On the wall opposite was another chrome-framed photograph, this one, according to the 12-point type beneath, by Elliott Erwitt. It showed a dog lying lazily beneath a car, the wheel threateningly resting against its head. All three photographs seemed sombre with their harsh shadows and grainy greys; yet each one was warm in subtle humour. A television with a fourteen-inch screen was on a stand in one corner and on the lower deck was a small hi-fi system with cassettes, some without their plastic cases, scattered before it. On the mantelshelf were several opened envelopes, their messages peeking out as if returned once read, a carriage clock showing the wrong time, a box of matches, and a red candle in an ornate silver holder.
A glass-topped coffee table littered with magazines stood between a sofa and an armchair, neither of which matched, although their loose cushions were of the same design and colour. She sank into the sofa and continued her inspection of the room.
There was no ceiling light, but lamps were in opposite corners, their glows (he’d switched them on before leaving the room) subdued by plain shades. One rested upon a waist-high yew bookcase which, instead of books, was filled with old, if not antique, cameras. A rubber plant whose leaves were brown around the edges shared space with a full ashtray on a tiny square table by the sofa.
Nothing matched apart from the cushions, not even the carpet and curtains: the former was a bland, patternless beige, and the latter a kind of dark yellow ochre that might not have been so dull in daylight. Most of what was there looked as though it had been acquired for function rather than for any design congruity.
The sound of a cupboard being opened, glasses clinking, came from the kitchen across the hall. A cat, the weird one that looked as though it was permanently grinning, looked round the open door at her. It studied her for a few moments, refusing to venture further in despite her soft encouragement; it disappeared, not in the least bit interested in her.
A thump as though someone had stumbled, and then Creed came through carrying two glasses and a bottle of Vouvray. ‘I’ll kill that cat,’ he muttered.
‘Are you sure I’m not holding you up?’ she said, taking one of the glasses from him.
‘I’ve got plenty of time. Besides, I need something to get me through the night.’
‘Why, what are you up to?’
‘You don’t want to know.’ He touched her glass with his own and slumped into the armchair. ‘Have you got a thing going with Milchip?’ he asked, and from the tone you’d have thought the question was completely without guile.
Her shoulders jerked. ‘With who?’
‘Your boss, the director.’
‘Daniel Lidtrap? What makes you ask that?’
He shrugged. ‘You’re so keen to make him a big name.’
‘He already is in advertising circles.’
‘Small stuff. You wouldn’t be pressing me if that meant anything in the real world.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right. But wrong on the other count. Daniel isn’t into women.’
Creed smiled and sipped wine.
‘Are you – were you – married, Joe?’
‘Was. She took most of my worldly possessions, including my kid.’
‘You must miss him.’
‘Not much. Most of the time he’s a snotty little brat.’
She hid her surprise behind her glass. ‘Do you see him at all?’
‘I do my duty once a fortnight. At least, I try.’ He proceeded with the ritual of sounding each other out. ‘What about you, Cally? If you’re not involved with your boss, how about others?’
‘Nothing significant. My job’s more important than—’
Somewhere outside the room a phone had begun to ring. Creed murmured something under his breath and put his glass down.
‘Won’t be a minute. Help yourself to another while I’m gone.’ He moved the bottle closer to her on the coffee table, nudging magazines aside. A brown ten-by-seven envelope that had been lying on top slid to the floor.
When he had left the room, Cally finished her wine but didn’t help herself to another glass. Instead she retrieved the envelope from the carpet.
There was no hesitation when she looked inside, and very little reaction when she drew out the two different photographs of the same ravaged face.
9
Time to interrupt for a very sketchy rundown on our hero’s career before the plot (such as it is so far) begins to thicken.
Joseph Creed had seen a lot and experienced a lot, and so he fancied himself as something of a world-weary cynic; which, to give him his due, he was, and the fact that he played up to the image to the point of boorishness didn’t make it any less so.
