Mo Hayder: Pig Island

When they'd done about twenty shots they got her changed, put her in a different dress, different hair and stuff. During the day she went through about six different dresses, most of which looked totally fucking ridiculous to me, like some of those makeover boudoir get-ups but must've been some kind of style statements because everyone else seemed to get them. Even Angeline. By three o'clock I had to sit down. I was getting tired. And there was something else. I was starting to get arsed off with the photographer.

At first it was great, seeing how happy he was making her, but now he was getting sort of tiresome. The way he kept up with this beautiful, beautiful shit, it was getting on my tits. I started watching him a bit more closely. I went further into the shadows so they couldn't see me, and stood there, fiddling impatiently with my keys, spinning them on my finger, pulling them on and off the ring, trying to stop myself saying, 'What? Do you fancy her or something? Stop staring at her.' So when, at the end of the day, we were all knackered and I thought, At least it's over, he went up close to her, dropped his face, and said something really quiet, I stopped spinning the keys and went very still, watching them closely. Angeline's smile went. She sat there, her eyes on the floor, and listened to him talk, tucking the hair behind her ear and thinking about what he was saying. He finished and straightened, took a step back. 'Well?'

'Hey,' I said, coming closer to the set so I could feel the lights on my face. 'Angeline?'

But she didn't turn to me. She didn't even seem to hear me. Her eyes were locked on his. There were a couple of beats, then she gave a small nod.

'Hey,' I murmured. 'Angeline?'

No one reacted. The photographer went and unscrewed the camera, took it off the tripod and lay down on his stomach, resting on his elbows with the camera raised to his eyes. He was focusing on her skirt hem and, suddenly, catching us all by surprise, she reached down, grabbed the fabric and lifted it to her knees.

I've got the photo from that moment and I still look at it, even today. Her thin ankles, the little sweaty footprints of her feet on the background paper, but most of all the third, broken and squashed foot, heavier-looking, but you can tell it's made out of the same flesh as the other two, and it's hanging there, with its own shadow. Turns out it's the best shot in the book, the one everyone talks about. But at the time I was ready to kill the photographer.

When they'd finished, when she'd gone to get her makeup off and someone had brought round coffee and a bottle of sparkling rose, I took my glass and made sure I sat near him. Wanted to keep an eye on him. I wasn't having him talking to her on his own again.

He was lounging on a sofa, half on his back, idly running his charity bands up and down his arms. If he knew I had the arse with him he didn't show it. 'So,' he said, all casual, 'what happens when it all comes out?' He paused to drain his glass, and swivelled his eyes to me. 'When I was watching her all I could think was, What if her dad reads the book? What's he going to think? See, if it was me I'd be hiding in a hole.'

I looked at him steadily. 'Malachi Dove is dead. How can he read the book?

'Is he?'

'Don't you read the papers? They've been talking about it all week.'

'Oh, that body. In Dumfries. But they never confirmed it. Never said it was definitely him. Did they?'

'No,' I said, in a slow voice, like he was a child not listening properly. 'They're waiting for DNA before they do. But it was him. He. Is. Dead.'

Angeline came across the floor then, holding an opened can of diet Coke. We both looked up. She was wearing a white dressing-gown and I could see where her makeup had been taken off: a line round her neck. Above it, she was pink and shining, glowing more than she had a right to after five hours under the lights.

'Hey,' said the photographer, getting up and smiling, a really fake smile like he was dazzled by her. 'Have a seat.'

She sat down, tucking her curls into two pins above her ears. 'I'm 5000 tired,' she said, with a smile. She looked at me. 'I'm so tired.'

'You were great,' I said, but I had to force it out.

'Hey, Angeline.' The photographer leaned sideways and shoved a hand into his back pocket. He pulled out a card. Held it out to her between two fingers, so delicate you'd think it was some exotic butterfly, not a bit of cardboard. 'I work with her all the time. Her work is lush — just lush. Edgy. Real. Know what I mean?'

She took the card and looked at it. Her mouth twitched a little.

'What is it?' I said, leaning over. 'Let's see.'

There was a moment's hesitation before she handed me the card. I had to pull it a bit to get it out of her fingers. Just a bit. I flipped it over and stared at it, my face set. The features editor of the Daily Mail. What was going on? I turned to the photographer, moving my head stiffly. 'Well? What's this?'

'She's really wanting to do something on Angeline.'

The fucking features editor of a national newspaper knew about Angeline? How had that happened? I leaned forward and tapped his knee, getting him to look at me, wanting to tell him to sit upright, stop slouching. 'That's OK. That's fine. Except we're negotiating the serial rights on this story and it's not with the Mail.' I paused to make sure he'd heard that. 'OK?'

'Sorry, mate.' He held up the glass to me, like he was toasting our status as a couple. 'Didn't want to interfere. Not my job to make waves.'

I stood up. 'Come on,' I said, holding my hand out to Angeline. 'Let's get you dressed.' But she didn't get up. She sat there, staring at my hand. 'Come on,' I repeated. 'It's time to get dressed and go. Let's give your friend some time to read his contract.'

Angeline sighed and rolled her eyes. 'OK,' she said, in a sarcastic voice. The same voice Sovereign always used with her mother. 'I'm commg.'

She finished the Coke and dropped the can into the bin. She held up her hand, thumb at her ear, pinkie at the corner of her mouth, and smiled at the photographer. 'Call me,' she mouthed, and walked straight past me, sauntering off to the makeup room, her feet in the towelling slippers slapping lazily on the floor, the way I'd seen hookers in Tijuana walk. I stood and watched her and all I could think about was when I was a teenager in Bootle. Back then the local fathers used to line up outside nightclubs waiting for their daughters at kicking-out time. They'd get out of their cars and put their elbows on the roofs. They'd look casual, but you could tell what they were thinking. They were thinking if one of those arseholes in the club had laid even a finger on their little girl he was going to get a hiding he'd never forget.

We travelled home in silence, Angeline in the passenger seat chewing gum she'd picked up somewhere. She kept fiddling with the radio, trying to find Choice FM, until I reached over and switched it off. I'd made up my mind we weren't going to speak to the photographer again. I didn't like his interfering and I didn't like the knowing way he talked about Dove. The body in Dumfries was him, no one had said it wasn't. In the morning I'd call Danso — just so I could hear the DNA match from his mouth. Even so, when I got home I went into the back garden and nailed the gate closed. Then I double-checked the cellar door and trundled the lawnmower up against it.

Inside, the phone was ringing. As I came into the kitchen I heard Angeline's hurried footsteps on the stairs, and her breathless 'Yes? Hi?' I came into the hallway and stood there, my coat half off, staring at her. 'Yes,' she was saying into the phone. 'It's me.' A giggle. 'I know — he told me all that.'

She noticed me then in the doorway and turned away to face the wall, twiddling her hair round her fingers, resting one foot on the other and jiggling up and down as she spoke. 'No, that's OK. Honest. I wanted you to call.'