Cold Shoulder (36 page)

‘Curtis knows how to contact me.’

Lorraine reached out to shake Nula’s hand but she turned away. ‘Goodbye, and thanks.’

Nula stood in the centre of the room, arms folded. As soon as she heard the front door slam behind Lorraine, she clutched the sides of her head and started to scream, ripping off her wig and hurling it across the room. She screamed and screamed.

Lorraine drove to Craig Lyall’s studio. She looked around for a phone kiosk to check with Rosie if Rooney had called. He hadn’t but two uniformed police officers had been there. Rosie hadn’t been unduly worried when they arrived, partly because she was expecting Rooney. She even asked if they were there because of him. They did not answer her questions but moved from room to room, even swishing back the shower curtain. When they asked if there were any other ways into the apartment, Rosie started to get uneasy. She was edgy after they left because they remained outside in their patrol car and didn’t look as if they had any intention of driving off.

Lorraine wondered what Rooney was playing at. She told Rosie she would call him right away and see her in a while.

‘Where are you?’

‘Ventura Highway. I’m gonna talk to this Craig Lyall. See you later.’ She hung up and called Rooney’s office.

‘Where are you?’ he barked.

‘Oh, just having a quick coffee, then I’m on my way home.’

‘Do me a favour and bring yourself to the station.’

‘You got a development?’

‘Maybe. I want you here where I can see you.’

‘I got something I want you to check out. Photographer, guy called Art Mathews. I think he’s involved, blackmailer, porno stuff. He knows Janklow… hello?’ The beep-beep-beep of her money running out cut off the call.

Rooney let the receiver drop back on the cradle. He waited, half hoping she would call again, wandering round his office, hitching up his pants. Through his Venetian blind he could see the suits working with the computer officers, sifting through the investigations. He let the blind fall back into place. He was, in some way, hiding out — he’d skirted around them all afternoon and evening.

Bean breezed in and Rooney jumped. ‘Fuckin’ knock, for chrissakes, you give me a heart attack. You ever heard of a porno photographer, Art Mathews?’

‘Nope.’

‘Run a trace on him, will you? And then bring him in. I want to have a talk to him.’

‘Okay, will do. You wanted to know if Vice had anything on a Steven Janklow? There’s no record, nothing… but the Thorburn family funded an entire section of the LAPD forensic lab and—’

‘Thank you,’ grunted Rooney.

‘You’re welcome,’ said Bean as he walked out.

Lorraine moved up the wood-slatted staircase to the small photographic studio belonging to Craig Lyall. She pressed the intercom and waited. Asked to identify herself, she said she was a friend of Art Mathews. Lyall unbolted the door. Small and dapper, he was shorter than Lorraine.

‘What do you want? You a cop?’

‘No, just a friend of Art’s.’

Lorraine followed Lyall up the narrow staircase towards his studio apartment. The TV was on loudly and he switched it off. ‘I was working in the dark room. Let me sort out these negs then I’ll be right with you. Make yourself at home,’

Lorraine put down her purse and remained standing, looking at all the framed photographs. She then crossed to two heavyweight albums, filled with portraits of kids and families. She turned over the heavy pages, awful smiling brats in over-colourful dresses, all much the same, similar to the pictures she had seen in Mrs Hastings’s home.

Lyall returned and offered her a drink. He seemed jumpy.

‘Art’s told me a lot about you.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. He’s in trouble, you know that?’

‘He’s always been in trouble, ever since I’ve known him.’

‘Yeah, well, this time he’s involved in murder.’

Lyall pursed his lips. ‘Jesus Christ, it’s not this fucking Hastings thing again. I’ve had them here, you know, asking me all kinds of questions. All I did was take some photographs — poor bastard liked to drag up, right? What’s wrong in that?’

Lorraine perched on the edge of a hard-back chair. ‘Can I see them? Just out of interest. I’m trying to help Art. I wasn’t all that honest with you — I’m a private investigator and I need to get as much—’

Lyall jumped almost a foot in the air. ‘I’ve got nothing to do with him! I know him, that’s all, I just know him, and a few times I’ve taken the odd photo for him, or if he’s sent somebody to me. I’m discreet, okay? That’s all there is to it.’

Lyall was even more nervous now, walking up and down.

‘Did you ever use a transsexual called Didi?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Did you ever take photographs of her? Pornographic ones.’

‘No way. I wasn’t into that kind of thing. I just do straight portraits.’

