Текст книги "Dead Dream Girl"

Автор книги: Richard Haley

Соавторы: Richard Haley
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‘Well, he’s paid here and that could have been something that bugged him. And A crops up in the months before she died. Could that be Adrian? There’s also a J that figures a lot. Often at the weekend, with amounts of a hundred or more, but other times showing no figure at all. Interesting. Could mean she stayed the night somewhere. Was she away much at weekends?’

‘When wasn’t she? She’d go to the garden centre on Saturdays and take her going out clothes with her. She was always with her friend Pam if anyone wanted to know.’

‘Pam covered for her?’

‘The police talked to her, but she had no more idea where Donna got to than I did.’

‘Surely she’d not be as secretive as that with her best mate.’

‘Pam kept her neb out, just thought herself lucky Donna was her best mate. She was nothing like as pretty as Donna, no one was, but being around her meant she got to get Donna’s leavings.’ It was a symbiosis as old as time, the plain one and the pretty one, and she spoke with a resigned bitterness.

Crane gave the diary a final glance. There were other initials scattered through the pages, but the ones that appeared regularly were B, C, A and J. ‘I’ll tell Ted Benson you’ve found this, they’ll need it when they make a fresh start.’ But he knew the police would be as disappointed as he was that it hadn’t been a regular diary, with full names and an account of her movements.

‘I’ll get you a drink,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t have brought that bag of booze.’ She looked at him gratefully. It was clear no one else had ever brought her a bag of booze, let alone flowers or scent.

He shrugged. ‘You can’t afford to keep giving out free drinks. Why didn’t you dig out the diary when Geoff was here?’

‘I … wanted you to see it first,’ she said, reddening again. ‘So you could decide what to do before he starts trying to take over, like he always does.’

She was a bright kid. She’d picked up on the tension both men tried to conceal behind a jokey manner. ‘It doesn’t seem fair,’ she said, ‘you’re finding out these new things and I have a feeling he wants to take the credit for them if you get anywhere. He’s a good looking bloke and you can’t help liking him, but good lookers can be very self-centred.’

Crane thought that she’d know if anyone did, having had a sister like Donna. He took her lightly by the shoulders. ‘He’s pushy and he’s driven, Patsy, but all that really matters is finding your sister’s killer.’ He could have added that the worst vibes he got from Anderson were that he’d damage the case by his impetuosity, his lack of tact, and his gnawing ambition to get down to Fleet Street, or Wapping, or wherever the big papers hung out these days.

‘You keep an eye on him, Frank.’

He took his hands away, sensing that she’d have liked him to keep them there. She smiled uncertainly and went off for the drinks. Crane was pushed for time but felt he had to spend another ten or fifteen minutes with her. It gave her such a boost to have them there, him and Anderson, that was obvious. They made her feel useful and needed in those flip chart sessions and it had been like transferring a wilting plant into the right kind of soil. Poor kid, plain maybe yet comely and intelligent. But simply neglected in a house where her glamorous little sister had hoovered up all the attention.

When she came back with the drinks, they sat on the sofa. She was still in a state of animation and it was beginning to be hard to remember her as the drab and apathetic woman he’d first seen.

‘I … saw the personnel lady today,’ she said. ‘Asked her if they’d bear me in mind for supervising work. She seemed really pleased. She said they’d already considered me because I was a good worker, but they’d thought I didn’t want the responsibility.’

‘What did I tell you? You’ve got to push yourself, you see. No one else will.’ But he knew the altered hairstyle had swung it and the modest make-up and the growing confidence. ‘Good work, Patsy!’

‘She said as soon as there’s a vacancy they’ll talk to me about it.’

‘There you are then. And once you’ve got on the next rung keep going. You’ve got the intelligence and the ability, you’ve already shown that in the help you’ve given me.’

