Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,87
get in.’ He leant on the buttons until the door clicked, then pushed it back and ran lightly up a flight of grubby stairs littered with cardboard boxes. Nialls was right behind him. They came to a landing with two doors. A Chinese woman in a patterned overall and slippers stood outside one door, scowling at the two men. The other door was open, the flat inside empty. McLean continued on past and up another flight of stairs to a smaller landing with a single door. He waited for Nialls to reach the top step and catch his breath.
Nialls leant against the wall and signalled for McLean to continue. He would have liked to kick it in himself, but it would be a waste of talent.
‘Go ahead,’ he told him.
The door was flimsy and gave in without a struggle, crashing back against the inside wall and showering the floor with flakes of paint. Both men stepped inside and found themselves in a single room furnished with a couch, a small desk overflowing with camera equipment and spools of film, a wardrobe, a plain screen and an enormous bowl of flowers. Behind the flowers was a buxom, naked woman in her forties, scrambling to hide herself. Sets of angled lights with coloured lenses gave her body a curiously marbled effect.
There was no sign of ‘Bones’ Skelton, but he was clearly not far away.
‘Where is he?’ breathed Nialls.
The woman pointed at the backdrop screen. Behind it was a door with a red light overhead. ‘It’s a developing room.’ She remembered that her hand was supposed to be covering her modesty and snatched it back, blushing crimson.
‘Get him out, Tom,’ Nialls told McLean, and waited while the sergeant stepped behind the screen and opened the door. There was a strangled shout, then he dragged out the skinny frame of Patrick Daniel Skelton. He was dressed in a shirt and trousers, and his feet were bare.
‘Sorry, Bones,’ Nialls greeted him blandly. He sniffed at the sudden smell of chemicals in the air and studied the photographer’s feet. ‘Did we interrupt something seedy?’
‘It’s nothing like that,’ Skelton protested. ‘I always work barefoot. It helps my artistic creativeness.’
‘God help us: a porno snapper with pretensions. And the lady – she’s your muse, I suppose.’
‘You what?’
‘You heard.’
‘She’s a client. Straight up. She wants some photos for her husband.’ He stared imploringly at the woman who was struggling to conceal her ampleness inside a silk robe. ‘Go on, tell him.’
The woman nodded. ‘That’s right. It’s our wedding anniversary and I wanted to surprise him with some nice … photos.’
You’ll certainly do that, thought Nialls. But who was he to criticise?
‘No law against it, is there?’ the woman muttered.
Nialls relaxed. He wasn’t interested in her. Skelton was enough to be going on with. ‘No, madam, there isn’t.’ His face softened. ‘And your husband is a lucky man. But I’m afraid you’ll have to reschedule. I need to borrow Mr Skelton and it might take some time.’
They waited while the woman hustled behind the screen and got dressed. As soon as she had gone, Nialls turned on the photographer. ‘Get your socks on – we’re going out.’
‘Why? I haven’t done anything!’
‘You’ve done plenty, you unpleasant little oik. We’re going to the French embassy.’
Skelton looked alarmed. ‘Why would I want to go there?’
‘Because you’re going to make a verbal and written statement about your recent trip across the Channel.’ He held up a hand to silence the inevitable protest. ‘And don’t bother denying it – we’ve got witnesses who saw you take off from Thurrock airfield in Essex. The pilot’s already made a full statement.’ Neither detail was true, but Nialls said it with absolute conviction and a steady, cold gaze. He turned to the desk and extracted a British passport from beneath the edge of a pile of papers. ‘And look what I’ve found.’
Skelton swallowed. ‘What if I don’t want to go?’
‘Then I’ll have Sergeant McLean here tuck your rancid body under his arm and carry you. I’ll also arrange for a quiet word to be dropped in certain clubs around here that you’ve been most helpful with our investigations with names, dates and times. What’s it to be?’