‘But sometimes you photographed transsexuals, or transvestites?’

‘Yeah, they just wanted a photo of themselves, nothing wrong in that, is there?’ He fidgeted, repeating that it wasn’t against the law and that he’d answered all the questions about Hastings; the police had been to question him, he’d given them his photos.

‘Did you know Didi well?’

‘Yes and no. She was useful sometimes. She did their make-up and hair, that’s all.’

‘Did she do Norman Hastings’s wigs?’

‘Yeah, I think so.’ Lorraine watched as he bent down to a chest and took out some envelopes. ‘She was good, knew her stuff, could make even Hastings look reasonable.’ He showed her two or three photographs of Hastings. Lorraine complimented each photo, and Lyall preened himself, started to take out more. She asked nonchalantly if he’d ever photographed a man called Steven Janklow.

Lyall was still looking through his work admiringly and didn’t hear so she repeated the name and he straightened. ‘Look, I don’t always ask who my clients are. This is a private thing between me and them. I have to make them feel at ease — they get quite excited, and then when Didi has finished with them, they’re almost orgasmic. It’s a big turn-on for them and after the session they take away their photos and that’s it.’

Lorraine nodded. She didn’t immediately mention Janklow’s name again but took her time, letting Lyall relax.

‘Did Art help out on any sessions?’

‘Not for years. He did once — I didn’t have a dark room of my own and he had a big place over in Santa Monica, so I used to use his facilities. If I’m honest, he taught me a lot. Many of them have a bit of a problem — you know, the skin. Art taught me how to airbrush all that out, lines. I can make them look beautiful.’

She tried again. ‘Did you photograph this Janklow?’ Lyall paused. ‘I really don’t know. Some of them use assumed names, or call themselves by their female name. Is it important?’

‘He’s Art’s alibi.’

‘Why don’t you ask Janklow?’

‘I can’t trace him and Art thinks he wouldn’t want to come forward — doesn’t want his family to know about his private life.’

Lyall repacked his photographs in their envelopes.

‘Do you know the S and A vintage car garage?’

‘Yes, it’s in Santa Monica. I’m going back years now, but Art used to wheel around in an outrageous Bentley. He bought it from them but he’s useless mechanically. It was always going wrong. Art just about knew where to put the gas in.’

Lorraine took out the photo of the blonde woman and gave it to Lyall. ‘Have you ever taken that person’s photograph?’ she asked.

‘I can’t say. You’ve seen how many I’ve done and they’re just the recent ones.’

Lorraine took it back, and asked if the clients took away their negatives. That was part of the deal, Lyall said, suddenly becoming evasive again. ‘Look, I know what you’re inferring. My clients always have the negatives. Some even wait until I’ve done them. I’ve never been in trouble with the police and I would never — Look, we all know about Art and I’ve always said that’s his business. No way do I get involved.’

‘You mean his pornography?’

‘No. Blackmail.’

Lorraine nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve warned him about it and I think that’s why this witness won’t come forward. I reckon Art was blackmailing him.’

Lyall groaned. ‘Art’s been in prison and that didn’t stop him. He’s always after making the quick buck but it disgusts me. These poor bastards, they come here and they’re like kids, you know, shaking with excitement, and they’re so harmless. I mean, who does it hurt if a man likes to pretty himself up? It’s no crime but society makes them hide.’

Lorraine agreed. ‘I feel sorry for the guys Art’s been tapping. Poor Norman Hastings, a decent married man, scared it would come out—’

Lyall looked anxious. ‘I never told that to the police — I couldn’t, it would incriminate me. Then I’d have to tell them about Art.’

Lorraine asked if she could smoke. ‘I get asthma but go ahead.’ He fetched an ashtray and turned up the air-conditioning. She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke away from him.

‘How did Art get hold of Hastings’s pictures if, as you said, they always take the negatives away?’

Lyall flushed. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You didn’t give them to him, did you?’

‘No, of course not, but… maybe his friend did. I photographed Hastings’s family — I knew them and I wouldn’t want to hurt them. They’re not even wealthy, but that was Art, he’d even settle for fifty dollars a month — awful, I hated it.’

‘By his friend, do you mean Didi?’

‘Yes, I suspected it was her. She was here, she made Norman up — made a very good job of it.’

‘She’s dead.’

Lyall gaped. ‘But you were just talking about her. When? Why didn’t Nula call me? Or Art? I don’t believe it.’