When he’d gone she sat over her drink, thinking how much she was beginning to enjoy life. She couldn’t believe how dreary everything had seemed before Frank Crane had come into it. He was so encouraging, so keen to see her make a new start. And he knew she was trying hard with her hair and her clothes, it was the sort of thing you could tell by the way he looked you over. She wanted to go on wondering about Frank but hardly dared. She was sure he lived alone as he seemed to work all the time. That smile of his, that he was so mean with. When he gave her that smile it made her insides flutter. And when he’d put his hands on her shoulders …!

As Crane drove away he felt his sense of guilt beginning to lift. Poor kid, he’d only taken a drink with her that first time because he’d realized how useful she could be to him. But there’d been a plus side for her too that made him feel better about using her. He knew she fancied him, but there was nothing he could do about that. It would have to be sorted out at the right time.

It had been an overcast day of intense humidity. Crane, forehead beaded in sweat, climbed the steps again to the upper reservoir. He seemed to be breathing air as dense as liquid. He expected to see Ollie’s straw hat the moment he reached the top, but he wasn’t at his bench yet. He sat down and waited. There seemed to be no one else about just now and the only sound was echoing birdsong.

Five minutes slowly passed. It seemed odd when he was said to be ‘always around’. Maybe the heat was getting to him. He wondered if he’d have anything to pass on. It could be the breakthrough: a bisexual who knew the area backwards, whose name hadn’t been picked up by the police because the gays didn’t talk to police, combined with Donna’s own obsessive secrecy.

He then heard a sound that was different from the rest. It was a noise like a thin cry of pain, as if one animal was attacking another. He heard the cry again. It could have been anything. He had no feel for woodland life. It could almost have been human. He stood up uneasily, the fine hairs stiffening along his bare arms. The sound had come from directly behind him. He began to move warily over dry ground, through patches of dense fern and the leaf mould of decades, into a deeply shaded hollow.

Ollie lay in the middle of the hollow. His head oozed blood and his bloodstained Panama hat lay a yard away. There was so much blood it was difficult to see the actual wounds. A red bubble formed on his open mouth. A shattered arm lay motionless at one side of his plump body, his other arm twitched sluggishly. He gave another of the tiny moaning cries Crane had heard from the bench.

He shook his head, his emotions torn between pity and guilt. Pity for a harmless gay who’d suddenly wanted to know too much, and guilt because had it not been for him he’d still be on his bench, looking forward to a nice gossip and the chance to get laid.

He took out his mobile.

SEVEN

‘How’s he doing?’

Benson pursed his lips. ‘Damn near a flatline, but the poor sod’s still alive, just. Want my opinion, he was left for dead.’

‘When do you think he’ll be able to speak?’

‘Couple of weeks if he’s lucky. His jaw’s so badly broken it’ll have to be wired. And even when he can talk he’s not going to. Not to us. You know what they’re like. What’s the story?’

‘There’s a bisexual lurking about somewhere called Adrian. Could be connected to the Donna killing. I gave Ollie a twenty to see if he could come up with anything.’ He gave him the rest of the details.

Benson watched him. Crane could sense his resentment that he’d contrived to get a contact in the gay reservoir community, not that it had done any good yet. Cruisers didn’t speak to the police was the accepted wisdom, but Crane knew that Benson knew that even if he had not lost his job in the force he’d still have found a way.

‘Think someone warned this Adrian?’

‘It could be looking that way.’

‘Well, the gays are going to have to do some talking now,’ Benson said grimly. ‘They either talk or we apply to close the place down after six. That should give them the message.’ He finished his half of bitter. ‘Well, I’ll be off. Christ, I’m not scratching around for something to do just now, what with Mr Blobby getting done over and Terry gearing up to make a fresh start on the Donna carry-on.’ He hesitated, then said with reluctance, ‘Thanks for the tip-off about Marvin Jackson, by the way. We had him in, told him he either coughed about the guns or we treated him as a leading suspect in Donna’s case. He coughed.’

