Model Guy (29 page)

 
"She's bad news that
girl."

 
"Tell me about it."

I go back to my desk, take a moment to collect my thoughts and
then ring her.

 
"Hello, did you get
back all right then?" she asks brightly.

 
"Yeah, thanks. Look
Nora. Have you seen the Standard today?"

 
"The Standard? Oh,
that piece. Horrid isn't it? Talk about shitting on your own. And the thing about
you being my squeeze. How embarrassing. I hope your girlfriend doesn't see it. Just
blame the journalist if she does." I let her gabble on for a moment.

 
"What about this
stuff about you being Piers' cousin?"

 
"Oh that."

 
"Yeah, that."
I let her say something but there is no response. "It's not true, is it?"

 
"Oh, honestly, who
really bothers about these things?"

 
I grip the receiver tight
and my teeth are gritted, I know the others are listening in intently but I don't
care.

 
"Nora. Tell me. Is
it true? Are you and Piers cousins?" There is a pause. "Listen. I don't
want any more surprises, okay. I can't stand it. Either you're honest with me, completely
honest and tell me everything or we never speak to each other again, do you understand
me?"

 
The silence at the other
end goes on for so long that I'm just about to ask whether she's still there when
she says in a small voice:

 
"All right, we're
cousins. I just forgot to tell you. I'm sorry. I know it's silly, I know I should
have but I just forgot and then it just didn't seem relevant. We're not exactly
close."

 
"It doesn't matter
if you're not close. You're still cousins, you're still related. Why didn't you
fucking tell me?"

 
"Charlie, what difference
did it make?"

 
"But you could have
told me. What else are you lying about?"

 
"Excuse me, don't
speak to me like that. I don't have to listen to this. We are cousins yes, but as
I said, we're not close. It didn't have any bearing on what I wrote about 2cool
or our attempts to find him." The best form of defence is obviously attack,
she's decided. I can sort of see her point. I take a deep breath.

 
"OK, from now on
we're completely honest with each other, you understand me? We tell each other everything."

 
"Of course, Charlie."

 
"No, 'of course'
about it. Do you promise?"

 
"Yes, I promise.
Now I've said I'm sorry so let's just leave it. I've got some more calls to make
about Piers. Just because I'm his cousin and we share grandparents way back when,
doesn't mean I have any more of an idea where he is than you do. Less in fact. We've
hardly seen each other since we were kids. Now, listen I'm getting a number for
that Huntsman girl so you can call her."

 
"Okay, ring me when
you've got it," I tell her and put the phone down.

 
"I wouldn't trust
that woman as far as I could spit her," says Scarlett.

 
She's so right.

Chapter Twenty

The people I least want to speak to after Nora are the police
so naturally DI Slapton calls on the entry phone. He's downstairs. It doesn't help
that Scarlett who picks up the receiver announces him as the ‘Pig-lice’ with the
receiver inches away from her mouth. I hope he just thinks she's got a stutter.

 
"We need to take
some documents away with us as well as your computers," he says, arriving at
the top of the stairs and panting slightly. He is accompanied by three junior officers
carrying large plastic boxes.

 
"You've got a warrant
and everything then?" I ask, trying to make it sound like I'm not a total soft
touch.

 
Slapton looks slightly
surprised at my question and then contemptuous. His sarcasm is all the more intimidating
for its subtlety.

 
"Oh, yes, we've got
all the right paperwork," he says standing very close to me. "You see,
we've done this before, son."

 
The four of them move
in.

 
"Stand away from
the computers, please," one of the other officers tells Scarlett and Zac. Uncertainly,
they get up and move away from their desks. The officer takes out a polaroid camera
and photographs the computer screens then he begins to pull plugs out of the wall.

 
"Hey," says
Zac, suddenly animated. "Let me close these things down properly, will you."

 
"Sorry, sir, can't
do that. We have to take them as they are," says the officer, grimacing slightly
as he pulls at a particularly reluctant plug under a desk. The Macs and the other
pieces of hardware die slowly in front of us, fans slowing, lights flickering off.

 
"It's standard practice,"
Slapton informs me. "We've got the photos to show what's on the screens when
we unplugged them. You see don't want it to look like we've changed any documents
- or allowed you to amend or delete anything that could be incriminating,"
he adds, snapping on some rubber gloves. From their boxes the officers produce piles
of clear polythene bags with orange borders. They begin filling them with our carefully
sorted invoices, ripping off strips and sealing them with one officer laboriously
filling in the form printed each one of them and 'Police Evidence' in big letters.

 
Slapton consults some
printed notes, obviously telling him and the others what to take. I notice him fill
in a series of forms to show where in the office the various papers and computers
were seized from. After a couple of hours they've filled almost all the evidence
bags and they seem satisfied. Loading the computers and the processing units into
evidence boxes and bigger polythene envelopes takes some time. I offer to help one
officer who is obviously struggling, but he grunts: "Can't allow you, sir,
I'm afraid," and carries on.

 
Having packed up computers
belonging to Guy, Piers and Zac, they're obviously debating whether to take the
remaining machines when I jump in because we'll need something to keep the site
going and also, it has to be said, to continue making our own enquiries with.

 
"Look there's nothing
interesting on these. All the financial stuff is on the two you've already got -
Zac can give you the passwords if you want. If you could leave these it would mean
we could still keep the site going."

 
The other policemen look
to Slapton for guidance.

