“You needn’t tell me, of course, but sometimes it makes my job easier. I don’t like to get involved in anything without knowing the reason.”
Ben had worked out his story beforehand in case he was asked. He’d hoped he wouldn’t be. “I’m researching a book about the Gulf War. John Kale served there, and I’d... well, I’d like to interview him.” He’d decided against making any mention of the Kales’ son. Lying wasn’t one of his strong points, and he didn’t want to give anyone any hints as to what he was really trying to find out. If the detective was any good he would learn about the abduction for himself. He might even tell Ben if the baby had been found without him having to ask.
Quilley’s grey eyes seemed speculative as he gazed across at Ben. “Have you been in touch with the MOD?”
“The what?”
“Ministry of Defence.”
“Uh, no. No I haven’t. Not yet.” He felt completely transparent, but the detective simply made another note.
“And when I’ve located the Kales, do you want me to approach them?”
“No, just... just find out where they are now, what they’re doing. That sort of thing.” He hoped he sounded natural. “I’ll get in touch with them myself.”
Quilley took another deep pull on the cigarette, head bowed over the form. Smoke trailed up lazily through his hair. “Who’s publishing it?”
“Sorry?”
“The book.” The detective looked up at him again. Who’s publishing it? You did say that’s why you wanted to find the Kales, didn’t you?”
“Oh, right.” Ben’s mind raced, conscious of the man calmly watching him.
“I’m not sure yet.”
Quilley nodded, smiling faintly.
“It’s still in the early stages,” Ben went on. Shut up.
The detective regarded him for a moment longer, his smile lingering, then asked for Ben’s address and telephone number. He set his pen down on top of the form. “Well, I think that’s all I need to know for now. I can’t say exactly how long it’ll take, but I should have something for you by the end of next week. Is there anything you’d like to ask?”
“I don’t think so.” Ben just wanted to get away from the hot, smoky office. He felt sure his lies were written on his face.
The detective raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you even want to know how much this is going to cost you?”
Feeling somehow at a disadvantage, Ben said he did. The detective told him a daily rate that seemed surprisingly cheap.
He agreed and pushed back his chair to leave.
“Oh, one last thing,” Quilley said, pen still in hand. “What’s your occupation?”
“Photographer.”
“Really?” The detective’s half-smile was back. “Rather unusual, a photographer writing a book, isn’t it?”
You sneaky bastard. Ben stared at him coldly. “It’s mainly photographs.”
“Ah.”
“Do you need references?”
Quilley chuckled, unperturbed. “Oh, nothing like that. I just like to know a little about who I’m working for.” He came from around the desk and opened the door for Ben. “Leave it with me, Mr Murray. I’ll be in touch.” He shook Ben’s hand again. Up close his breath was heavy with coffee and cigarettes. His smile hid whatever he was thinking as Ben went out. “And good luck with the book.”
It was a purer, more simple vision through the camera.
Sifted through the membrane of lens and filter, aperture and viewfinder, the world was changed, reality reduced to bite-sized, manageable slivers, immeasurably small fragments of time plucked out by the click of a shutter. Ben found it comforting to be able to close out the world except for that one rectangle of light, framed by blackness. He could manipulate it, make it into what he wanted, before, during and even after the image had been captured.
It was reassuring to think he was still in control of something.
When he first became interested in photography, in the second year of his fine arts degree, it had been its apparent objectivity that had attracted him. He had seen a camera as a medium connecting the eye to the subject, but without the filter of an artist’s perception to distort it. He had believed that through it he could show truer, more valid images than he could achieve with paintbrush and canvas. Even when he had begun accepting, and actively seeking, commissions for commercial work, he told himself that was completely different, financially necessary but separate from what he was trying to achieve through his more personal efforts. Disillusionment came when he found himself employing the techniques learnt in one for the other, trying not to capture the moment but improve on it as he would the looks of any model. He had been rocked by his own infidelity and, looking at everything he had done up until that point, he had suddenly seen that it was every bit as subjective as any painting. What he’d thought was objectivity was only another form of manipulation. There was nothing intrinsically truthful or real about it; his photographs didn’t reveal, as he had believed, only distort in a more subtle way.
Ben had come close to throwing out in disgust everything he had done. In the end, though, he hadn’t. Nor did he have much time to dwell on his failure. Ironically, as if to compensate, the commercial side of his work had begun to pick up almost immediately. He accepted the commissions and the money gratefully, cynically rationalising that, if what he had been doing was worthless, then one type of photograph was as good as another.
Sometimes, though, he would still surprise himself.
There was one photograph of Jacob that even now could make him think he had almost caught something. The boy’s lack of self-consciousness made him an ideal subject.
Provided Ben didn’t use a flash and the shutter mechanism wasn’t too noisy, Jacob would continue with whatever he was doing as though he weren’t there. On this occasion, only a few weeks before he had been diagnosed as autistic, he had been watching television through his fingers, waving them to give a strobe effect. It was a favourite trick of his, but when Ben had tried it himself he found it hurt his eyes. Jacob didn’t seem to tire of it, though.
Ben had already taken most of a film, experimenting with different shutter speeds to vary the effect of the moving fingers.
The nice thing about photographing Jacob was there was no rush. He adjusted the focus for a final close-up, and just as he pressed the shutter release Jacob suddenly looked straight at him. He had gone back to watching the television again a moment later, but for that instant it had been surprisingly disconcerting to have him unexpectedly staring back. Ben had lowered the camera feeling he’d somehow been found out.
It wasn’t until he’d developed the film that he was sure he’d caught the moment. In thirty-five of the thirty-six frames Jacob was looking away from the camera, but in the last one he was looking directly at it. His gold-flecked eyes gazed out in perfect focus from behind the blurred bars of his fingers, and Ben felt an echo of the same shock as when he had taken the shot. He had experienced a similar feeling years before, when he had been working on a project for his degree. He had been given permission by a cafe owner to set up his camera in a darkened back room, from where he could look out at the customers without being seen. He had lost himself in the illicit fascination of photographing the unknowing diners with impunity when one man had turned and looked into the room at him. Ben had frozen like a thief. The man had simply looked away again and gave no sign of having seen anything, but Ben ended the session soon afterwards. He didn’t go back. The security of his hiding place now seemed illusory. He’d felt exposed. Known.
The photograph of Jacob gave him the same feeling. It was uncomfortable, but that was what made it so effective.