Bodies (15 page)

“What would I do that for?”

I sighed.

“All right, skip it. What it amounts to is that you just
assume
it's empty at nights.”

“Yes . . . Yes. I'd 'ave thought it would 'ave come up in conversation with Bob, if 'e'd been using it regular at night.”

“Not if he was using it for something he wouldn't want you to know about.”

“No . . . I
can't
believe it of Bob.”

“What about props, if the place is used for filming?”

“There's a box-room, with the things Bob sometimes used.”

“Including a bed?”

“There's definitely a couch. Sometimes he'd pose one of the girls on it for
Bodies.”

“Let's have a look.”

Phil found the key on his ring, and we went out together. He opened a door on the landing. A musty, dusty little box-room it was, with a great deal of photographic impedimenta, with another pile of drapes, all sorts of frames, doubtless to fix cameras on to, and a sofa—a striped, modern job, that looked rather like an
Observer
Special Offer. Garry and I went in and fiddled about with it. It opened out to form a bed. What is more, it opened out very easily to form a bed.

“Right,” I said, leading the way back to the office. “At least we know this place holds the first requirement, if bed films were to be made here.”

“Pretty elementary bed films, surely,” Garry Joplin said.

“Have you been to these scruffy little members-only cinemas?”

“No, actually,” said Garry, looking vaguely ashamed.

“Elementary is what they are. Filmed on a shoestring, if not a G-string. Anything as elaborate as a
set
is a rarity. This sofa, the chair in there, the fireplace—nothing more was needed. Two or three evenings' filming and he'd have a nice little half-hour porno movie.”

“Can I say something?” came the voice of Phil from behind us.

“Of course.”

“I've told you I've never been 'ere in the evening, so I can't confirm what you're suggesting, nor yet give it the lie. On the other 'and, I often 'ave to call Bob on the phone of an evening. Arrangements for next day, problems with reproducing 'is pictures. I've
never
rung and found 'im out.”

He looked at me triumphantly.

“That's not conclusive,” I said.

“He's a 'ome bird, Bob. Ask 'is wife 'ow often 'e was out at night. I bet she'll say once in a blue moon.”

“Wives' testimony is not very valuable,” I said. But I must admit that little worms of doubt were crawling an inch or two further forward. And suddenly, with those doubts, a question or connection that had been bothering me all day suddenly presented itself fully formed in my brain. I looked at Phil thoughtfully.

“You say—everybody says, till I'm tired of it—that Bob Cordle was the soul of generosity, a top-brick-off-the-chimney fellow, is that right?”

“ 'E was,” said Phil, almost belligerently. “And if you weren't so bleedin' cynical, you'd accept it, when everybody tells you so.”

“Cynicism goes with the job,” I said. “I'd have thought it might have gone along with the body trade as well, but it seems naïveté's more the thing there. I marvel how you all manage to keep your innocence. But I'll take the uncynical line for once. Good old Bob was always helping people—right?”

“Right.”

“Doing free publicity shots for actresses, and helping some of the bodybuilders who are over the hill?”

“ 'E did. Well known for it.”

“Including one, I gather from his wife, who wanted to go into the photography business?”

“That's right. It's like sportsmen—it's a short career, and at the end of it you've got a life to lead and a living to earn. This chap Bob helped, 'e was a chap who was on our cover—oh, three, maybe four years ago.” Phil went over to a rickety shelf in a corner of the room, and took down a couple of files. “When this bloke decided to go into photography, pro photography, like, Bob didn't regard 'im as a potential rival, not a bit of it. 'E was marvellous to 'im, coaching 'im, selling 'im old cameras cheap, showing 'im all the little tricks. Bob was like that: if you appealed to 'im for 'elp, 'e could never do too much for you. Wait a bit—this is the number . . . ”

He took the issue out of the file and brought it over. Smiling out at us, but not showing his teeth, was a large, well-muscled man in briefs, one arm around a blonde in a bikini.

“Vince Haggarty,” I said.

“That's right. 'E 'asn't got any of Bob's flair, but of course 'e's got marvellous connections in the business. 'E's one of the people I'm going to suggest to Mrs. Wittgenstein to take over Bob's job.”

“As your principal photographer?”

“That's right.”

“Will you take a piece of advice?”

“O' course, if it's good.”

“I shouldn't,” I said. “I really shouldn't.”

A
T LONG LAST
I was beginning to get the idea, perhaps a delusive one, that the case was making some progress. How these new illuminations were going to help in solving the murder was, however, less than clear: so far it seemed to be more a matter for the Vice Squad than the Murder Squad. My suspicions had transferred themselves from the dead to the living, which in some ways seemed less than an advance: as long as it seemed to me that Bob Cordle was involved in the mucky film lark, it was possible to form several scenarios about the whys and wherefores of his death. If he wasn't, those scenarios had to be discarded, without anything very obvious to put in their place. My suspicions about the living, however, were gaining a degree of substance, and I felt sure that somewhere in these murky waters, among this human flotsam and jetsam, the answer would be found.

So far my reconstruction went like this: Vince Haggarty had been helped to launch himself on a professional photography career by Bob Cordle. This Vince had carefully not mentioned to me, which in itself suggested he was operating at the murkier end of the market. When I had called on him (rather earlier than I had appointed, I remembered) he had covered up the equipment he had in cases
around the room with his girlfriend's ethnic drapes and wall-hangings. Bob Cordle's generosity had extended to giving him the run of the
Bodies
studio on days when he had hired it, since he himself had no need of it after early evening. Whatever he may have used it for in the first days of his new career, after a time Vince had repaid that generosity by shooting blue movies there—almost certainly without Cordle's knowledge. He, no doubt, was one of those characters that Bob Cordle, if he found himself let down, would never help twice. But in this case the once had done for Bob. I had by now put aside my professional cynicism and admitted that everyone had probably spoken the truth about Bob Cordle's basic decency.

