Creed (18 page)

Creed did a backwards shuffle, snapping off more shots as he went, not bothering with the viewfinder now. O’Leary came on in a rush.

Time to depart, Creed concluded as Kevin disappeared inside the cottage. He turned and ran for the garden gate. Footsteps – very
heavy
footsteps – pounded after him.

He was almost at the gate when something caught at his throat, causing him to squawk like a crow as he was jerked to a halt. He could easily have gone down had not self-preservation been one of his strongest points (perhaps
the
strongest): instead he twisted so that the camera strap (O’Leary had managed to grasp the Nikon bumping against Creed’s back) snapped and released him.

He was through the low gate in a trice, a hand that worked by instinct alone reaching down and yanking it shut behind him. Big, blundering O’Leary, mouthing oaths that even his deep rich baritone could not render glorious, made his second mistake by continuing pursuit. His legs hit the gate, which jarred against its latch, becoming an immovable object. The actor tumbled over it to land flat on his back in the lane outside where he quivered and flapped like a hairy beached whale.

Creed took time only to pick up the Nikon that had fallen from the actor’s grasp before scooting for the jeep. He jumped in, turned the key that was already in the ignition, and gunned the engine. The jeep dug dirt as it leapt forward.

He gave the actor, who by now was on his knees and shaking a hefty fist, a finger-and-thumb circle of ‘okay’ as he sped by. If he hadn’t thought it would have been wasted, he’d have managed a wink too.

‘Pretty smart, Freddy.’

The picture editor looked up questioningly from his desk. ‘Just about to leave, Joe. You got a problem?’ He stood and shrugged on the jacket that had spent the day hung over the back of his chair and which was as crinkled and worn as the editor himself.

‘No problem at all. O’Leary and his boyfriend are being devved up as we speak’

Squires grinned. ‘You got them together.’ This said as a statement, with no surprise.

‘Yup, practically holding hands. O’Leary wasn’t pleased.’

‘I’ll bet.’ Squires sat down again. ‘So what’s on your mind, Joe?’

‘Nothing really. Just wondered where you got the address from.’

‘Passed on to me by our lords and masters. I didn’t ask, didn’t want to know. You look a bit better than when you went out of here.’

Wearied, Creed drew finger and thumb down his cheeks, stretching the skin. ‘Yeah, I feel like a million lire. So the powers-that-be used our proprietor, who used our noble editor, who used you, who used me.’

‘It’s the way of things. Like I said – what’s your problem?’

Creed settled on a corner of the picture editor’s desk. He shook his head. ‘Just tired, Freddy, nothing more than that. I got some good shots, so I’m not complaining.’ He smiled to show that he really wasn’t. ‘O’Leary was the one they were after, right? They wanted to smear him, discredit him a little in the eyes of the public.’

‘It isn’t hard to figure out, is it? Call it an opportunity seized rather than a well-planned strategy, though. After all the stick the Tories took from the Opposition over that bloody ridiculous Bordes affair, someone in government circles obviously saw the chance to get their own back. A Labour politician involved in a homosexual scandal, plus – and what a plus – a terrorist connection. It was all there on a plate.’

‘But they decided to take it one step further.’

‘Two birds with one stone, old son. Not only could they expose the Opposition for stupid misdemeanours that could have harmed national security, but they could also damage Jamie O’Leary’s credibility at the same time. How could they resist it?’

‘Does it really work that way? I mean, just because O’Leary’s not straight . . .?’

Squires grinned again. ‘It’s more subtle than that. Not only do O’Leary’s fans discover their idol is as bent as two pins, but they also learn over the next few days that his involvement with the Irish problem is a bit more sinister than he lets on. He might have survived the exposé of one of his little “quirks”, but both at the same time? Anyway, at least you have the satisfaction of knowing they chose you to get evidence on the sexual angle. It’s a compliment of sorts.’

‘I still don’t get it. Why just me, why not others? You know, the more the merrier?’

‘Think about it. If hordes of snappers and journos had descended upon the place, then O’Leary and his pal would have drawn the curtains and waited it out. Or more probably, they’d have laid low and pretended the cottage was empty when the first cars pulled up outside. And a mob would have given the game away, it would have been too obvious that the Press had been directed towards the actor and his hide-away. No, much wiser to send a pro down there on his own, make it look like a good piece of single-handed rooting out.’

‘I’m supposed to feel honoured?’

‘Yeah, as a matter of fact you are. Don’t tell me you’re getting a touch of conscience in your old age. You did your job, you showed life as it really is and not how those with vested interests want it presented.’

‘Shit, they’ve
all
got vested interests, they
all
want it presented the way
they
see it.’

‘Spare me the indignation, Joe. We’ve both been at this too long for that crap.’ Squires gripped the arms of his chair and levered himself to his feet once more. ‘Tell you what, I’ll let you tell me about your mid-life crisis over a stiff one. Marty’ – he pointed to the overweight deputy picture editor, who was ambling towards them down an aisle between desks carrying a plastic beaker of coffee, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, tie at half-mast – ‘can take care of the snaps.’

A large Scotch and ice was exactly what Creed needed, followed by another, and then another after that. However, he declined. ‘Got things to do, Freddy. Did Prunella what’s-her-name leave anything for me?’

‘Not that I know of. Sure you won’t change your mind? A good blast’ll restore your cynicism.’

‘No, I’ll see what the pics are like, then be on my way. I get a name under as usual?’ He meant acknowledgment beneath the picture of O’Leary and Plaskett which no doubt would appear on the front page of tomorrow’s edition.

‘Naturally. Unless you’re so pissed off you don’t want a mention.’

