Cast in Order of Disappearance

VI

Charles tried to think it all out on the Saturday morning. He’d woken without a hangover and even done a token tidying-up of his room. Then out for a newspaper and some rolls, and he was sitting in front of the gas fire with a cup of coffee. Glance at the paper; no particular interest in petrol queues or Ireland without Whitelaw, so he settled down to think about Jacqui and Steen.

What he had heard from Harry Chiltern was disturbing. True, the business about the dancer in the Thames sounded a bit too melodramatic-the kind of story that gets embroidered over the years-and probably started out just as an unfortunate coincidence. Charles discounted the facts of it; but it was significant that Marius Steen attracted that sort of accusation. It didn’t bode well for Jacqui.

Then there were the photographs and her own story. Something didn’t ring true there. He pieced it together. In June, Jacqui and Steen went to a party, which was attended by Sally Nash, now on trial at the Old Bailey on charges of controlling prostitutes. At this party a fairly insipid orgy took place. Some pictures were taken by a nameless photographer. All through this period (according to Jacqui) things were swinging between her and Steen. She even got pregnant by him. He arranged an abortion which went wrong and they went off to the South of France to recuperate. And there, apparently, had an idyllic time. This idyll had continued up until the previous Saturday, 1st December, when they last met. That was the day after the Sally Nash trial started, and the day that Marius Steen’s terrible show, Sex of One and Half a Dozen of the Other celebrated a thousand performances. And from that day on Jacqui had been unable to contact Steen. He had very deliberately told her to get lost, and when she didn’t take the hint, he’d sent her an obscene note. And according to Jacqui, the reason for this must be Steen’s fear of her being associated with him in the Sally Nash case because it might affect his chances of a knighthood. It was preposterous. Nobody would behave like that.

Charles wasn’t sure whether Jacqui believed she was telling the truth or not. She might have her own reasons for obscuring the issue. But, leaving that aside for a moment, he tried to make some sense of Steen’s behaviour.

The simplest explanation was that he had just got tired of Jacqui. That was quite possible, however well she thought the affair was going. He was a man who had always put it about a bit, as Harry Chiltern said. Jacqui was an attractive enough bit of stuff, but there were hundreds more like her and why should he stick to one? He’d be very unlikely to stay with her or marry her, particularly with a knighthood in the offing. As Jacqui herself admitted, she wasn’t the sort of consort for a ‘do with the Queen Mum’.

And, Charles’ mind raced on, Steen could have picked up a new tottie at the Sex of One… party on the Saturday night. That would explain the sudden change in his affections.

But as he thought of it, Charles knew the explanation was inadequate. Even if that had happened, it didn’t justify the violence of Steen’s attempts to get Jacqui off his back. No, Steen’s behaviour certainly suggested that he regarded her as a threat in some way. Perhaps she had tried to blackmail him…? Yes, that made sense. She had actually tried to use the photographs… perhaps to blackmail him into marrying her. (That would tie in with the pregnancy in the summer-an earlier attempt to force Steen’s hand.) She could have tried the blackmail approach on the Saturday afternoon; then, when Steen cut up rough, she realised she’d overstepped the mark and brought in Charles as a go-between to patch things up. That would even explain why she took him back to Archer Street from the Montrose. She’d just gone down there to look for any good-natured sucker.

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.

‘Thank God. I couldn’t take any more of that lot.’

‘No, no. The fact is, Mrs Sweet, that… er… I am, you see, a married man. I have two lovely daughters at boarding school and

… er… well, I have become rather anxious about these… er

… photographs.’

‘Yes.’ She didn’t volunteer anything.

‘I have come to the right place, have I? I mean, your husband was at this party in…?’

‘Yes. He was there.’ She paused and looked at him, assessing. ‘Well, Mr Holroyd, I think I know which photographs you are referring to. Of course, photography’s an expensive business.’

‘I understand that, Mrs Sweet. How much do you think your husband would part with the… er… photographs for?’

‘Two thousand pounds.’

‘That’s a lot of money.’ The price has gone up, thought Charles. ‘And would that be for the negatives as well?’

‘Ah, Mr Holroyd. How shrewd you are. No, I’m afraid not. The photographs and the negatives would cost you five thousand pounds.’

So, as he suspected, Jacqui had been done. A thousand pounds for one set of photographs; there might be any number of others about. Bill Holroyd blustered. ‘Oh, I don’t think I could possibly raise that.’

‘That’s the price. Mind you, when things start moving in a certain court case, they might get even more expensive.

‘Oh dear.’ Charles let a note of panic creep into Bill Holroyd’s voice and looked anxiously around the room.

‘No point in looking for them, love.’ It was ‘love’, now she knew she had the whip hand. ‘You won’t find them here.’

‘How do I know you’ve got them?’

‘I’ll show you.’ She opened a drawer in the dresser, pulled out a folder and handed it to him. ‘Only copies, love. You’ll never find the negatives, so don’t try.’

‘No.’ Charles opened the folder and looked at all the photographs. There were a lot and they included some identical to the set still bulging in his pocket. His hunch about the morals of blackmailing photographers was right. He handed them back. ‘You don’t think there’s any possibility that the price might be-’

‘Five thousand pounds.’