 
"Look, erm, the thing
is," says Scarlett, getting up from her desk. "It's not just about the
money, we've never been much good at that." She blinks and sniffs. "The
site means a hell of a lot to us, we've put our whole lives into it for the last
month or so. We've been working on it 24/7, hardly slept or eaten." A single
tear rolls down her left cheek. "I know you've got your job to do but we'd
really appreciate if you could just leave us enough to keep 2cool going, keep our
dream alive for a bit longer. That would be very kind, thanks..."

 
I'm more stunned than
our visitors. I had no idea that it was so important to her. Slapton approaches
her, smiles kindly at her and says very quietly:"No."

 
I see a couple of the
other officers exchange glances and smother grins. Then Slapton asks me a few questions,
most of which I can't answer and gets me to sign his notes as well as a receipt
for the goods taken.

 
"When do you think
we might get them back?" I ask.

 
His blood shot eyes narrow.

 
"You'll get back
when we've finished with them, son."

As the door closes I hear a slow hand clap behind me. I turn
to see the ever horizontal Zac grinning and looking at us both.

 
"Zac, just..."
I tell him. But by this time Scarlett has released herself from my arms. She is
grinning too and wiping away her tears.

 
"Thank you,"
she says, bowing deep. "Thank you, all."

 
"And the Oscar for
Best Actress Talking Bullshit goes to..." announces Zac.

 
"I'd like to thank
my agent, my mother, Krishna, and all the producers I've ever slept with,"
gushes Scarlett, clasping an imaginary Oscar to her breast. We're all helpless with
laughter for a few moments then I manage to say:

 
"You're unbelievable."

 
"Au contraire,"
says Zac. "You're very plausible. Just not quite plausible enough, unfortunately."

 
"Oh, well. Thank
you, anyway. It helped slightly that I've got my clit ring caught in my knickers,"
says Scarlett, wriggling around and pulling at her crotch.

We take it in turns to stay in the office and fend off the calls
requesting, well, demanding payment while the others go out shopping or in Zac's
case to play pinball. I try to ring Lauren but I just get her voice mail. I decide
just to leave a message asking her to ring me. A magazine journalist rings up wanting
to do a piece following up on our survey about the number of men spending more on
clothes than their female partners and so I give her a quote, explaining that it
is all part of broader, socio-economic developments in society and the changing
self-image of men or some such bollocks.

 
When Scarlett comes back
to do her shift and I'm unplugging my mobile from the charger, ready to go out,
I tell her: "Look, you don't have to keep coming in, if you've got better things
to do."

 
She looks slightly embarrassed.

 
"Oh, well, I'll give
you a hand for a while..."

 
"I know we're all
getting paid but there's nothing else we can do."

 
"No, but.."
she pauses, looking down and then says quickly: "You're a good bloke, Charlie,
I don't want you in this shit on your own so I'll hang around, at least while I'm
still getting paid." She looks up. "Besides you might need someone to
protect you from those attackers."

 
"Thanks, Scarlett.
I appreciate it." I give her a peck on the cheek and then go out.

 
Because we haven't got
any computers I have to go to a cafe down the road to use the internet. I look in
the online newspaper archives for something more about Sir James Huntsman. There
is nothing particularly interesting other than various stories about his companies
and a story in the Daily Mail about Anastasia getting chucked out of Rhodene for
possession of drugs.

 
Then I check for 'Nora
Bentall'. Lots of her freelance writing comes up. But there is a piece in the Observer
about her. Really it's about her father who is a doctor who has worked with doctors
in third world countries. "Some of his friends have suggested that this extensive
work abroad might be to escape personal and professional problems in the US."
It adds mysteriously. There is also a letter in The Times from him berating the
large drugs companies for not offering sufficient discounts to patients in the poorest
countries.

 
I step back out on to
the street, wondering what to do for the next few hours. The thought of shopping
reminds me that even if my 2cool salary goes through this month and that's looking
increasingly unlikely, I'll need to earn something for the following month. I ring
Karyn. Unfortunately Brad from the women's division answers the phone instead of
her.

 
"Jet Models. Can
I help you?"

 
"Is Karyn there,
please?" I ask.

 
"Sure, who may I
say is calling?" he says smoothly.

 
"It's, er, it's a
personal call."

 
"A personal call?
One moment please." I know he's recognised my voice but he can't prove it's
me, can he? And anyway, I can't be bothered to talk anyone else. There is a few
seconds of some dance music and then: "Karyn speaking."

 
I realise how much I love
her soft, clear voice.

 
"Hi, darling, it's
me, Charlie."

 
"Oh, hi."

 
"You all right?"

 
"Yeah" she says
awkwardly.

 
"Can't talk?"

 
"No, that's right."

 
"Sorry, shall I call
back?"

 
"Er."

 
"Or you could call
me back a bit later? I'm on my mobile."

 
"Yeah," she
says. "Yeah, will do, babe."

I end the call. I decide to sit at a cafe and ring again Lauren
about the Standard piece.

 
"Charlie Barrett?"

 
I look up and am immediately
blinded by a flash light.

 
"What?"

 
It happens again.

 
"Oh, fuck. Stop that!
Who are you?"

 
"Just look over here,
matey."

 
A photographer is dancing
around me, shooting from different angles before darting across the street and taking
some pictures with a telephoto lens. I walk away confidently until I've turned the
corner into the next street. Surely, Nora hasn't put them up to this. It can't be
her, can it? Not after our conversation this morning.

 
"Someone took pictures
of you just now?" she says when I ring her.