‘See you tomorrow, Freddy.’ Creed hoisted his camera bag and headed for the processing room.

Squires called after him, ‘Stay home tonight, Joe, leave the glitzies in peace for once. You look better, but you still don’t look good.’

The contact sheet of that day’s shoot was ready by the time Creed reached the photographic department and he studied each frame through a magnifier, making small crosses against his personal choices with a white chinagraph, although it would be the picture editor or his deputy who would make the final decision. He was pleased with the results, but somehow couldn’t work up the enthusiasm to be delighted. You’re tired, he told himself. Tired, mystified, and . . . he had to admit it . . . scared. It was difficult to feel delighted about anything in that condition. Today’s assignment had kept him busy, kept his mind concentrated on more mundane – mundane and (relatively speaking)
natural
– things. But now it was dark outside and he had to go back alone to the house and he had to sit down and consider what to do about the note and the negs and whether to call in the police and how the fuck did you explain what had happened to the boys in blue who would probably want to search his place for drugs the moment he mentioned the toilet bowl had tried to bite off his pecker and the night before he’d met Nosferatu the thinking man’s fucking Dracula and last night bugs had tried to eat him alive in his bed although they’d left no marks on his body and the police would ask him how he got the bump on his head and he’d tell them he’d fallen downstairs the day before and yes he realised concussion could lead to all kinds of complications and even hallucinations . . .

He stopped, having wandered into a corridor outside the processing room, and leaned against the wall. Concussion? Had he jolted something inside his head, was something swelling, blood clotting, something pressing against certain cells . . . touching certain nerves . . . pressuring tissue . . . oh God, was that it?

He moaned softly.

Wait. That didn’t explain the note. It didn’t explain Cally. Both were real enough. Neither one was a figment of his imagination. Were they?

He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the piece of paper.

It was real enough.

And so was Cally. He’d spoken to her, given her wine. He’d lusted after her, for Chrissake! She was no figment of the imagination. Dipstick –
Lidtrap
– remembered her, even though she’d lied about working for him. So you’re not cracking up, Creed. Not yet, anyway.

He left the corridor and went through the newsroom to the features department next door. In a far corner there were four desks pushed together, these combining to make up the Diary desk. Not one position around the assemblage was occupied. Creed scanned the untidy working tops, looking for a folder or package among the jumble of papers and cuttings that might bear his name.

‘Is this what you’re looking for?’

He looked up to see Antony Blythe, without jacket but still immaculate in blue pin-stripe shirt with white collar, pink silk tie and lethally creased grey slacks, standing in the doorway of the glass-partitioned cubby-hole he called an office. He held a fifteen-by-ten manila envelope in his hand.

‘Has it got my name on it?’ asked Creed.

Blythe waggled the prize at him.

Creed walked over to the diarist and reached out for the envelope. Childishly, Blythe held it tight against his chest.

‘You were supposed to deliver some photographs to me,’ he said tartly.

‘They haven’t been processed yet,’ Creed lied, snatching the package from the other man’s grasp. ‘You can go down and help yourself when they’re ready.’ For all the good it’ll do you, he thought. No way would the story be allocated to the gossip column alone. He noticed the envelope flap was open. ‘Have you been into this?’

‘Prunella is my assistant. Any research she does comes to me first.’

‘She gave it to you?’

‘She works for me.’

Yeah, and you picked it up from her desk and stuck your nose inside even though it had my name on the front.

‘Why the desperate interest in this foul person Mallik?’ Blythe had no shame.

Creed had had enough for one day. He turned away, waving a weary hand at the bald-headed diarist as if to dismiss him.

‘I asked you a question.’

‘It’s none of your business,’ Creed replied, already walking away.

‘I can make it my business, you know,’ Blythe called after him.

The photographer’s response wasn’t very clear, but the diarist was sure it had something to do with his own head and a bucket of shit.

All Creed wanted to do now was sleep.

It’d been a long day and the preceding nights had been nightmarish – literally. It was catching up on him. Maybe tomorrow he’d see a doctor about the bump on his head, maybe even take the day off, phone in sick. The newspaper didn’t own him, neither did the photo agency; ultimately he was his own boss, even if he did have contracts with them both. Sleep away the tiredness and the dull ache inside his head, that was the thing to do. Hell, when was the last time he took a day off? He couldn’t remember. When he got home he’d have a stiff drink and a long bath, followed by another stiff drink. The booze would help him sleep better.

The traffic, even at that time of evening, wasn’t good, but at least it was moving freely. He kept his speed low, too tired to do battle with others on the road.

Stopped at traffic lights, he glanced down at the envelope lying in the shadows on the front passenger seat. The right thing to do would be to turn the whole lot over to the police first thing in the morning and let them get on with it. He had the photographs of the funeral, the warning note, and now whatever information Prunella had dug up on this character Mallik. Let them make of it what they will. If he were in some kind of danger, then it was their job to protect him (but would they,
could
they?). He needn’t mention the hallucinations, and they already knew about the intruder. Let them figure out the connection between the nutter at the funeral and the man who was hanged all those years ago.

He snatched a look at the envelope again. For some reason it made him nervous just lying there in the shifting light.

Eventually he turned off the main drag into the sidestreets and from there it was only minutes before he reached Hesper Mews. He left the jeep idling on the cobblestones outside his garage while he opened the doors; he climbed back aboard and drove in, then closed the doors again, making sure they were firmly locked. He used another key to get into his office and locked it after him. He left the office and locked that door too. Then he stood at the foot of the stairs and wondered why a light was shining from the landing above.

Creed scrabbled blindly for the front door latch behind him as footsteps approached the top of the stairs.