Part of that cynicism came with the territory, so to speak. As a photo-journalist, to give his trade a more respectable title, he’d ambushed the private moments of the eminent and not-so-eminent, often exposing situations that the party concerned would rather have kept discreet. When scandal was in the air, Creed and his kind – no apologies to the boys for saying this – were like vultures waiting for their prey to stagger and fall so that the pickings would be easier; and fall they generally did. At its most innocuous, Creed’s job was merely to catch the celeb wearing a goofy expression, with his or her latest fling, or maybe even taking a swing at the camera; if the subject were female, then a shot of over-exposed thigh or cleavage was always a favourite. But, working for so many years with the maxim that ‘good news is no news’, it had become natural to look for the darker or seedier side of human nature and the shot that might bring that into focus. In a way it was a shame that Creed was rarely disappointed in his searches.
He’d spent his late teens and early twenties bumming around America, working where he could, moving on the moment it felt like routine, making his way from the East Coast to the West, from New York to L.A., stopping to catch breath and earn bread at various points along the way – Charleston, Knoxville, Nashville, Salt Lake City, and quite a few places you might never have heard of. The route wasn’t direct and the stayovers never planned: a conversation with a pretty girl at a bus station, a casual beer with a local who would, after the fourth or fifth, become a bosom buddy, a HELP WANTED sign in a store window – any interesting ‘connection’ was good enough.
Sometimes it was circumstances rather than desire that kept him in these places, other times it could be the reverse (a ripe female body was always worth lingering over). Often he was requested to move on rather than taking the initiative himself.
In Los Angeles he worked for a time in a recording studio – more as a gofer than an arranger – then hustled his way back across the States after an incident involving a black session vocalist, her equally black-tempered boyfriend, a damaged tape deck, and a wrecked Plymouth Fury (the latter due to Creed’s hasty and careless departure). It took him under a month to get back to New York where a job as a messenger for a fashion magazine got him interested in photography. He picked up what he could from the mag’s staff photographers and freelancers, but ended that particular career (which could have been promising, who knows?) when one day he borrowed a Leica from the studio to do some freelance work of his own and someone he didn’t know on the street ‘borrowed’ the camera from him. He wasn’t such an accomplished liar in those days, so he was collared soon enough.
Around the same time the authorities became interested in his activities, wondering why Joseph Creed didn’t appear to exist on any of their lists, particularly on those appertaining to work permits. The decision that he should return to England wasn’t his alone.
Within three months of his being home, his mother died miserably of a slow-failing heart (his father was long gone, but with a secretary, not an ailment) and with the small inheritance left to him, Creed bought himself the mews house which proved to be the wisest, not to say the only, investment he’d ever made. He had just enough left over to buy a few sticks of furniture and basic photographic equipment (like a camera and two rolls of film).
He took to life as a paparazzo like a duck
to water or a pig to slime, finding he had an aptitude for the right moment, the right shot, in a profession where bravado was all and the photo-thief was king. A few lucky snaps got him under way and he soon established a certain reputation for himself with one or two pieces of derring-do. He took chances, he trod where devils feared to tread. He inveigled, he lied, he cheated. He gave his word and broke it. He had no regard for anybody’s – anybody’s – privacy. He was a pro. And so help him, he loved the smell of sleaze.
But lately – oh lately – something was lacking. One assignment seemed like the one before and the one after. They all had variations, of course, but essentially it was the same routine: hanging around, bored out of your skull, a sudden dramatic rush of adrenaline, the thrill lasting a couple of minutes at most, then waiting for the next fix, kicking your heels, wasting your time, married to your camera, cursing it when it let you down, loving it when it did all you asked; and you, yourself, scorned and courted in equal amounts – no, be real: scorned more than courted – cruising the streets when most good people were tucked up in bed, shrugging off indignities (Robert Redford had clipped Creed’s ear once), labelled a parasite by a society which, itself, fed off you.
