Last Gasp (23 page)

Megan Crane dialled the number on
the piece of paper. A woman answered.

‘Hello?’

‘Anna Kirkham?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘My name’s Megan Crane, Anna. Please don’t hang up, I mean
you no harm, but I know you used to go by the name Angela Kendrick. I’m sorry
to contact you like this, but someone we both know is in trouble and I’m
ringing because I think that we, you and I, may be able to help him.’ On the
other end there was only silence. Eventually, Megan said, ‘Are you still
there?’

‘Who do we both know?’

‘Jamie Carver.’

There was another pause. ‘Who are you? How do you know
Jamie? Did he give you my number?’

‘No, he didn’t. I’m happy to explain everything, including
how I got your number, but I’d rather not do it over the telephone, if you get
my meaning? I’m helping him with a case much the way I think you once did. I’m
not out to cause trouble and I know how you are probably feeling right now, but
I-’

‘Is this the press? Are you a reporter? Because of you are
I’ll-’

‘No, I’m not a reporter. Please believe me, Angie, I’m just
someone who’s in a similar position to the one you once were.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean that we share some similar, shall we say, personal
interests?’

‘Are you in the business?’

‘Not exactly. But I’m close enough to understand some
things.’

Another pause. ‘Do you know someone called Jess?’

‘Jess Greylake? The sergeant who works with Jamie? Yes, I
know her very well. In fact, she and I-’

‘Is this coming from her? Did she ask you to contact me?’

‘No, she doesn’t know anything about this. What makes you
think that?’

‘It doesn’t matter. When you say he’s in trouble, what are
you talking about? And what makes you think I can help him?’

‘I know he had some, problems, in the past. I think you’ll
know what I’m talking about. If I’m right, you’ll also know he doesn’t like to
talk about such things. I’m worried it may be happening again, maybe worse this
time. I thought that if you and I could meet, swap notes as it were, it might
give me a better idea of what, if anything, I ought to do. Of course it might
all just be in my imagination and I could be wrong, but at the very least you
can probably say if it’s the same as before. I’m sure you know him a lot better
than I do.’

‘What makes you think I’d know him any better than you?

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to infer anything. I understand
you worked with him over several months? I’ve only been involved a few weeks so
I assumed-’

‘What do you want? It’s not easy for me. I have a little boy
and I’ve had enough disruption here lately. If you want to meet, I’d have to
arrange for my mother to come over to look after him.’

‘That’s fine. Like I say, I don’t want to cause trouble,
especially if you’ve got a youngster. Whatever works best for you. Where do you
live? I’ve only got your mobile number.’

‘I’m in Leeds.’

‘That’s not too far. I’m just the other side of the
Pennines. What about a pub somewhere? I don’t mind driving over if it would
help?’

There was another silence. Eventually she said, ‘There’s a
pub called The Oak On The Hill. It’s on the old road over the Pennines, the
A268. Just this side of Hebden Bridge. I could meet you there.’

‘That would be fine. When do you
think you could manage?’

Carver tossed his mobile on the bed
and poured himself a drink from the bottle he’d bought from the kiosk opposite
the hotel. Whatever Rosanna said, it was obvious there was something she wasn’t
telling him. He didn’t think it was anything to do with the problems they’d
been having. This was something else. She’d sounded strange, like she was
reluctant to talk, almost as if she was afraid someone might hear. It made him
wonder what was going on. She’d blamed it on her being unsettled by the prowler
she’d though she’d spotted a couple of times recently, but he suspected that
was just an excuse. There’d been a couple of occasions over the past fortnight
when she’d thought she’d seen a figure in the garden at night. He’d checked
around but found nothing. There were fields at the back of the house, a
footpath running along the back fence. He’d put it down to her mistaking walkers
for prowlers. That said, he had found an area of flattened grass by the tree
that stood at the corner of the garden which suggested someone may have
lingered there, though when and for how long it was impossible to tell. It
could just be a walker pausing for a rest, or waiting for a partner to catch
up. He’d promised to mention it to the local PC and ask him to give the path
some passing attention, but hadn’t got round to it. There hadn’t been any
burglaries in their area for years, and all the houses around were alarmed,
including his. ‘I’ll ring Josh and ask him to call round and see you tomorrow,’
he told her. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s nothing.’

