Absent Light (5 page)

Scenes of Crime, at its best, swung into action with the smooth running of a well-oiled machine, and she had been but a small cog in it. It required the ability to work both as part of a disciplined team and as an individual. She didn't remember exactly how many cases she'd covered, how many people in theory she'd contributed to put away but she couldn't imagine any crook, even less a police officer, wanting to single her out for special treatment. She considered herself to be a backroom girl, a civilian. In her father's eyes, not only had she'd been working for the police, but with the dead. That always generated an element of fear. Helen broke the silence. “I don't think last night's incident has any connection to the past.”

“Simply a case of wrong place, wrong time?”

“Unfortunately, it happens a lot.”

Her father gave a weary smile, drained his drink and stood up. Briefly touching her shoulder, he wished her goodnight.

CHAPTER THREE

T
HE CHILL AIR FELT
as if it were penetrating her jacket, seeping through her skin, freezing all her bones, but, the next day, she was glad to be back in her own surroundings.

The studio was situated on the Hagley Road, one of the main arterial roads into Birmingham. Helen's flat or, to put it more accurately, coach-house, was in the garden of the studio, tacked onto the main body of the building. A former stables, the coach-house had separate access via a private drive at the back, providing a tiny, almost rural haven of peace while still being in the centre of the city. Thirty or so years before, the entire site housed a public relations consultancy. Now it was home to Raymond Seatt's Photographic Studio, except that Ray was taking it easy, somewhere in the West Indies, she believed.

She felt more settled among her own belongings: the poster-red leather sofa bought in a fit of indulgence, the mounted photographs on the walls, the Moroccan rugs, the clutter of books and brochures on the floor because she'd run out of shelf-space, the cobwebs. Nothing was neat and tidy. Ethnically messy best described it.

There were two messages on the ansaphone. The first was from Jen reminding her of preparations for the New Year's Eve party, the second from Ed informing her of
a drama,
as he put it, concerning a woman found
in the drink
at Brindleyplace, near his flat. Some drama, she thought wryly, hanging up her new set of keys and deciding to make a cup of heart-starting coffee.

Standing there, waiting for the kettle to boil, she stretched and looked out of the window. Even though it was past noon, the grass was edged with a thick layer of sparkling frost. A robin perched on the naked branches of a tree through which a low winter sun sent shafts of reddish-gold light. Then she remembered Freya Stephens, and flicked off the kettle.

Helen recalled that Jewel had taken the initial phone-call from Freya, talked through the requirements – two sets of 8 x 6 shots, black and white, soft focus – discussed prices, suggested make-up and clothes, and arranged the appointment. Within hours of making the call, Freya phoned back and spoke to Helen in person, introducing herself and changing the date. She mentioned that she was optimistically looking for publicity work though she didn't really specify what form it might take. Helen explained that she didn't do glamour photography but Freya insisted she only wanted head and shoulder shots and it had to be a female photographer, “not some pervy guy who wants to sleep with me in the pursuit of artistic excellence.”

Her first impression of Freya Stephens was that she was striking to look at. Roughly the same height as herself, but thinner, she wore a long black leather coat with a red roll-neck sweater and black leather trousers. She had chocolate brown eyes. Freya's hair was long, much as her own had been before she'd taken the decision to chop it all off. She had an engaging smile and, although she seemed a little nervous to start with, not unusual for someone inexperienced in having their photograph taken in a professional setting, she was eager to co-operate, a huge plus, in Helen's experience.

“So you say these are for publicity purposes,” she said to Freya.

“Uh-huh.”

“I'm trying to understand the image you want to project.”

Freya gave an earthy laugh. “Does it matter?”

“Do you want to look friendly, mysterious, sexy…?”

“Sexy,” Freya grinned, “definitely sexy.”

Helen took out what she called her bag of tricks, an odd assortment of hats, scarves and glasses with the lenses punched out. “Even though I'm shooting in black and white, your sweater will show up as a greyish tone. Thinking of keeping it on?”

Freya raised an eyebrow and, without uttering a word, peeled off her coat and sweater, revealing impressively full breasts on a tiny frame. Helen briefly wondered whether she'd had a boob-job.

“Now put your coat on,” Helen said, “but leave a couple of the top buttons undone.”