Thus far my conjecture was fairly confident. I firmed it by ringing Nellie Cordle and hearing from her that Vince was indeed the man whom her husband had helped on his way to a career in photography. She was not sure about loaning him the studio, but she thought Bob might have mentioned that. It would be just like him.

Beyond that conjecture I had various more nebulous ideas, which I was going to have to test. There was also the interesting question of the position in all this of Todd Masterman. The conversation Charlie had overheard opened up all sorts of possibilities for that self-proclaimed Mr. Clean. Was he the impresario of the whole thing? Did he merely tip off the film-makers about possible performers? Or was he perhaps quite innocent—the victim, like Cordle, of my professional cynicism, the object of quite fanciful suspicions?

After consideration I put that last possibility to one side: he had conspicuously omitted to mention to me Vince's career as a photographer—had, after an initial hiccup, gone along with the idea of his still making a living from posing. That did not argue for innocence.

The next question was how to find out precisely what they were up to. I needed something hard on them, if I was to get anything out of them about the connection between their activities and the
Bodies
shooting—about which I had only the most nebulous theories. Whatever they were doing, it was doubtless not being done at present at the Windlesham Street studio—would never be done there again. But there was this hungry market of video-owners and shady-cinema-goers, avid for novelty. Maybe there was a lull in their activities at the moment, but they would start up again as soon as they felt safe, I had no doubt. The question was, how best to gain entry to their rather special little world.

I thought about that a lot, and the next morning I rang up Charlie.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, to my request for a confab. “The usual place?”

“I don't think that would be wise,” I said. “Too public. Anyway, there might be money in this for you, so I don't see why I should feed you as well. Any objections to coming here, New Scotland Yard?”

“I've been in crumbier joints than that. I can make myself at home anywhere. I'm on till half-past five. Some time around six suit you?”

“Perfect.”

Charlie's method of making himself at home when he arrived was to sit on my desk. It was his way, I imagine, of asserting that he was not there as a suspect. He made a slightly intimidating figure, while I told him what I guessed about Vince Haggarty's activities. He took it in very quickly.

“I get the picture,” he said, eventually. “What exactly did you get out of this Crabtree character?”

“A mixture of fact and fiction, so far as I can judge. He admits that he made a short porn film—part of a larger one—in the
Bodies
studio. There was all sorts of stuff about not knowing the people involved—real cloak and dagger stuff, which I can't say I believe. According to him, it was a straight sex film, with the sex simulated—or stimulated, as he called it. I'm keeping an open mind as to whether I believe that or not.”

“And what about Todd Masterman? Beyond that he seems to be covering up for Vince, and what I told you I'd overheard in the shower, you haven't got much to connect him with all this yet?”

“No. Nothing at all concrete.”

“Which is where I come in, I suppose?”

“Bright boy.”

I'd been intending to approach the matter obliquely, and had worked out various ploys, but he was too quick for me. He shrugged deprecatingly.

“It was obvious.”

“Of course we've got our own people we could use. But I couldn't provide cover for them anything like as good as your cover, which is completely genuine.”

“I didn't see anything very remarkable in the body line on the way up here,” said Charlie disparagingly.

I got all defensive.

“You've no idea of the talent we can rustle up, to send into the gay clubs. But if you're willing—”

“Oh, I'm willing.”

“About payment: we've got special funds for operations like this, depending on how much is involved.”

“I should damned well hope
so
,” said Charlie. “Though I admit the whole thing promises to be interesting as well. How are you suggesting I go about it?”

“As I see it, the first thing is to approach Todd Masterman. Say you've heard he acts as agent for people with good bodies. You're not a muscleman, not a competition type, but you look good, and you're black, which is an advantage these days. You wonder whether there's any work he could send your way, in ads, modeling, that kind of thing. Probably you could even run to a bit of acting, if something came up?”

“Sure I could.”

“If I'm right about the kind of thing they're going to direct your way, it's not going to be the sort of acting that you need an Actor's Equity card for. Say you've heard about him from some people at the gym, which is true enough.”

“What if he's not interested?”

“No harm done, from our point of view. End of operation, small fee paid. But if he
is . . . ”

“Yes?”

“Then try to turn the conversation at some point on to a personal level: about yourself and your interests.”

“Why?”

“I want you if you get the chance to tell him about something that you want very much—not to be the first black prime minister, or whatever, but something that involves money. Not fantastic money, but some sort of attainable sum.”

Charlie got up, and walked around the room, clearly trying to imagine the interview and his part in it, acting it out, thinking forward to what line he would take.

“Think of anything?”

“I'm not that interested in money, to tell the truth. Things tie you down too much. What I want is an interesting life—which is why I'm doing this for you. The gym is becoming a drag: all those guys and chicks looking at themselves in the mirrors. Still, I can imagine wanting something real bad. Would a good stereo sound wrong, do you think? Or what about a really powerful motorbike?”

“That sounds ideal. All the right macho connotations.”

“How do you want me to handle the approach?”

“We're jumping the gun a bit—”

“But I presume that's what you're expecting: someone to approach me with an offer?”

“That's what I'm hoping. Not immediately, that would be too crude, and tie it in too obviously with Masterman. Though when I talked to him and to Haggarty I kept it very general—not a trace of accusation, I think they still feel pretty secure. But in fact, if you
do
get an approach, then we can be pretty sure that Masterman is involved. Well, how do you think it would be best to play it? Fairly cool, I'd say. Take a lot of time to consider it. Drive a pretty hard bargain.”

“Do I keep any money that comes my way?”