‘Just hurry back, Jamie,’ she said just before she hung up.
The way she said it, it sounded as if something was riding on it.

He spent the next thirty minutes replaying the conversation
in his mind, looking for clues. There weren’t any. He rang Erik.

‘Can we do Jeux tonight?’ he said when Erik answered.

‘No reason why not. But what happened to our reunion night
out?’

‘Maybe next time. I think I ought to get back.’

‘Worrying about how they’re managing without you eh, Jamie?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You do know that an inability to let go is a sign of
insecurity, don’t you?’

‘Fuck off. What time will you pick me up?’

The entrance to ‘Jeux’ lies in an
alleyway just off Muiderstraat in the Docklands district of Amsterdam. It sits
on the edge of the Entrepotdok, the complex of sought-after converted-warehouse
apartments in the heart of the city. It was still early - before ten - and as
Carver and Erik approached the nondescript black door with the dim orange light
above, there was only one other couple heading in the same direction. They were
dressed outlandishly and disappeared inside as the two men arrived. Erik spoke
briefly to the Asian doorman and flashed his I.D. He directed them inside and
they made their way up the stairs.

At the top, the young Goth-Girl in charge of the cloakroom
gave them a distasteful look, as if she thought anyone who didn’t take the
trouble to dress properly lacked respect. They moved through into the main
lounge.

The room was ‘L’-shaped. At the far end a bar ran the length
of one wall. At first glance, it looked no different to your average nightclub
- apart from the chains and shackles hanging from hooks around the walls.
Carver couldn’t tell if they were real, or plastic props. He suspected the
former. Tables and chairs were dotted around with upholstered, semi-circular,
bench seats around the perimeter. Mirrors and reflecting surfaces were
everywhere and the lighting was subdued with an over-emphasis on red. Around
the corner of the ‘L’ was a dance floor with a raised stage at the far end.
There, two men and a woman were busy assembling some sort of apparatus. Jazzy
music was playing, but it was easy enough on the eardrums to signal that the
night hadn’t started yet.

But what marked the place from other venues, were the
outfits. Oscar Werner had said that that the club operated a strict dress-code
- which meant fetish, though men, apparently, could get away with black tie.
Carver and Erik had chosen not to comply. It being early, there were only a few
groups of people in the place. For the most part they were dressed in striking
outfits of leather, rubber or similar, shiny materials. Buckles and straps were
in abundance. Everyone watched as Carver and Erik made their way across the
room to the door next to the bar. Carver reflected on the irony that it was
Erik and himself who were attracting the strange looks.

Erik knocked on the door and they waited. Carver studied the
two young women sitting a few feet away at the bar. They were sipping
exotic-looking drinks through straws. The taller, black-spiky-haired one was
holding a length of chain, the other end of which was attached to her blond
friend’s collar. Both had far-away looks in their eyes as they regarded the two
detectives with a distinct lack of interest. Erik flashed Carver a smile and a
wink. 'I think we should have dressed to come here Jamie.'

Carver didn’t respond. He was surprised how uncomfortable he
was feeling, conscious that the surroundings were triggering disquieting
associations.

The door opened to reveal a grossly overweight man wearing
evening dress. He had thinning hair, a florid face and was holding a cigarette
at chest height, pointing it at them as if it were a gun. He was expecting them
- the door guy had obviously rung ahead - and ushered them in without a word.
He closed the door behind them and locked it, before turning to address them.
Erik spoke with him, in Dutch this time. The only word Carver recognised was,
‘Franky’. When the conversation finished, the man left. After he’d gone Erik
turned to Carver.

'You okay Jamie? You seem a bit quiet.'

Carver pulled a face. 'Not my sort of place, Erik'

A couple of minutes later the door opened and a woman came
in. She had striking platinum hair that was ruler-straight and fell to just
below her shoulders.

'I’m Franky. Sorry to keep you. I was setting up my
equipment.'

Carver didn’t ask what type of equipment. It took him a few moments
to place her as the woman in the Skin-Tight photo-shoot. Several years had
passed, and despite the makeup, they all showed. Her body, however, was as trim
as it had been. Her eyes were bright blue, her nose a bit on the large side.
She wore a low-cut, shiny-black blouse, a knee-length, red-leather pencil skirt
and carried herself with the confidence of someone who feels she doesn’t have
to explain herself. As they shook hands, Carver thought she looked like someone
who smiled a lot, though right now her expression was serious.

