Lorraine lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. She was no innocent — in fact, it was more than likely she herself had taken part in some perverted session in the past to make a buck. She paced the gallery and kept on returning to the postcards, picking them up and putting them down. She was uncertain what, if anything, to do. Her first thought was to send them to the police, let them sort it out — especially as they featured Holly. She asked herself if the girl’s murder could be connected to the pictures. She doubted it — it could just be coincidence. But one thing was for sure: Holly was no innocent and already on the game, so she would have been fully aware of what she was doing. Then Lorraine looked again. Had Holly been drugged? If so, had she been forced into the pornographic session against her will, or agreed to do it because she was drugged?
‘It’s not my business,’ she said aloud. She was angry with herself for opening the package. It changed everything. If she sent the contents to the police, they would question Nula and Didi. They might come to the gallery, too. Art was involved, so she would also be questioned — by Bill Rooney. So much for feeling safe and secure. The thought of having Rooney barging into her fragile existence made her feel weak. She was caught, trapped first by stealing the wallet from the man who had attacked her, and then because, as it turned out, it wasn’t his wallet after all but Norman Hastings’s. She even remembered the dead man’s name, could picture his face on his driving licence. ‘What a fucking mess!’
Lorraine lit another cigarette, sat at the desk propping her head on her hands. She steadied herself. She knew the wallet was of no great importance to the investigation. More to the point, and this she knew, too, was that her attacker had been in possession of it. It was obvious he had to have taken it from Hastings’s body. If the newspaper reports could be relied on, and Hastings’s body had been discovered in his own car, then it was surely the same vehicle driven by the man who had attacked her. So it meant that all the time she was in the shopping mall car park, the dead man had been in the trunk of the car.
The officers who had come to the apartment had been trying to trace her, but had never returned. Were they still looking for her? She swore, wishing she had kept the newspaper, but she was certain there had been no mention that the police were looking for anyone seen in Hastings’s car that afternoon. She had given them a good enough description, they even repeated it in the paper, so they must be taking it seriously. There was nothing else she could do.
‘This is all I fucking need!’ she said aloud, as she stubbed out her cigarette, immediately lighting another. Her neck felt tense, her whole body was strained. She began taking everything out of the drawer — leaflets, notes, letters — without knowing what she was looking for. There was no diary, and nothing of any particular importance. She flicked through the supposed sales ledgers, noting the prices Art had paid for his canvases. They were all low. According to the sale-or-return memos, most of the paintings she had presumed sold had been returned. She started to replace the papers, and then stared hard at the money and the photographs.
‘Shouldn’t open people’s private property.’
Lorraine gasped. She hadn’t heard him return — the buzzer again! Picking up the photographs, Art began to shuffle them, stacking them, clicking them against the desk as he straightened them to stuff back into the envelope. ‘I’ve been watching you sifting through my desk. What were you looking for?’
Lorraine flushed. ‘I don’t know.’
Art replaced the photographs, folding the envelope into a tight packet. ‘Well, Lorraine, did they turn you on?’
‘No, no, they didn’t.’
‘Takes all kinds, dear.’
‘I suppose it does...’
Art unzipped his bag, tucked the photographs inside. ‘I only came back because I felt bad about not giving you your money. Lucky I did. I’d forgotten Nula was delivering these.’
Lorraine moved out from behind the desk, gesturing to the gallery. ‘This is all a front, isn’t it? A sham.’
Art glanced around. ‘Not all sham, dear. Sometimes I sell some, but I’ve been ripped off so many times, I keep it on as a kind of pastime. Maybe one day when I’ve made enough dough I’ll be able to find some real talent. This stuff is from Venice Beach, I buy it for peanuts.’
Lorraine shook her head. ‘The porn sells, does it?’
Art looked at her, his eyes so enlarged by his glasses that they seemed like a gargoyle’s. ‘How else do you think I’ve been able to stay open? I have regular customers, you met most of them. In fact, if I recall, you called them.’ He picked up the cash and peeled off a fifty-dollar bill. ‘Here, it’s a bonus.’
Lorraine didn’t take it. ‘The pictures of Holly, the girl who was murdered...’
‘What?’
‘There are pictures of Holly.
Art shrugged. ‘Well, they won’t bother her, will they?’
‘Maybe the police would be interested, though.’
He pursed his lips. ‘I don’t see why, she was obviously enjoying herself and nobody forced her. In fact, I didn’t even know the girl.’
‘Who takes the photographs?’
He sighed, hands on his hips, then looked back at Lorraine. ‘None of your fucking business. Now, let’s just forget this, shall we?’
She stared at him, forcing herself to keep her voice steady. ‘Why don’t you make it worthwhile for me to not make it my business?’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. You’ve got under-age kids on those pictures — so pay me. And... like you said, it’s not my business.’
Art hesitated. He picked up the money, seemed to weigh it in his hand before he made the decision. He threw it at Lorraine. ‘You know what my big problem in life is? I trust people. I make friends with people, I give them a break, and they always fuck me over it. Take it, you scrawny, ungrateful bitch!’
She picked up the money and stuffed it into her pocket. As she reached over for her cigarettes and lighter, Art gripped her wrist. ‘Just one thing, sweetheart. I want you to sign for that cash, just as a safeguard for me. Just in case you want to rap about me and—’
Lorraine released her wrist and rubbed it. He was strong and he had hurt her. ‘You’ll never see me again, I promise you that.’
Art didn’t speak another word. Lorraine signed for the money, walked to the door, opened it, and the buzzer shrilled. She turned, a half-smile on her face. ‘You should get this fixed, you know, Art.’
As the door closed quietly behind her, he kicked at the desk. He was — and always would be — a shit-head when it came to sniffing out people.
Lorraine did some shopping. She was feeling quite high and kept on touching the thick wad of notes in her pocket. She bought two dolls for her daughters, some cans of paint, brushes and a small wardrobe. She bought some tights, underwear, a shirt and, finally, a nightdress for Rosie. Laden with goods she caught a taxi home.
Rosie’s jaw dropped as Lorraine staggered in. ‘Jesus Christ! What did you do? Win a lottery?’