These thoughts, and others, meandered through Creed’s mind during the down periods; at other times, when he was on a high, he had the greatest job in the world. Trouble was, the downs were exceeding the highs these days.
However.
Here he is, driving along Park Lane towards the Grosvenor House Hotel, his mood already beginning to lift. He’d checked it out earlier, had been thrown out the rear entrance, the staff entrance, the goods entrance (security being extra tight because of the visiting Royal) and had finally reached the conclusion that no way was he going to enter. Meanwhile, possibilities elsewhere could be pursued – the phone call earlier was from a publicist whose client, a fast-fading comedian of late-middle years, was celebrating his birthday with the latest bimbo in a BIG way at Annabel’s that evening (any publicity was good publicity when you were on the slide). Creed had covered that, particularly enjoying the moment when the estranged wife, along with the estranged daughter (who looked like a bimbo herself), doused the comedian’s girlfriend with their pina coladas. After that, and considerably cheered, he’d completed a tour of duty, knowing that nothing would be happening at the Grosvenor until after midnight. He could have caught the Duchess of York going in, but the best time was coming out, when one or two glasses had been consumed and spirits were frisky (and Fergie was renowned for her friskiness). In a good mood, she wasn’t averse to obliging the cameramen, although right now, Creed seriously doubts she’ll pose for the particular shot he has in mind.
But, he’s going to get something tonight, and it’ll be more than a cheery wave. As he drives he wipes the back of his hand across his lips, which have become moist. Oh yeah, no way is he leaving without something . . .
Creed slowed down when he neared the Grosvenor’s Park Lane entrance, noting the line of waiting chauffeur-driven stretch-limos and Rollers waiting alongside the kerb. No space had been left unoccupied adjacent to the Great Room’s revolving doors, and that made him suspicious. The pack was gathered outside, along with the usual sightseers who gathered anywhere they saw waiting cameramen. He drove on.
The hotel’s other entrance, this one leading directly into the reception lobby, was round the other side in a cul-de-sac off Park Street, a road parallel to Park Lane. Creed made his way to it and parked the jeep in a mews directly opposite the cul-de-sac. Hoisting the camera bag on to his shoulder, he locked up and walked back towards the main road. He paused when he recognized a familiar vehicle tucked in among others along the mews.
He smiled, remembering the crack on the head he’d taken outside Langan’s the night before. It was nothing to the crack he’d received tumbling down the stairs, but at least there might be some retribution for this one.
Creed lowered the bag to the ground and knelt beside it, popping the fastener to one of the small side pockets. He took out a tiny tube.
He joined the other paparazzi – the more canny ones these – a few minutes later and in time to see his old chum, Bluto, arguing with hotel security inside the lobby. Oh wonderful. In his bid to pose as a regular guest, Bluto had left his cameras inside his car and was obviously packing a miniature. No doubt he’d been sussed two seconds after getting through the hotel doors. He was lucky they’d tabbed him for what he was and not a goddamn terrorist, which was what he looked like.
The thickest paparazzi knew better than to argue unnecessarily once the game was up, and he left grouchily, ignoring the welcoming cheers of his compatriots outside.
He managed a sneer for Creed as he lumbered by, then looked twice at Creed’s I-know-something-you-don’t grin. He passed on, crossing the road and heading for his parked Celica, no doubt to fetch his grown-up cameras.
‘Any action?’ Creed asked the closest photographer.
‘You just saw it. Other than that, nothing. Fergie’s inside though, and a few others worth getting.’
Creed slipped his cameras around his neck, charging the batteries on both as he peered back into the lobby. He noticed the pool of royal snappers waiting in there, a permanent circle of privileged photographers who had special access to such events, known as the Royal Ratpack. Anyone else in the profession was an outsider and had to make their own opportunities. Creed, and the small group of (canny) snappers around him had guessed correctly: the Duchess of York would be leaving the charity ball through the main lobby and out these doors. The giveaway, and what the cowboys around the other side had been too dumb to spot, was the fact that no space had been left at the kerbside for the royal vehicle to pull into. No way would Fergie’s bodyguards allow her to walk out into the road.