‘Hmm.’ (A pause, while Charles tried, according to the best Stanislavskian method, to give the impression of a man torn between the two great motives of his life-love of money and fear of scandal.) ‘Of course, it would take me some time to put my hands on that amount of money. Some days.’

‘I can wait.’ She smiled like a Venus fly-trap. ‘I’m not so sure that you can. Once they start getting deeper into this trial, I’m sure the interest in photographs of this sort will-’

‘Yes, yes. I’m sure it won’t take too long. It’s unfortunate not having my bank in London. It’s in Leeds. But… er… perhaps by Wednesday… Would Wednesday…?’

‘I’ll be here. With the negatives.’

‘Oh good.’ Although he was only acting the part, Charles felt Bill Holroyd’s relief. And in his own character he’d found out what he wanted to know. If there were other copies of the photographs, there was no doubt that Bill Sweet was blackmailing Steen. Steen had assumed from Jacqui’s message to Nigel that she was involved too. Charles was relieved that the information put her in the clear; she had been telling the truth. All he had to do now was what she had asked-get to see Steen, give him the photographs and explain that Jacqui was nothing to do with Bill Sweet. If Sweet himself continued his blackmail, that wasn’t Charles’ concern.

Mrs Sweet rose from the sofa. ‘That’s our business concluded. I’m glad we reached agreement in such a reasonable way. Would you like a drink?’

‘Oh, thank you very much.’ Perhaps a little too readily for Bill Holroyd. ‘That is to say, I don’t make a habit of it, but perhaps a small one.’

‘Gin?’ She went to the door.

‘That’d be… very nice.’ Charles just stopped himself from saying ‘Reet nice’. Would have been too much.

After a few moments, Mrs Sweet returned with a bottle, poured two substantial gins, added tonic and proffered a glass. Charles rose to take it. They were close. She didn’t move back. ‘Cheers, Mr Holroyd.’

‘Cheers.’

She looked at him, hard. ‘You like all that, do you, Mr Holroyd?’

‘All what?’

‘Parties. Like the one in Holland Park.’

‘Oh… well. Not habitually, no. I’m a respectable man, but, you know, one works very hard and… er… needs to relax, eh?’

‘Yes.’ She sat back on the sofa and motioned him beside her. ‘Yes, I find I need to relax too, Mr Holroyd.’

‘Ah.’ Charles sat gingerly on the mock leopard. He couldn’t quite believe the way things appeared to be going, and couldn’t think of anything else to say.

But Mrs Sweet continued, softly. ‘Yes, and relaxation becomes increasingly difficult.’ Her hand rested gently on top of his. The scene was getting distinctly sultry.

Charles decided to play it for light comedy. ‘I go in for a certain amount of golf, you know. That’s good for relaxation.’

‘Oh really.’ Her hand was moving gently over his. Charles stole a sidelong glance. The mouth was parted and thickened lashes low over her eyes. He recognised that she was trying to look seductive, and, while he didn’t find her attractive (rather the reverse), he was intrigued by the sudden change in her behaviour.

Mrs Sweet leant against him, so that he could feel the lacquered crispness of her hair on his ear. Her hand drew his to rest casually on her thigh. ‘I’ve never played golf.’

‘Oh, it’s a grand game,’ said Charles fatuously. In spite of himself, he could feel that he was becoming interested. Her perfume was strong and acrid in his nostrils. ‘Champion game.’

‘But I’m sure you play others.’ Quite suddenly the grip hardened on his hand and he felt it forced into the warm cleft between her legs. Instinctively he clutched at the nylon-clad mound.

But his mind was moving quickly. Mrs Sweet and her husband were blackmailers. This must be a plot of some sort. ‘Where’s your husband?’

‘A long way away.’

‘But wouldn’t he mind if-’

‘We lead separate lives. Very separate lives now.’ Her face was close to his and he kissed her. After all, he reflected, I am one of the few people in the world who isn’t worth blackmailing. And Bill Holroyd was already showing himself to be pretty gullible, so it’s in character.

Mrs Sweet reached her free hand down to his flies. No impotence problem this time. Charles began to consider the irony of life-that with Jacqui, whom he found very attractive, there was nothing, and yet with this nymphomaniac, who almost repelled him… but it wasn’t the moment for philosophy.

Mrs Sweet stood up and stripped off the housecoat. There was a crackle of static electricity. Her underwear was lacy red and black, brief and garish, the kind of stuff he’d seen in Soho shops and assumed was the monopoly of prostitutes. Perhaps she was a prostitute. The thought of another dose of clap flashed across his mind. But he was by now too aroused to be side-tracked.

He hastily pulled off his clothes and stood facing Mrs Sweet.

‘It doesn’t show,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Your war wound. The shrapnel.’

‘Ah. No. Well, they do wonders with plastic surgery. He advanced and put his arms round her, fumbled with the back of her brassiere. ‘The front,’ she murmured. It unclipped.

They sank down on to the leopardette sofa and he slipped off the crisp lacy briefs. Underneath he’d expected her to be hard and dry, but she was very soft and moist. Again he thought of meringues. And as he had her, he emitted grunts which he hoped were in character for the director of a man-made fibres company.