‘Last night.’

Lyall seemed genuinely shocked, so she said, ‘Will you take another look at the photo I brought, in case you might remember. I think it’s a cross-dresser, don’t you?’

Lyall took the photograph again and held it to the lamp. He viewed the picture through an eyeglass for at least thirty seconds before he nodded. ‘Yes, but it’s a very good wig and make-up… It’s the jaw-line, I can always tell.’

‘You don’t recognize him then?’

‘No, I don’t think so, but I do so many…’

‘He never came here with Hastings?’

‘Norman was always alone, unless he was with his family.’

A buzzer sounded from the dark room and Lyall checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to get these ready for tomorrow. It’s a twenty-first portrait.’

Lorraine was heading for the door, when Lyall exclaimed, ‘Of course! Let me see that picture again.’

Lorraine watched him, almost willing him to say that he
had
taken pictures of Janklow. Instead he shook his head. ‘There was a famous society hostess, very wealthy — now, what was her name? She came for a sitting, very crippled, arthritic, in a wheelchair. She had two sessions, I think, but turned the pictures down. Well, honestly, if I’d airbrushed any more of her she’d not have had any face left, not a line left, and they paid just the sitting fee. That’s why I remember it, because I was out of pocket, and I’m going back a few years.’ He traced his thin lips with his tongue as he tried to remember, and then he beamed. ‘Thorburn, that was the name, Delia Thorburn, and it must have been at least eight, maybe nine years ago. She could even be dead by now. Isn’t it strange? Really weird.’ Lorraine waited for him to continue. ‘It’s odd that I can remember her so well and from that photograph, it’s just that… Let me have another look at it.’ He used his eyeglass again. ‘It isn’t her — she couldn’t drive, she was very crippled. But the way the scarf is draped reminds me of her. She always wore these chiffon scarves to hide her neck, and the blonde hair, that old-fashioned style, a Grace Kelly roll at the back or just flicked at the sides.’

‘Did Didi do her make-up and hair?’

‘Good God, no. She was Society. She wouldn’t want somebody like Didi around. I’m talking old money.’

Lorraine wasn’t sure where this new development was leading. She asked if Mrs Thorburn had been accompanied by anyone. ‘Yes, of course, she was in a chair. Her son, if I can recollect, he brought her.’

‘Did you hear his name?’

‘Well, I presumed it was Thorburn.’

‘Can you describe him?’

Lyall screwed up his eyes. ‘God, I’m going back years, and I’m sorry I can’t. But Art maybe could, he has a mind-blowing memory — he can even remember phone numbers.’

‘Art was here?’

‘Oh, no, it was in Santa Monica, I told you, we worked together, had our own clients. But then I left and came here.’

‘Was Art doing similar photo sessions, with transvestites or transsexuals?’

‘Oh, yes — in fact he started me off, sent me clients. I told you before.’

His dark-room buzzer rang loudly again. ‘I’ve really got to go, I can’t leave them soaking any longer.’

Lorraine returned to the car. She sat a while as she went over everything Lyall had told her. She now had a link between Hastings and Janklow. She even had a tentative link between Didi and both men, and Art was linked to them all. Art was blackmailing Norman Hastings, she concluded, and Hastings might have discussed this with Janklow. But what if Art was blackmailing Janklow as well?

She drove home deep in thought. What if she was wrong about Janklow and Art was the killer? But she knew that couldn’t be right. Her attacker hadn’t been Art Mathews. What was the link between each of the dead women who, apart from Holly, all resembled each other in age? But then she thought again about Holly’s murder; according to Didi, the killer had gestured to her, had wanted her. She had even said to Lorraine that she was lucky because if Holly hadn’t been picked up then it could have been her. What if it
was
Didi the killer had wanted? Just as she had said to Rooney the women were or could possibly have all been mistaken for Didi. She, Lorraine, was tall, about the same height as Didi, and blonde. Was the killer looking for one woman in particular, a woman he knew worked the streets, a woman he knew was a transsexual?

Lorraine had to pull over, her head throbbing with all the jagged sections of information. Her attempts at trying to make them all fit exhausted her. She closed her eyes. She had left Art Mathews in the gallery the night Holly had died. What had he done after she left and where did he go? Were he, Didi, Nula even, all connected to the murders? She was too tired to get it together, tired and hungry. She started the car again and headed back onto the freeway towards Pasadena.