He checked his watch. Five-to-midnight. Plenty of time to grab a smoke or two. Hopefully, she had a full engagement list tomorrow, so she wouldn’t stay too late. Hopefully . . .
He began to light up, but dropped the match instantly. Something was happening inside. Guests were stopping, the royal snappers were moving forward, raising their cameras. She was on her way out.
Even though there were only five members of the paparazzi present outside, the jostling began, each of them trying to manoeuvre into the best position. A doorman immediately hurried forward to move them back.
Meanwhile, in the mews opposite, Bluto was frantically struggling with his car door. For some reason the key wouldn’t turn in the lock. And when he tried to withdraw the key so that he could use the other door, it wouldn’t come out. He slapped the roof of the Celica hard as though it were being obstructive deliberately, and rattled the doorcatch as if wrath alone would do the trick. He leaned forward to examine the lock and when he touched the smeared chrome, the tips of his fingers almost stuck to it. He cursed loudly, stood back and kicked a tyre. He heard the commotion across the road, saw the first camera flashes.
He remembered Joe Creed’s mocking grin.
‘Bastard!’ he hissed.
Unlike his colleagues, Creed bided his time, seeing no sense in wasting good film on pictures of the Duchess of York’s famous red hair bobbing into view over the heads and shoulders of those around her. He was now resigned to settling for less than he wanted, that he would have to eat shit when he delivered the goods to the Dispatch’s gloating diarist, but that was the way of it sometimes. Win some, lose some. There was nothing he could do about it. He’d get something though, even if it was only one of those loony-toon expressions of hers. A Daimler drew up to the entrance, forcing the paparazzi to move around it for a clear view. The doorman who had ushered them away before opened the rear door.
Here it comes, flouncing out the door, bodyguard ahead. Come on, babe, pull me a face, give me something . . .
He heard the roar coming up from behind and turned just in time to see a great black shape pushing aside anyone in its path and bearing down on him.
Creed ducked reflexively and Bluto piled into him, arms swinging,
his incoherent roar startling if not terrifying everyone in the vicinity.
They both sprawled on the pavement, but Bluto’s impetus carried him further so that he was virtually prostrate at Lady Sarah’s feet. At once, two burly individuals had hurtled themselves on top of him, one being the Duchess’ bodyguard, the other a plain-clothes policeman who had been keeping an eye on the gathering outside. A tall, distinguished-looking gentleman in a dinner suit materialized from inside the lobby and quickly led the Royal by the arm around the scrimmage, to the waiting car. She bent down to climb in.
Creed, by then on his knees, had watched the proceedings in astonishment. Somehow he felt disembodied from the action, as though it were all taking place on a screen before him – and in slow motion at that. It didn’t take long to realize who had tried to attack him though and, of course, to understand why. But the bloody fool had spoilt any chance of his getting a decent shot of . . .
He saw her from the rear, leaning forward to duck into the Daimler, and his whole body – his whole psyche – snapped to attention. Oh thank you God, thank you . . .
‘Look out, I think he’s got a gun!’ Creed shouted.
Screams then, shouts, smacking sounds coming from the scrum only two or three feet away from him. And best of all, best of all, the Duchess of York, still bending forward to climb into the car, craning her head round, a look of alarm on her face.
Creed didn’t have to think further: his index finger did it for him. Click-flash. Simultaneously.
He was on his feet instantly for a better angle. Click-flash. Simultaneously.
Then the tall escort was bundling into the Daimler behind his charge, pulling the door closed behind him with a solid clumph. A last glimpse of wide eyes in a suddenly pale face beneath lush red hair before the car sped away, burning rubber as it made the tight turn.