Freya did as she was told. As she reached for her coat, Helen thought she noticed some suspicious-looking marks on the inside of Freya's arms. It was such a fleeting impression, however, she thought she was mistaken.

“What do you think?” Freya said.

“The coat's gorgeous,” Helen grinned.

Freya beamed. For a second, Helen had the strange impression that the coat had been chosen to impress her. “Tonally speaking,” Helen continued quickly, “the arrangement's perfect. I just wonder whether to introduce a little more light to your face,” she said, holding up a gold-coloured scarf. “How about draping this around your neck?” She handed it to Freya, catching the scent of cheap perfume.

“Like this?” Freya said, arranging the scarf so that it trailed like a sleeping snake over the leather.

“Lovely. I'll take some shots with, some without.”

“Oooh, is this the moment I'm supposed to say
cheese
?”

“God, no,” Helen laughed. “This isn't school. Just relax. Try not to think consciously about smiling. It's more of a smile from the inside.”

“Sounds dirty,” Freya laughed.

“Behave,” Helen joked. “I'll ask you to perform certain actions, maybe turn away and look at the door as though a friend's just walked in, that kind of thing. We're going to tell a story.”

“A story?” Freya looked intrigued.

“Your story,” Helen said, taking a light reading.

“Wow,” Freya said, her face gleaming with excitement. “Can you make it into a thriller then?”

“I can but try,” Helen laughed.

She didn't know why but somewhere, crouching in the back of her mind, she had the vague suspicion that Freya might be connected to the mugging. Ridiculous, she thought. It was too outlandish, too far-fetched. She blotted it out.

The studio wasn't officially open. Jewel, the receptionist, had been given the Christmas and New Year holiday off en bloc. Prior to her stint in hospital, Helen popped across the garden each day to open and sort the post, check emails, catch up on any paperwork, and log any phone messages. She enjoyed the time to work alone without either the hassle of the phone ringing, or clients making demands. When it came to work, she was extremely methodical, another hangover from her previous occupation, she guessed.

Among the rest of the mail and belated Christmas cards, an envelope had arrived from the lab marked
photographic prints – fragile.
She opened it and slid out the contact sheets. At a glance, she could see that Freya Stephens took a good photograph. Personally, Helen always found blondes easier to shoot, especially in black and white, but the soft-focus lens had worked particularly well in this instance, and the brief flash pre-exposure had increased the film speed by about a stop. Slipping the sheet back into the envelope, she opened up the computer and retrieved Freya's details, including her mobile phone number. Next, she gave her a call. It didn't even ring. The phone switched straight to a messaging service. Vaguely unsettled, she locked up, and spirited the contacts back with her to the coach-house.

Flicking on the kettle again for strong coffee, she took out the sheets for a second time and laid them on the kitchen table. There's a saying that the camera never lies. Richard Avedon, the great celebrity portrait photographer, maintained that while all photographs were accurate, none of them told the truth. Helen held a slightly different opinion: while the camera might tell the truth, it never told the whole story. Smiles and happiness can be phoney, but you can never fake the expression in the eyes.

Or the terror.

Her nerves sharpened. A needling pain jabbed at the back of her head. She could feel the fear lapping at her. She blinked, shook herself, pulled herself back from the brink.

Stirring two sugars into her coffee in a lame bid to jump-start her system, Helen took a sip and went across the hall to her own personal makeshift darkroom which, in a previous life, was an old bathroom. Now it also doubled as a home for assorted pieces of photographic gear. The darkroom was pretty much redundant in the modern professional setting. Nearly all studios, including Ray's, used specialist photographic labs for the development of prints. Helen found it rather sad. There was something deeply satisfying about messing about in the dark, developing your own work, even if it was laborious.

Stretching up to a shelf, she retrieved a polychrome eyepiece and took it back to the kitchen. Placing the eyepiece over the first of the proofs, she bent over and put her left eye to the lens, squinting her right eye shut. The dramatic choice of lighting had added a sensuous quality to her subject's skin, something that was generally less apparent in colour work. The first shots were usually of a poorer quality in the non-professional subject, nerves being the main stumbling block. The smiles tended to look forced, the poses wooden. Freya Stephens was no exception. The first takes made her look years older than she appeared in the flesh. Once she'd got used to the camera, however, the results were sensational. The look was alternately raunchy and sensual, but the very last shot was most telling. Enigmatic smile, mysterious light in the eyes, an expression of secrecy. So what makes you tick, Helen wondered, widening her eye to have a better look? Are you a games player? Do you like leading people on? Were you in on the mugging, she thought, thinking again the unthinkable and shaken by the prospect?

