Brigstocke leaned forward, raised an eyebrow. I'll tell you if it comes to anything,' Thorne said. He looked at his watch. 'Fuck, I'm going to be late…'
As he was standing up, the phone began to ring in his office next door…
Holland's mobile had rung just as he was heading across to the pub, for what Was becoming something of a regular lunchtime pint. Andy Stone had given him that look. The one he'd been getting from a few of the lads, whenever the mobile rang, and they saw his face as HOME came up on caller ID.
'Shit,' Holland said.
Stone took a few steps towards the pub doorway and stopped. 'Shall I get you one in, Dave?'
Holland pressed a button on the phone and brought it to his ear. After a few seconds he caught Stone's eye and shook his head. Sophie was still crying when he walked through the door twenty minutes later.
'What's the matter?' He wrapped his arms around her, knowing what the answer would be.
'Nothing,' she said. 'I'm sorry… I know I shouldn't call.' The words sputtered into his collar between sobs.
'It's OK. Look, I've only got about a quarter of an hour, but we can have a quick bit of lunch together. I'll go back when you're feeling calmer.'
The baby was three months away. It was easy enough to put these weekly collapses down to hormones, but he knew that there was much more going on. He knew how frightened she was. Frightened that he would make a choice between her and the job. That he would think she was forcing him to make a choice. That the baby would not be enough to make him choose her.
He understood because he was twice as scared. They sat on the sofa and cuddled until she grew quiet. He whispered and squeezed, feeling the bump against his leg that was the child inside her, staring across the living room and watching the minutes go by on the video recorder display.
'Thorne.'
'This is Eve Bloom…'
It took him a second to place the name, the voice. To put the two of them together. 'Oh… hello. Sorry, I was miles away. Already thinking about lunch.'
'Is this not a good time? Because…'
'It's fine. What can I do for you?'
'Just being nosey, if I'm honest. Wondered how it was all going. Stupid really, when I haven't the faintest idea what it actually is. Just, you know, curious as to whether that tape you took away has helped you.., solve.., it!'
He remembered hearing the amusement in her voice before. The phone in that hotel room, pressed tight to his ear. Happy to hear it this time.
'Fine, but I have to be somewhere about ten minutes ago, so…'
'That's OK, I didn't really mean now anyway…'
'Sorry?'
'What about lunch on Saturday? You can ask me a few pointless questions about answering machines, claim that I'm still helping you with your inquiries and stick it all on expenses. Twelve-thirty any good…?'
He hung up a few minutes later, just as Yvonne Kitson strolled back into the office. 'What on earth are you grinning about?' she said.
'Forget it, Mr. Thorne. No fucking way am I eating duck's feet.'
The fact that Dennis Bethell was built like a brick shithouse, and had a voice like a chorus girl on helium, made most things he said sound vaguely ludicrous, but this was up there with the best of them…
It had been Thorne's idea. The last time they'd met had been in a pub and the voice, as it often did, had caused something of a scene. A sedate lunch sounded like a better idea and Thorne was fond of this place. The New Moon in the heart of Chinatown served the best dim sum in town. Thorne loved the ritual every bit as much as the food. He enjoyed watching the grumpy-looking old women as they wheeled their trolleys around the place. He liked stopping them, asking them to lift the lids; making his selections.
Thorne had had to explain the system to Bethell, who'd been sitting in a corner looking very confused when he got there. He was twenty minutes late, but Bethell hadn't been difficult to find. He was six feet three with the build of a WWF wrestler, spiky peroxide hair and a great deal of gold jewelry. Spotting him in a restaurant where the clientele was almost entirely Chinese was not exactly taxing. Today, Bethell was wearing camouflage combats and a bright blue T-shirt stretched across his enormous chest, bearing the slogan BITCH.
'Shark's fin soup and all that, fine. Duck's feet? That's horrible…'
'Relax, Kodak,' Thorne had said. He smiled at the old woman as she lifted another bamboo lid. 'I'll order for you…'
They'd chatted for a while, Thorne putting his man at ease but also enjoying the to and fro of it. He was comfortable in these places, around the likes of Dennis Bethell.
Thorne popped a wafer-wrapped prawn into his mouth and slid the photograph of Jane Foley across the table. Bethell wiped soy sauce from his fingers with a napkin and picked it up..
'Nice,' he said. 'Very nice…'
Thorne knew that Bethell would be talking about the picture itself. The composition, the lighting. As a hardened pornographer, he was way past appreciation of the models themselves.
'I knew you'd like it,' Thorne said.
'I do. It's very tasty. Who took it?'
'Well, do you know what, Kodak? I said to myself that if anybody could find out for me, it would be you…'
A bit more chat. Business, Bethell said, was booming. Though the dotcom filth merchants had once threatened the likes of him, Bethell was delighted to report that his work was more in demand than ever. Thumbnails from his legendary 1983 'Barnyard' series of pictures were being eagerly downloaded, having acquired almost legendary status among smut surfers…
Dennis Bethell's high-quality wank-mag work had been getting men off for about as long as Thorne had been on the job. From slightly saucy to graphic glamour spreads, Bethell was a dab hand at anything that involved a lens and nipples. He was harmless enough and had been a reliable snout for a good many years. Thorne had come to regard him as one of the city's great eccentrics. A pumped-up East End vaudevillian with a hair-trigger temper, a talent for making girls take their clothes off and his own catchphrase, 'Nothing with children.
'So, come on, then,' Thorne said. 'Is it professional or not?'
Bethell peered at the image, held it up to the light, sucked his teeth.
'Yeah, maybe…'
'Not good enough, Kodak.' Thorne raised a finger to attract the attention of the woman behind the small bar. He held up his empty bottle of Tsing Tao, ordering another.
'It's complicated,' Bethell said. 'These days there's a huge market for professionally taken stuff that's made to look like it was snapped by an amateur. Like it's a picture of someone's girlfriend. See what I mean?
The whole readers' wives thing. Especially with this sort of stuff.'
'What sort of stuff?.'
'This S amp; M stuff. Handcuffs and whips and chains. Fetishism.'
Bethell held up the picture which Thorne had looked at a hundred and more times. He looked at it again. This one had been taken from above, the woman flat on her face, hands bound behind her back. The hood tied at the bottom this time, like a noose.
'You ever do this sort of thing?' Thorne asked. By now Bethell had a mouthful of minced crab dumpling. He answered cautiously, as if he thought the question was meant to catch him out somehow. 'Yeah, I have done. Plenty of these pervy mags around. My stuff's better than this, though…'
'Naturally. Listen, if this is a professional job, can you find out who took it?'
'I could ask around, I suppose, but…'
'What about where the film was developed?'
'Waste of time. Unless the bloke's a moron, he'd have done it himself. Digital camera, straight to his PC. Piece of piss…'
'Find out what you can, then. I want to know who the model is and who paid for the shoot.'