Crane watched him go. Shrugged. He knew Terry Jones would have leant on Benson to make sure he showed Crane due gratitude. They’d been in it together, he and Benson, the evidence-planting against a villain who took up more police time than a quarter of the other rubbish, and was simply the most evil, loathsome human being Crane had ever known. And Crane had taken the fall because of Benson’s kids and sick wife. And that wouldn’t have been so bad if Benson could have accepted the favour, if he’d not somehow, in his mind, begun to think he’d come out of it with clean hands and that Crane had been responsible for the lot. The mind was a funny thing. Crane also knew that if he’d acted alone in the evidence-planting, seen to every detail himself, it wouldn’t have come to light. But Benson had been his best friend and had wanted to help.

It was flip chart time again. Ollie’s battering was already front page news in the Standard, but Crane gave them his horse’s mouth version, scribbling the details of Ollie’s sad fate on his own sheet. ‘It could have been you as well, Frank!’ Patsy said in shocked tones, grasping his arm. ‘He could still have been around, whoever it was.’

‘No way, Patsy,’ Anderson said sombrely. ‘They don’t hang about when they’ve given someone that kind of belting. They leg it fast.’

It was only the second time Crane had seen the reporter’s mobile face so still. He was bitterly disappointed. ‘The poor sod must have been asking too many questions, too suddenly and in too many faces.’

‘And it got around fast. Well, he’s still breathing, just, but he’s never going to talk to anyone again. About anything.’

‘And the police’ll get nothing out of the others, whatever they do. Not now.’ Anderson sipped his drink despondently. ‘Christ, I never even made it to the SOC. My sidekick covered it. I was with the Asian girl at a safe house in Doncaster.’

Crane sensed that what really bugged him was being caught between two good stories, rather than poor Ollie’s sickening injuries, while Crane struggled with the guilt of involving the poor guy. ‘Well,’ he said, sighing, that about brings us up to speed, apart from one final matter. Patsy made another toothcomb search of Donna’s room at home and found something the police missed. A diary.’

‘A diary?’ he cried. ‘A diary! One that …’ He let the sentence dangle in his excitement, suddenly so keyed up that his hand shook.

‘Chill out,’ Crane told him, with a wry smile. ‘It tells us just one thing, that she was on the game big time. Nothing else.’

‘Can I see it? You’ve not handed it over to Benson and Co?’

‘Not yet. We’ll have to, soon. Patsy’s still got it here.’

She handed it to him and the reporter, hands still trembling, flicked rapidly through the weeks leading up to her death, studying the items intently, just as Crane had done. It soon became clear he’d reached the same conclusion.

‘What became of the loot?’

‘You tell us.’

‘She really was putting it about, wasn’t she?’

‘I’ve been thinking about it. I’d say she was pacing herself. She was charging top dollar too, top dollar in Bradford terms anyway, and she was accounting for the money very carefully. It was as if she had a long-term plan.’

Anderson flicked ruefully through the pages one last time. Donna’s background and way of life had been his obsession. He’d known she mixed with unsavoury types. But Donna’s obsession had been secrecy and Crane didn’t think the reporter had even begun to guess at the highly organized call girl she’d made of herself. Crane guessed that he now saw that big concluding feature shredding before his eyes, of a Donna he’d just about been able to pass off as an ingenuous teenager corrupted by the men she’d come up against, her fate sealed by the accident of being born on the Willows. If anyone ever was brought to trial for her murder, the defence wouldn’t hesitate to imply that she’d been partly to blame for her own death by the company she’d chosen to keep. Crane couldn’t forget Patsy’s words as she’d sat in his car the first night they’d met. ‘She asked for it, Frank.’

‘Well, where do we go from here?’ Anderson said heavily.

‘My feeling is we talk to Fletcher and Hellewell. She spent a lot of time with both of them. We could ask if she mentioned an Adrian. We could also test out their own alibis. Let’s start with Fletcher. You know him, you’ve talked to him. When would be a good time to catch him?’

