Creed (17 page)

‘Present from the prick,’ she said, straight-arming the bottle to him as if it were some kind of award.

‘The deal was for Krug, not Moët,’ said Creed, nevertheless tucking the piece of paper away and accepting the bottle.

‘It would have been if we’d used the picture.’

‘You’re kidding me.’ Creed snatched a copy of that morning’s
Dispatch
from the picture editor’s desk. He flicked through to page nineteen and opened it out. The picture was large, his name was beneath it. But it wasn’t of the Duchess of York bending forward to climb into the limo while looking back over her shoulder at the same time. Instead it showed a group of dark-suited men rolling around on the pavement outside the Grosvenor House Hotel, a bundle of arms and legs really, with Bluto’s bulging frame melding into those of the two men trying to pin him to the concrete. The caption read:
A RIGHT ROYAL SCRUM.

Creed groaned and looked at Prunella, who shrugged and said, ‘Sorry.’ She blinked twice and stared at him curiously. ‘You look awful. Did you get involved in this fracas, too?’ She made it sound like frac
arse
.

‘Not likely. Why didn’t Blythe use the one of Fergie? It was what he wanted, for Chrissake.’

‘Oh, this one was much more fun. It might have made the front page if the MP and the rent-boy scandal hadn’t broken. Actually, Antony asked me to find out if you had any juicy shots of Jamie O’Leary – at his most camp, he said.’

‘There’s some over at the agency, none here though. And all old stuff from O’Leary’s barnstorming days. Anyway, it seems my task today is to get something fresh on him.’

‘You will let Antony have first sight, won’t you?’

‘Fuck Antony. This is more than just a gossip column item.’

Prunella looked momentarily disconsolate. No doubt she would be the butt of Blythe’s bitchy wrath if the diarist failed to lead with the news on O’Leary. After all, this was showbiz, politics and sex all rolled up into one gloriously sleazy ball. What columnist could ask for more?

‘Tell you what,’ Creed said, taking the girl by the arm and leading her over to a quiet filing cabinet. ‘I need something from files, information on a man named, er . . . Mallik, Nicholas Mallik, hanged by the neck . . .’ she cringed ‘. . . over fifty years ago for some dastardly deed or other. You dig out the info on him for me and I’ll slip you the contacts of anything I get on O’Leary before anyone else gets a look-in. Blythe can deal with the news editor if he finds anything he wants. What d’you say?’ Of course, he had no intention of letting Blythe have first sight, and anyone who knew Creed, or of the mutual dislike between the photographer and the diarist, would have realised that. Prunella, however, was neither perceptive nor devious in thought. Creed smiled encouragingly, despite the dull throbbing inside his head. He raised his eyebrows, still smiling.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it in my lunch break. Mallik, you said?’

He nodded. ‘Nicholas Mallik. Maybe we’ll share the champagne later.’

‘That would be lovely. Will you be around this afternoon?’

‘I’ll call in.’ He just stopped himself reaching round and cupping her bottom with his hand. You never knew with these Sloane types and he wouldn’t want to upset her before she had done the favour; besides, his aching head, along with the thought of snapping toilets, had considerably undermined his libido. He watched her walk away, any impure thoughts he had merely transitory and derived from habit rather than yearning.

He checked the address Freddy Squires had given him again and groaned. It meant an hour’s journey. And no doubt a lot of hanging around.

‘Fuck it,’ he said to himself, and picked up his camera bag.

Joe Creed doing what he does best. Sneaking around, being unobtrusive, waiting. And waiting, and waiting. Whether it’s outside a nightclub, an eaterie, a private home, or hotel, he is the Master of Waiting. That doesn’t mean he likes it – he doesn’t, he hates it. He’s just very good at it. What’s more, he has the ability to leap straight into action at a split-second’s notice, despite the lethargy or the stiffness that invariably creeps in after the first hour. In some ways, if he’d had the discipline, he would have made a perfect guardsman. Hard to imagine him in sharp red tunic and bearskin hat, it’s true, but one thing’s for sure, he’d be instantly alert the moment an intruder set a foot wrong. The fact that he’d probably throw down his gun and run off in the opposite direction is another matter: the point is, he’s good at spending a long time doing nothing, then becoming zealously active in the blink of an eye.

This ability, acquired over the years as a professional paparazzo, came into call after he’d located the address supplied to him by the
Dispatch
’s picture editor, Freddy Squires, had done a little recce of the immediate area, and settled down to wait in his jeep, which was discreetly parked behind a screen of trees.

The first hour went by slowly enough, the second even more slowly. But just into the third there was movement around the target area.

The location was in one of those narrow little lanes that cross-hatch the English countryside, the kind usually only frequented by motorists who know the area well, or who are lost and off the beaten track. Not too far outside London, this place, but well beyond suburbia and fairly deep into lush greenery. A slate-roofed nest called Rose Cottage. In the right season there would be roses creeping up around the door. There was a small front garden with weed-filled flowerbeds on either side of the cracked centre path. Rickety grey picket fence, low gate ajar. Pretty in a rundown sort of way.

Creed had just leaned forward, his nose almost pressed against the windscreen so that he could peep through a break in the trees, when he saw the cottage door begin to open. In a flash, Creed was out of the jeep and creeping past foliage and tree trunks towards the beginning of the picket fence. One Nikon was in his hands, the other, containing colour film, hanging around his neck.

He stopped to watch for a moment, quietly moving foliage for a sneaky view. Someone was on the cottage doorstep.