She got up, put some washing in the machine, tidied up the sitting room, thought about what to take out of the freezer for dinner, going through the motions, then she phoned Freya's number for a second time with the same result. This time she left a message asking Freya to call her as soon as possible. Unable to settle, and not wishing to be alone, she returned Ed's call. He seemed to spend more time out than in, so she was surprised and pleased when he answered after a couple of rings.

“Thought you'd be at the sales,” she said.

“Lack of funds.”

“Christmas over-expenditure?”

“I'd rather not say.” There was a playful note in his voice.

“Fair enough.” Ed's hedonistic tendencies often confounded her.

“You got my message,” Ed continued.

“Yeah, I…”

“The place was swarming with police. They actually shut off the entire area for hours. You can imagine what that did for trade. The guys in the International Convention Centre are all moaning like hell…”

“Ed,” Helen interrupted his flow.

“Yes?”

“It was me.”

“What?”

“It was me in the drink,” she said. “I damn nearly drowned.”

Ed's flat was the sort of place she dreamt of. As befitted a graphic designer, it was stylish and luxurious, with views over the water and city. Well, all right, forget the bit about the water, Helen thought, pressing the entry buzzer. Much as she loved her quaint little coach-house, part of her aspired to a more grown-up style of living. She reckoned a change in habitat might also effect a change in her personal circumstances. Swimming in the right sea, she'd meet the right fish. If she met the right fish, she'd feel better about herself. Oh, if only it were that simple, she sighed, as Ed pressed the buzzer and let her in.

Helen passed through a wide and brightly lit glass-fronted reception area manned by a female concierge. Rather than taking the stairs, she took the lift.

The door to Ed's apartment was already open. Helen walked inside, took off her coat and slipped off her shoes, letting her toes sink into the plush woven carpet. The smell of cologne wafted from down the hall. Ed was standing in the German-applianced kitchen armed with a bottle of red wine and a corkscrew. He looked sleek and gorgeous as usual, she thought. Blond with green-eyed good looks, he was also tall. His well-built frame was clothed in a black cashmere sweater and a pair of soft black Italian trousers.

Ed put down the bottle of wine and rushed towards her. “Christ, you look exhausted,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks.

She gave a weak smile.

“But you're all right?” he said, holding her shoulders, looking at her with serious eyes.

Of course I'm bloody not, she thought. “So what about this wine,” she laughed lightly.

Ed opened the bottle and poured out two glasses, handing her one. “Good health,” he said with a twinkly smile.

“Long life,” she said in return, meaning it.

They chinked glasses, took a drink. Ed gave her one of his appraising looks. “Maybe you should take up yoga. It's excellent for stress.”

“Not my kind of thing,” she cringed.

“Good for your sex-life, too.”

“What sex life?”

“Touche Eclat?”

“What?”

Ed's face split into a grin. “A wonderful little cosmetic by Yves St Laurent that hides the circles under your eyes.”

She broke into a sunny smile. Ed was the only man she knew who regularly wore moisturiser. She'd even borrowed some once.

“Great after a heavy night out,” Ed enthused. “It's in the bathroom if you want to try some.”

“Later.” This was better, she thought. She was beginning to feel more sane.

Ed smiled and took a sip of his drink. He was leaning against the granite-topped work-surface. “You going to tell me all about it then?”

“S'pose I'd better,” she said, wondering how and where to begin.

They went through to the sitting room, a den of dark colours with Gallic overtones. The lighting was tastefully subdued, carpet so thick you could sleep on it. An entire wall housed an armoury of books, from large, glossily illustrated design tomes to the latest contemporary fiction. A vast antique Venetian mirror hung over the facing wall, making the room look twice the size, and a full-length painting of a woman by Mark Spain hung on the other. Helen lowered herself into a dark brown leather sofa. Ed sat at the other end and swung her feet up into his lap.

“So?” Ed pressed her, running his fingers along the tips of her toes.