‘Early evening, at home. Definitely at home.’ He began to find his old cocky grin. ‘That bugs him. He’s frightened about his wife finding out about the porno stuff. I reckon she’s an important part of his back-up: humping gear for the weddings, chatting people up and selling the service, all that. Comes from a respectable county family. Fletcher answers the door himself and rushes you upstairs. He has an office up there, plus a studio and darkroom. She’ll know about the routine modelling for the catalogues but I’m certain she’s in the dark about the basement he rents and what goes on down there.’

‘This basement—’

‘Spent hours checking it out. Warehouse building in the Old Quarter. I’ve seen young girls and blokes go down there. I’ve shadowed one or two of the kids, tried chatting them up in the Glass-house, no chance. The money’s good and he backs it up with threats, and they know he means what he says. The police know what he’s up to but they have no proof, and anyway it comes so far behind the city’s drugs problem as to be out of sight.’

Crane gave a respectful nod. He’d certainly done his leg work. ‘Do you think he could have used Donna in a porn video?’

‘No. He’s nobody’s fool. He was certain he could agent her to the fashion industry. If she didn’t make it legit the blue movies would have been a fall-back.’

Crane glanced at Patsy, who gave a resigned shrug. Again, it was more or less what she too had said on the first night. ‘What say we drop in on him tomorrow evening, around seven, if you’re free?’

‘I’ll be in the Glass-house after six. I’ll ring you if I can’t make it.’

When he’d gone Patsy made Crane another drink and they sat on the sofa. ‘I do hope you find someone, Frank.’

‘Me too. And Mr Pushy deserves a break, he’s never stopped working on it. I know he’s only thinking in terms of his career, but I suppose that’s what ambitious journalists are like. And it’s Geoff’s ambition that might very well get us there in the end.’

Though Crane was determined that he was going to get there first, aware that he was up against someone with investigative skills almost as sharp as his own, and who took any mistakes as badly as he did. But then he had to remind himself that he and Anderson weren’t opponents, they were supposed to be on the same side.

‘How are things going at work, Patsy?’

She coloured slightly, in the familiar way. ‘Nancy, one of the supervisors, asked me to sit with her during my lunch break. She began telling me what my duties would be if I got promoted.’

‘That means you will be.’

‘She said she was sure I’d do well, because I know all the girls and get on with them.’

‘She’ll know.’

‘Trouble is, the girls have sussed what’s going on. They’re not the same. I mean they’re still friendly, but they seem to be watching what they’re saying, know what I mean?’

‘You’ll never really be one of them again, not if you’re going to be over them. But you’ll make new friends, on the next rung.’

She nodded dejectedly. It was the first time her newfound  enthusiasm for getting on seemed to have deserted her. Crane was glad to turn away for a time from the mind-numbing problems surrounding her sister’s death, to help someone with problems of her own.

Carol was sitting in the Glass-house with several of her colleagues. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Touching base with the cave man?’

Crane sat next to her. ‘You know that cliché “the usual suspects”? Well, we’re aiming to talk to them all over again.’

‘That’s more like it,’ she said, grinning, ‘we get such a petted lip when you will keep doing things without him.’

‘So I’m finding out.’

‘Trouble is, he’s always seen it as his story and he gets very agitated about anyone trying to share it. We all tend to get a bit proprietorial in this business. He probably thinks you might want to write a book about it.’

‘He’s the writer, not me. And anyway, he deserves whatever he can make out of the Donna Jackson story. No one could have worked harder on it than him.’

‘Don’t I know it. He’s spent so much time on it I was beginning to wonder if there was a bit on the side involved. These people you keep talking to, I don’t suppose one of them’s female, gorgeous-looking and giving him googoo eyes?’ She giggled to imply she was only joking, but he could tell she was speaking in code and making a serious request. He shook his head.

‘Women didn’t seem to figure much in Donna’s life. So far, it’s been blokes all the way.’