‘Oh boy,’ he breathed to himself. This was luck beyond the realms of fancy. It could only be him, the target! Judas Christ, it was. Creed recognised him from the picture on the front page of that morning’s
Dispatch
, poor quality though it had been. Kevin Plaskett, the babyface researcher, the cherubic rent-boy. He wouldn’t have believed it if he wasn’t bearing witness with his own eyes! The actor, O’Leary, was deliciously stupid, he really was! To have the kid – he looked no more than twenty, twenty-two – actually staying in his less (now) than secret hideaway! But the all-important, crucial, and God-please-be-kind-and-let-it-be-so, question was: Was O’Leary there too? Could the actor really be
that
stupid, with the scandal breaking that morning and all? Maybe he didn’t know it was all over the news. Maybe he didn’t listen to the radio or read the dailies when he was locked away in his charming retreat. Maybe he was too arrogant to care. Never one to ponder too much on life’s little mysteries, particularly when there was a job at hand, Creed quickly double-checked his camera. Everything was fine. Yet, eager though he was, he paused to consider.

He needed the right shot, the right moment. A good one of young Kevin on his own would have been okay, but it wouldn’t have meant that much. It wouldn’t have been
the
shot. But one of the ‘researcher’ and the subversive actor together would be supreme. Arm-in-arm would be perfect. But was O’Leary there? Was he, could he possibly be, that insane?

Creed decided to take a chance. It would have been so easy to snatch a picture with his zoom lens of the young man on the doorstep – any newspaper’s picture editor would have been pleased with that – but our hero wanted something more. It was a risk, he could easily blow the whole thing, but if the gamble paid off, the shot would be priceless (for a day or two, anyway). If the actor was in there, then Creed wanted to flush him out.

He straightened, swung the camera over his shoulder so that it now hung out of sight down his back, set the other Nikon’s focus range at six feet and slid it into the roomy side pocket of his coat. Then, bold as brass, one hand still resting on the camera in his pocket as a gunslinger’s hand might rest on the butt of his pistol, he strode through the gate.

‘’Lo, there,’ he called out to the startled cherub as he breezily walked up the path. ‘’Fraid I’m a bit lost, wondered if you could give me some directions.’

The other man backed into the shadows of the doorway.

‘Trying to get to the A22, lost my bearings a bit in these country lanes,’ Creed continued without a break. His smile was ingenuous (from a distance).

The man at the door hesitated before poking his head out, his feet remaining firmly inside.

Creed pointed back over his shoulder with a thumb, taking care not to twist his body. ‘I got to the end of the lane and didn’t know which way to go at the junction. Head’s useless at direction, could do with a compass. What would it be, left or right?’

He came to a halt several yards from the front door, a subliminal invitation for the young man to come out.

Foolishly (maybe he found Creed attractive – Lord knows, some did) the ‘researcher’ did step out. He appeared even younger in full light, his tight curls tinted reddish, his cheeks not fat but just pink and full enough to give him that cherubic look.

‘I’m not quite sure, but I could find out for you.’

It’s unfortunate perhaps, but some people you meet just
are
stereotypes. His voice was soft, though not quite soft enough to be rated girlish, and his walk, while not exactly mincing, had a feline kind of fluency to it. He brushed a curl that wasn’t really there away from his forehead, his brow flicking across his fingertips rather than the other way round.

Creed became even more alert, if that were possible. Plaskett had just implied that he was not alone in the cottage. Creed shifted the camera in his pocket in the manner of that same gunfighter loosening the pistol in its holster.

‘It’d be great if you could,’ he said. ‘Late for an appointment, you see. Got to get on my way.’

The cherub turned towards the doorway. ‘Jay, need your help for a mo,’ he called out.

There was a short silence which was broken by an almighty roar.

‘
You stupid bloody fool!
’

A raging figure followed the raging voice.

O’Leary was a big man – barrel-chested, black-bearded, and bad-tempered – ‘a brough of a boy’ – whose voice alone exuded machismo. The critics held him in high esteem as an actor, and the fans adored him for his outrageous and boozy personality. He appeared before the public as an endearingly forthright man of the people, but one whose Thespian talent elevated him above other mortals. A lovable hellraiser, a kind of latter-day Richard Burton in some ways. Even his occasional (and, superb actor that he was, very moving) cries of support for a united Ireland did little harm to his public image. But what was not generally known was just how strong were his ties with the Provisional IRA, and how much of his own earnings he freely donated to the cause. Also not generally known by the doting fans was their idol’s ambiguous sexuality. It was a tribute to O’Leary’s PR people that his penchant for boys, the younger the better, had been kept under wraps for so long. It wasn’t that it mattered so much which way he swung in this day and age, it was just that he looked so goddamn beer-swilling
masculine
. The disappointment to his adoring fans – and we have to be honest here – would have been immense.

So here he was, this bear of a man, all bristle-bearded and bristle-tempered, storming from the cottage, a look of sheer murder in those dark Irish eyes. Even a hero would have cowered, and Creed was no hero.

He was already shuffling backwards along the path when O’Leary made his first mistake. Instead of going straight for the photographer, the actor paused to grab the cherub by the shoulder and snarl, ‘Get back inside, y’bloody eedjit! Can’t y’see what he is!’

Young Kevin’s eyes rounded in fear. ‘I didn’t . . .’ he began to say before O’Leary flung him back towards the cottage door.

Creed, the gunslinger, had been faster, though. The camera was out of its holster – sorry, pocket – at that very point when the actor made contact with his young friend. Three shots whirred off before O’Leary advanced again with a roar of, ‘
Gimme that bloody thing!
’