Simon Brett - Cast in Order of Disappearance

But the new explanation wasn’t much more satisfactory than the first. For a start. Charles didn’t like to think of Jacqui in that light. And also he doubted whether she had the intelligence to be so devious. The only convincing bit was the thought of Steen as a frightened man. What was it he was afraid of?

Charles marshalled his knowledge of blackmailers’ habits. It was limited, all gleaned from detective novels. He got out the brown envelope and spread the photographs on his lap. His reaction to them had numbed. They just seemed slightly unwholesome now, like used tissues. Just photographs. What would Sherlock Holmes, Lord Peter Wimsey, Hercule Poirot and the rest have made of that lot? Charles made a cursory check for blood-stained fingerprints, the thread of a sports jacket made from tweed only available in a small tailor’s shop in Aberdeen, the scratch marks of an artificial hand or the faint but unmistakable aroma of orange blossom. The investigation, he concluded without surprise, yielded negative results. They were just photographs.

Just photographs. The phrase caught in his mind. Negative results. Yes, of course. Where were the bloody negatives? Jacqui had paid out a thousand pounds for something that could be reproduced at will. A very rudimentary knowledge of detective fiction tells you that any photographic blackmailer worth his salt keeps producing copies of the incriminating material until he’s blue in the face. It would be typical of Jacqui’s naivety to believe that she was dealing with an honest man who had given her the only copies in existence.

If this were so, and the photographer was putting pressure on him, then Steen’s reactions were consistent. He had reason to be frightened. But why should he be frightened of Jacqui? Charles shuffled through his pockets for a two p piece and went down to the phone.

‘Jacqui?’

‘Yes.’ She sounded very low.

‘All right?’

‘Not too good.’

‘Listen, Jacqui, I think I may be on to something about the way Steen’s behaving.’

‘What?’ She sounded perkier instantly.

‘Jacqui, you’ve got to tell me the truth. When you bought those photographs…’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you buy the negatives too?’

‘No. I didn’t. But he’d destroyed them. He said so.’

‘I see. And did you mention to Steen that you’d got the photographs at any time?’

‘No. I wanted it to be a surprise-a present. He had mentioned them vaguely, said he was a bit worried. So I fixed to get them.’

‘When were they actually handed over to you?’

‘Last Saturday evening.’

‘And you never mentioned them even when you tried to ring Steen?’

‘I started to. On the Sunday evening when I first rang him. I spoke to Nigel. I said it was about the photographs, but even before I’d finished talking, he gave me this message from Marius to… you know… to get lost.’

‘Right. Give me the name and address of the bloke you got the photos from.’

As Charles limped along Praed Street, he began to regret dressing up for the encounter, but when he reflected on the exceptional violence of blackmailers in all detective fiction, he decided it was as well to conceal his identity. The disguise was good and added ten years to him. He’d greyed his temples and eyebrows with a spray, and parted his hair on the other side. He was wearing the demode pinstriped suit he’d got from a junk-shop for a production of Arturo Ui (‘grossly overplayed’-Glasgow Herald) and the tie he’d worn as Harry in Marching Song (‘adequate if uninspiring’-Oxford Mail). He walked with the limp he’d used in Richard III (‘nicely understated’-Yorkshire Post). He wasn’t sure whether to speak in the accent he’d used in Look Back in Anger (‘a splendid Blimp’-Worcester Gazette) or the one for When We are Married (‘made a meal of the part’ — Croydon Advertiser).

‘Imago Studios’, the address Jacqui had given him, proved to be in a tatty mews near St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington. The downstairs stable-garage part had apparently been converted into a studio. On the windows of the upper part the curtains were drawn. Charles rang the bell. Nothing. He rang again and heard movement.

The door was opened by a woman in a pale pink nylon housecoat and pink fur slippers. She had prominent teeth and dyed black hair swept back in the style of a souvenir Greek goddess. Her face was heavily made up and eye-lashed. Charles couldn’t help thinking of a hard pink meringue full of artificial cream.

She looked at him hard. ‘Yes?’

‘Ah, good afternoon.’ Charles plumped for the When We are Married accent. ‘I wondered if Bill was in.’ Jacqui had only given him the Christian name. It was all she knew.

‘Who are you? What do you want with him?’

‘My name’s Holroyd. Bill Holroyd.’ On the spur of the moment he couldn’t think of another Christian name. He grinned weakly. ‘Both called Bill, eh?’

‘What’s it about?’

‘Some photographs.’

‘What is it-wedding or portrait? Because my husband-’

‘No, no, it’s a more… personal sort of thing.’

‘Ah.’ She knew what he meant. ‘You better come in.’

She led the way up the very steep stairs. The large nylon-clad bottom swished close to Charles’ face as he limped up after her. ‘Can you manage?’

‘Yes. It’s just my gammy leg.’

‘How did you do it, Mr Holroyd?’

‘In the war.’

‘Jumping out of some tart’s bedroom window, I suppose. That’s where most war wounds came from.’

‘No. Mine was a genuine piece of shrapnel.’

‘Huh.’ She ushered him into a stuffy little room lit by bright spotlights. It was decorated in orange and yellow, with a leopardette three-piece suite covering most of the carpet. Every available surface was crowded with small brass souvenirs. Lincoln imps, windjammer bells, lighthouses, anchor thermometers, knights in armour, wishing wells, everything. On the dresser two posed and tinted photographs rose from the undergrowth of brass. One was the woman, younger, but still with her Grecian hair and heavy make-up. The other was of a man, plumpish and vaguely familiar.

The woman pointed to an armchair. ‘Sit down. Rest your shrapnel.’

‘Thank you.’

She slumped back on to the sofa, revealing quite a lot of bare thigh. ‘Right, Mr Holroyd, what’s it about?’

‘I was hoping to see your husband.’

‘He’s… er… he’s not here at the moment, but I know about the business.’

‘I see. When are you expecting him back?’

‘You can deal with me,’ she said. Hard.

‘Right, Mrs… er?’

‘Sweet.’

‘Mrs Sweet.’ Charles was tempted to make a quaint Yorkshire pleasantry about the name, but looked at Mrs Sweet and decided against it. ‘This is, you understand, a rather delicate matter…’

‘I understand.’

‘It’s… er… the fact is… Last summer I was down in London on business and… er… it happened that, by chance

… through some friends, I ended up at a party given by… er

… well, some people in Holland Park. Near Holland Park, that is

…’

‘Yes.’ She didn’t give anything.

‘Yes… Yes… Well, I believe that… er… your husband was at this particular party…

‘Maybe.’

‘In fact, I believe he took some photographs at the party.

‘Look here, are you from the police? I’ve had enough of them round this week.’

‘What?’ Charles blustered and looked affronted for a moment while he took this in. Obviously the police had been making enquiries about the Sally Nash case. Marius Steen’s anxiety was justified. ‘No, of course I’m not from the police. I’m the director of a man-made fibres company,’ he said, with a flash of inspiration.