She looked relieved, but Crane knew she was always going to have worries about Anderson and other women, because wherever he was the eyes of other women followed him.

‘What I’ll do when he runs off to London I can’t imagine,’ she said. ‘I’ll be up against girls who have double firsts and work in television and earn a million a year. But will they be able to cook, I ask myself, or change a duvet cover, or programme a DVD-recorder?’ She was giggling again, and Crane felt that what she was saying now was that she could turn a blind eye to Anderson having the occasional affair as long as he always came back to her. He knew from experience that some women could live with this state of affairs around men of looks and charm who showed every sign of having a glowing future.

Then her green eyes softened and he knew Anderson stood behind him before he felt his hand on his shoulder. ‘You need to watch this one, Carol,’ Anderson said breezily. ‘These quiet types with their sympathetic smiles can be inside your knickers while you’re still telling them how you felt when the dog died.’

‘I did try to warn him how insanely jealous you get. Anyway, who said I had any knickers on?’

He squeezed in at the table, giving her the sort of smile that went with a private joke. ‘One drink and then off, Frank?’

‘I’ll get them. Carol?’

‘Can we go in your car? It’s best if we don’t seem to roll up mob-handed. Not with Fletcher.’

‘I’ll drive yours to the flat, Geoff, if you like,’ Carol said. ‘It’ll save Frank having to come back into town. I can leave mine at the office.’

The hesitation was almost imperceptible but it was there. ‘Oh … good idea, Carol. We’ll have a bite to eat when I get back.’

It confirmed what Crane had suspected. Anderson was getting bored with her. Maybe her instincts were sound and there was another woman on the go.

He lived on the old Keighley-Skipton road. The house was large, elegant and Edwardian and at the rear overlooked open country. Ornamental trees dotted a garden that was mainly lawn with well-kept borders. Fletcher was clearly doing well.

Shadows were lengthening in the evening sun as they walked up the drive. Anderson drew the handle of an old-fashioned bell pull. The door was opened very quickly. He gave Crane’s unknown face a wary glance before looking at Anderson. ‘Oh, you again,’ he said, in a low hard tone. ‘Well you can forget it. I’ve already told you everything I knew about her.’

‘There’s been a development, Mr Fletcher,’ Anderson said courteously, with his warm smile. ‘Could you possibly spare us a few minutes?’

‘No.’

‘I’m a private investigator, Mr Fletcher,’ Crane said. ‘Frank Crane, working for Donna’s parents. It would be a great help to me, and them, if we could spend a little time with you.’

‘Who is it, Clive?’ a woman’s voice called.

‘Oh, shit,’ he muttered. ‘You’d better come in.’

They moved into a large square hall. The woman looked from a half-open door and the hall smelt faintly of good cooking. ‘Two gentlemen wanting to arrange a portrait of their board of directors,’ he told her, with well-honed presence of mind. ‘I’ll take them up to the office.’

‘Right you are.’ She gave them a friendly smile. ‘I can hold dinner.’ She was fortyish, plumpish, and had rather coarse, tinted-blonde hair. A slight vagueness seemed to go with the pleasant manner. Crane felt it was a vagueness that would be of great help to Fletcher in living his double life under her nose.

They followed him up a wide staircase. It had dark oak balustrades that also ran along a lengthy landing. Two teenage girls hung over the landing rail and gazed lingeringly at Anderson before going back to their rooms. Anderson glanced at Crane with a small upward jerk of his head. It translated as two pretty young kids whose father made obscene movies of pretty young kids.

Fletcher led them over creaking floorboards and through a door at the end of the landing. This was his office. It had doors to left and right, which Crane guessed were studio and darkroom. It was comfortably furnished and had a large antique pedestal desk and a bow-back Windsor chair. Lavish examples of his highly-skilled work were displayed on the walls: wedding groups in dappled sunlight, winsome babies, family portraits, businessmen looking decisive.

‘Well, get on with it,’ he said tersely.