'Oscar told me to expect you,' she said to Erik.

'Then you know what we want to speak to you about, Mevrouw,'
Carver interjected, remembering to use the formal Dutch term of address.

She turned to him, taking him in for the first time, as if
debating whether she was going to deal with him or Erik. As she was making up
her mind the fat man returned. He walked over to the desk, picked up the phone
and pretended to speak to someone.

Whatever questions may have been in Franky’s mind they
seemed to resolve themselves as she answered Carver directly. 'Yes, I do.' She
threw a glance at the man at the desk and said, 'Come. Let’s go somewhere we
can talk.'

They followed her out of the room and she led them to a
table at the back of the club.

'Peter is okay,' she said, 'but sometimes he’s too nosy for
his own good.' She asked what they were drinking, then went to the bar and
spoke with one of the young waitresses.

Erik turned to Carver. 'An interesting woman Jamie, yes?'

'We’re working Erik, remember?'

'I might have to ask her to show me her equipment!'

Carver shook his head.

Franky returned and offered them cigarettes. Erik took one
and held out his lighter for her. Carver noted it as just one more example of
Amsterdammers playing by their own rules. But he spotted the look that passed
between her and Erik as she leaned into his flame.

She turned to Carver. 'I understand you are investigating
some murders?’ He nodded. ‘And you are interested in a photo-shoot I once did?’
He nodded again. The waitress arrived with their drinks. Franky waited until she’d
gone before continuing. ‘Let me guess. I am tied in this position-’ She put her
hands and wrists together and held them up in the way Carver recognised. ‘While
a man threatens me with a ribbon? ‘Carver gave her a hard stare. ‘What makes
you think it’s that one?’

‘Because in all the time I was doing that sort of work, it
was the only time I felt scared. And when I say scared I mean terrified, as in,
for my life. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he’s killed someone.’

Carver glanced to his right. Erik was suddenly quiet, all
his attention on her.

‘What was it, exactly, that terrified you?’ Carver said.

‘Right from the start, there was something about him that
just wasn’t right. I’ve met people who are into all kinds of weird shit in my
time, but not like him. He was into the scene we were shooting in a really deep
way. He was so intense, I had the feeling that if I’d just been some trick off
the street-’ A shudder rippled through her. ‘Well, I don’t like to think what
might have happened. And the phone calls after didn’t help.’

‘Phone calls?’

‘About a week later, he started ringing me. He said some of
the shots hadn’t come out right. He wanted me to do a re-shoot. I kept putting
him off, but I was working through an agent at the time and contracts for
commissioned shoots usually contain a re-shoot clause. I was worried I could
get myself blacklisted or something if I didn’t cooperate. Then one night I
found him lurking around outside my flat. I asked him what he was doing and he
gave me some bullshit excuse. It was only then I realised he must have followed
me to get my address. It freaked me out. I told everyone my mother was ill and
came back here to get away from him. I was only going to stay a month. I
thought he’d forget about me and maybe, you know, find someone else to stalk?
Then I heard from a friend he’d been making enquiries, trying to track me down,
so that was it. I decided to stay here. Just to be on the safe side I dropped
my old name and started again as, ‘Franky.’ I’ve been here since.’

Carver sipped his drink. ‘It must have been bad, to scare
you out of the country like that.’

‘Believe me, it was. But then, she was just as scary’

Carver started, looked across at Erik, then back at her.
‘She? She who?’

‘The woman. His girlfriend, or whoever, whatever, she was.
She was into it as much as he was, maybe more.’

Carver held up a hand. ‘Hold on. There was another woman
there?’

‘Like I’m telling you. They were both into it. That was what
scared me so much. As it went on, they both got involved in setting the scene,
doing the rigging, setting up the poses. They were getting off on it. I could
tell. It was almost like they were practising. It all had to be just right.
Made me wonder what they got up to on their own. Well I wasn’t going to find
out.’

‘This woman, what did she look like?’

Franky blew her cheeks out. ‘I didn’t get to see her face
much. She was wearing one of those kitten masks. She was blonde, I remember
that.’

‘Why was she wearing a mask? Wasn’t that kind of odd?’

