sore thumb, poor lamb.’

  ‘What is your usual type?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ she said vaguely. ‘Leery young people. Mad for it. Hyped up.’

  ‘Coked up?’

  She turned and looked at him carefully. ‘I’ve never seen anything taken here. But you know how young people are, especially in any branch of show business – booze, pills, lines. They don’t see anything wrong with it. But he didn’t seem like that. He seemed to be stone-cold straight – and very nervous. Sweat on his upper lip. Ingratiating smile. I suppose he needed the job badly. I hoped he’d make it, but he didn’t last long.’

  ‘I understand Tommy Flynn introduced him?’

  ‘That’s what he said – that Tommy had recommended him to come along. Tommy’s been working here a long time. One of our regulars. A good boy – very reliable. Don’t ask me where he met Mike Horden.’

  ‘No, I’ll ask Tommy, if you can give me his contact details while you’re at it.’

  ‘Oh. All right,’ she said. She turned a moment later shoving the drawer in with her shoulder, and wrote rapidly on a sheet of paper. ‘Look,’ she said, withholding it a moment, ‘Tommy’s not in trouble, is he?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Atherton said, injecting sincerity into every line of his face. ‘We just want to find out something about Mike’s background. He’s a bit of a mystery so far. Can’t find his next of kin or anything.’

  She seemed to relax at the words ‘next of kin’. So explicable, so unthreatening. ‘Poor boy,’ she said. ‘But someone must be missing him. He didn’t seem like the sort who went through life without attachments.’

  ‘What did you think of him? In general?’ Atherton asked, still waiting for the sheet of paper.

  She frowned. ‘Rather sweet,’ she said. ‘Out of his place – he really didn’t belong here. And terribly sad.’

  ‘Sad?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s what came across to me. In great waves. Not that he said anything, you understand, but I could feel it underneath. I supposed he’d got into financial trouble and was hoping this was the way out. But – that photo you showed me . . . it looks . . . is he . . .?’

  ‘I’m afraid he seems to have killed himself,’ Atherton said gently.

  ‘Oh no. Oh dear. The poor young man.’ She sighed. ‘One always wishes one could do more. If only he’d said, I might have been able to send him on to someone else, get him help. But I haven’t seen him in – it must be two months.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Atherton said.

  ‘But to kill yourself over money . . . I’m sure something could have been done. I wish he’d told me, poor lamb.’

  She had absently passed over the paper, and Atherton pocketed it quickly before she could change her mind. ‘Talking of money,’ he said, ‘do you have his bank details at all?’ She looked blank. ‘For his salary or wages or whatever you’d call it?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘He was paid cash. The really casual ones often are. They’re all freelance, you know,’ she added, with a change of tone and expression. There was a wariness about her now. Paying cash wasn’t illegal but it looked a bit less than completely respectable, and she perhaps expected some awkward questions about book keeping.

  But Atherton kept on smiling, and Slider was also smiling as he
intervened to ask, ‘Can you tell us the date he first came here, looking for work?’

  She thought for a moment and said, ‘Yes, it was the first day after the May bank holiday. That would be Tuesday – let me see – the third of May. Yes, because I’d been away that weekend at my sister’s and she’d given me a new photo of the children. I was putting it in a frame – here it is – when he came in. He mentioned it – said how pretty the children were, and I thought what nice manners he had. Most of the youngsters who come in – well, they’re a different animal altogether. As I said, he was really out of place here.’

  Slider digested this a moment, then asked, ‘What happens to the films after the shooting’s finished? They’re not processed here, are they?’

  ‘Oh, no. Paul does the initial editing with Ewan – he has an editing suite upstairs. Then it goes to the works in Solihull – it’s on a business estate – where it’s finished off and the discs are made and packaged. Then they go to the warehouse in Staines where they’re stored and distributed.’ She seemed pleased with the new direction of question, as if it was lighter going, and volunteered, ‘I expect you’d like those addresses as well?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. That would be very helpful,’ Slider said. She copied them down for him on a fresh sheet and handed it over. He thanked her again and they departed, leaving her looking thoughtful, unhappy and perhaps a little apprehensive.

  Outside, Slider said, ‘I wonder what she’s worried about? A bit of unofficial cash accounting, or a lot of illegal drug taking?’

  ‘Like she says,’ Atherton shrugged, ‘there’s a lot of it about.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘I liked the look of that Paul Barrow,’ Slider said, as they made their way back to the car. ‘There’s a man ripe for taking down if ever I saw one.’

  ‘Well, it’s given us a few more things to check,’ Atherton said. ‘And a mobile phone number for Horden-stroke-Williams. I wonder what name we’ll find him under next? Charlie Chaplin? Hedy Lamarr?’