‘Things have changed, Mr Fletcher,’ Crane told him. ‘It was common knowledge that Bobby Mahon was the leading suspect in Donna’s murder. He’s now been cleared.’

Crane saw a flicker of unease in his eyes, but otherwise he gave little away. He was about five-ten and well-built, with strong features and a head of thick auburn hair. His eyes were dark blue and glinted when they caught the light, and seemed to hint at the faint, louche lassitude of a man overdrawing on sizeable energy levels. Crane guessed he overdid everything: work, play, drink, sex. He’d certainly have access to plenty of sex.

‘You’d better sit,’ he said, with an edginess he could only just control. ‘Christ, I never thought it could be anyone else but that shithead.’

‘These things happen, sir,’ Anderson said comfortingly.

‘It means the police have to make a fresh start,’ Crane told him.

‘Does that mean I’ll have to waste time with them too?’

‘If we can get a firm lead on Donna’s killer we should be able to spare you any further dealings with DS Benson.’

‘I spent a lot of time with that kid,’ he said harshly. ‘She had the most photogenic face I’ve ever pointed a lens at. I could have made her a big name. Apart from that I liked her, liked her a lot.’

Enough to shell out seventy-odd pounds a throw to sleep with her? Crane wondered if he really was the C in her diary. But then Fletcher suddenly had a haunted look about him, as if his unfocused eyes saw again the woman he’d photographed so often. He looked forlorn, as if he genuinely grieved.

‘Oh, well,’ Anderson said gently, ‘at least you’ve got plenty of other attractive young women to console yourself with.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he snapped, back in the present, eyes glinting, face hard.

‘Your glamour photography. Your remarkable ability to make young women look their sexy best. You very kindly lent us a picture of Donna to put in the paper when the poor kid’s body was found, remember?’

The other watched him. He couldn’t quite decide if he was being needled by this amiable young man, but Crane was quite certain he was. It was Mahon and pointing the bone all over again.

‘Just to get things straight in my own mind, sir,’ Crane said. ‘Would you mind telling me when you last saw Donna?’

‘Two days before she went missing,’ he said mechanically. ‘We’d had another long photo shoot. Pros, we need dozens of shots to get the right one.’

‘And they were all … routine modelling shots?’ Anderson asked, with subtly pointed emphasis.

‘Of course they bloody were!’ he said, stung. ‘That’s the only kind of glamour work I do.’

Crane and Anderson both knew the value of a dubious silence and they let it roll for a few seconds. Crane said, ‘Did Donna ever mention an Adrian, sir? It’s very important. No surname, I’m afraid.’

He seemed genuinely to be searching his memory. He finally shook his head. ‘Means nothing. She talked about Mahon now and then, and the guy who owns Leaf and Petal – Joe Hellewell – but that’s about it.’

Crane nodded. ‘I know the police have gone into all this, but would you mind telling me where you were the night Donna went missing?’

‘The Photographic Society dinner at the Norfolk Gardens.’

‘About what time did it end?’

‘Elevenish.’

‘And you came directly home?’

‘Yes. My wife can vouch …’ He’d said it all before.

‘In your own motor?’

He gave the slightest pause. ‘… Yes.’

‘Wasn’t that rather unusual?’

‘Why should it be? I’d only had a couple.’

‘Oh …’ Crane shrugged. ‘I suppose if I’d gone to a boozy do I’d have wanted to get a few down and join in the fun. I’d have taken a taxi.’

Crane heard Anderson’s soft intake of breath as a second flicker of anxiety showed in Fletcher’s glinting eyes. He wasn’t ready for this, it had caught him off his guard. It had to have been a question neither the police nor Anderson had thought to put.

‘Taxis, they’re … expensive from this distance,’ he said uneasily.

Crane glanced pointedly at his Rolex, his handmade cotton shirt and silk tie. Fletcher didn’t like it, that he’d looked to need to raid the petty cash tin.