Franky gave a snorting laugh. ‘Odd? Listen, my friend. You
get used to odd in this business. No it wasn’t odd. People often sit in on
shoots, especially if it involves fetish. It’s not unusual some of them like to
keep who they are secret. I remember one time there was a man, I’m sure he was
a member of your parl-’

Carver stayed focused. ‘You mentioned she was blonde. Long
or short?’

‘A bit longer than mine is now.’

‘Can you remember a name, anything about her?’

She screwed her face, summoning memories. ‘I’m not sure. I
remember
his
name alright…’ She closed her eyes, as if trying to
visualise the scene. ‘He was Eddie, and she was called…’

‘What?’

She opened her eyes. ‘What?’

‘You said his name was Eddie.’

‘Yes, it’s her name I’m trying to remember.’

‘Don’t you mean William?’

‘No, William was the photographer, though I knew him as
Willy. The man’s name was Eddie, or Ed, or something like that.’

Carver froze. He stared at her, blinking. ‘I thought we
were
talking about Willy. William Cosworth?’

‘No, like I say, he was the photographer. I’m talking about
Eddie, the scary one. I thought he’s the one you are interested in?’

Carver held up his hand again. ‘I’m confused. Go back. Tell
me again. Exactly who was there?’

Franky looked impatient, as if she had made it all plainly
clear and it was his fault for not listening. She took a deep breath, but then
did as asked. ‘There were three people. Four if you count me.’

‘Right.’ Carver said. He raised a thumb. ‘William Cosworth,
the photographer.’

‘Yes, like I said.’ She glanced at Erik as if saying,
Who
is this idiot?
‘Then there was the couple I’ve told you about. The man I
heard Willy call Eddie, and the woman… I’ve just remembered. I think her name
might have been Trish, or Tricia. Something like that.’

‘Why were they there? What was their part in it?’

‘It was their shoot. They’d commissioned it. They were
paying Willy to take the shots, at least I assumed they were.’

Carver dug inside his jacket, produced the copies of the
photos he’d brought with him, laid them out on the table. ‘We’re talking about
this shoot, yes?’

Franky examined them, nodded. ‘That’s the one.’ Her face
changed, showing distaste at the memories.

‘I thought it was for the magazine, Skin-Tight?’

‘Yes, for them as well. But it was the couple’s commission.
I don’t know what the deal was. I never get involved in those things. I just
got paid by Willy, as always.’

‘You’d worked with him before?’

‘A couple of times.’

‘How was he? What was he like?’

She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean was he weird and scary as well?’

She gave a wry look. ‘They’re all weird, in their different
ways. But I wouldn’t have said, ‘scary’, particularly. Willy could be a bit
creepy sometimes. And pushy. He liked to try his hand now and then, so you had
to make sure he knew you were just there to pose.’

‘I heard he got into some trouble once with one of his
models. Did you hear about that?’

‘Yes, I heard about it.’

‘Was it true, what she accused him of doing?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Might it have been?’

She thought on it. ‘Maybe, who knows? But then some girls,
when they start they don’t know what to expect. If they’re on drugs, and most
of them are, they can come out with all sorts of stories. I took most of what I
heard with, what do you call it, a pinch of salt?’

‘Did Cosworth- Willy, did he seem particularly interested in
this scene, the putting the hands together thing, the threatening you with the
ribbon?’

‘Only as much as he needed to take the pictures and video.
Like I said, it was their scene, not his.’

‘It was videoed as well?’

‘Of course. It always is.’

Carver noticed her gaze beginning to wander. She was losing
patience. ‘I’m sorry Franky, but it’s important that I understand the part
everyone was playing.’

‘I understand. But maybe you need to find this Eddie, rather
than Willy.’

‘Maybe. Had you seen him before, or since?’

She shook her head. ‘Only that once, and the night I found
him hanging around outside my flat.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me about him? Height,
age, what he looked like?’

‘He was quite tall, slim. Fortyish? He had a bit of a beard,
not too bushy though. I remember he had very deep voice and a strange…’ She
groped for the word.

‘Accent?’

‘Yes, a strange accent. I think it was what you would call,
Northern’

Carver froze again. His mind started racing.
It’s not
possible.

As his face took on a blank look, Franky turned to Erik. ‘Is
he alright?’