‘Ten miles,’ Crane said musingly. ‘£25 return?’

‘I went in my own car, what’s the big deal?’

He was flushing with irritation, because though sharp he’d not seen this coming. Anderson had though. The big deal was that Crane couldn’t believe a wealthy man who liked a drink would spend four hours nursing two. Unless he needed to stay sober to drive on from the dinner to see a girlfriend. A girlfriend who’d possibly been eased into a reservoir.

‘Were your daughters at home that night, sir?’

‘His colour deepened slightly. ‘I … can’t remember. What’s that got to do with anything? Christ, it’s twelve months ago.’

In other words they’d been away. Crane wondered if he might be on to something, felt a familiar frisson. It meant his wife would be home alone. What if Fletcher had given her a doctored drink before he’d set off to his dinner, which had meant she’d slept so soundly she’d had no real idea when he’d crept under the duvet?

The phone rang. Fletcher snatched it up, listened. ‘Oh, all right,’ he said slowly, glancing at the two men. ‘Look, I’ll take it in the drawing room, Steph.’ He put down the phone, said to Crane, ‘Give me five, but when I get back we’ll need to wrap this up PDQ. My family want their dinner.’ He went off.

‘What can it be he wants neither us or his missus to hear?’ Anderson said, chuckling. ‘Had the arsehole on the run there, didn’t you, Crane? Bugger, why didn’t I think to ask him how he’d got to the Norfolk?’

He wore his usual wry smile, but Crane now knew the intense irritation it was concealing in a man as aggressively competitive as Anderson. Crane couldn’t help feeling amused to have got ahead of him once again, but simply said, ‘If you were a PI and not a newspaperman you’d have picked up on it.’ It was true. He missed out on very little as it was.

The reporter winked, stood up. ‘Well, the cat’s away. He might not have locked everything up.’ He began to try drawers, without success, then turned to an outsize filing cabinet. ‘Ha ha, he’s overlooked this, but it just seems to be file copies of his prints. Let’s try J for Jackson, shall we?’

‘This might not be a good idea. If he catches you he’ll have us straight through the door.’

‘Oh, come on, Frank. We cut corners, blokes like us. Let’s see what kinds of shots he was really taking of her. Those creaking floorboards on the landing should warn us when he’s on his way back.’

It was this kind of impulsiveness in Anderson that Crane had always been so uneasy about, but he had to admit to being curious. Anyway, he was already leafing through a wad of glossy prints. They all seemed to be totally respectable modelling shots. They showed Donna right profile, left profile, full face. Donna in even light, in shadow, in a key light that gave emphasis to those luminous round eyes with their riveting impression of an innocence that blended with depth, emotion with spirituality. Donna in black and white, in colour, in a sepia tint. Donna standing, sitting, lying down, even twirling, arms extended as gracefully as the wings of a planing bird, gleaming hair flying about her like a fully opened fan.

‘God, what a cracker she was,’ Anderson muttered.

It said it all, that such a pretty and vibrant woman should have had such an appalling fate. Crane felt he could sympathize then with the journalist’s urge to profile her as the guileless creature she’d certainly looked the sad symbolic victim of an upbringing in a sink estate. Even though he’d always known the description wasn’t going to fit.

And then Anderson turned up a print showing Donna naked.

She stood framed by a half-open door, and looking away from the lens, as if unaware of it, her impossibly perfect rounded breasts slightly suspended as she leant forward, apparently to pick up pants and bra, hair now cascading down the sides of her flawless features, her belly flat, her legs smooth and slender, her waist so narrow it looked as if it could easily be encircled by a pair of male hands.

The floorboards didn’t creak. Fletcher, paranoid, must have tipftoed. He was in the room before the folder could even be closed. He took it all in in a nano-second. ‘I’ll speak to your editor in the morning, Anderson,’ he rasped. ‘You’ll be wise to start clearing your desk. And you, Crane, you should know better. Don’t think you’ll get away with it either.’