Model Guy (25 page)

 
"Thanks very much
for taking the time to see us," says Slapton. His colleague nods.

 
"No problem. Glad
to help if we can." I suddenly wonder if I should have a solicitor present
or something. As if he has read my thoughts Slapton says:

 
"Just some general
questions to help us with our investigation. Nothing to worry about."

 
"Sure," I say.

 
He asks about how I met
Piers and Guy, how I came to work for them, what the site does, about the launch
party, about what I do at 2cool as well as Scarlett's and Zac's roles. When we come
onto the financial element which is obviously what he is really interested in, my
total ignorance saves me. To almost every question I can truthfully answer: "I
don't know" or "I was never involved in that."

 
"But you are a director,"
says Slapton at one point.

 
"Er, yes, but obviously
I concentrated on the marketing and presentation."

 
"What about board
meetings?" asks Slapton. A look in his eye suggests that he knows the answer
to this one. A look of panic which must have flitted across my face in response,
confirms it.

 
"We didn't really
have any, well, not formal ones, anyway. Things have been moving too fast."

 
I just hope they believe
me.

 
Slapton lets the information
sink in and then asks: "And the site's still up and running isn't it?"

 
"Yes, yes it is."
Remembering my job description, as if it still mattered I say to him: "Would
you like to have a look."

 
"Er, yes, why not.
We haven't really had a chance to see what all the fuss is about."

 
I lead them over to Zac's
desk. We catch him slightly unawares and it takes him a moment to get out of a war
game he is playing but he gives the two policemen a guided tour of 2cool2btrue.com
- avoiding the porn pages, obviously. They seem slightly bemused for most of the
time but suitably impressed with the graphics and the funky tricks that Zac shows
them. For some reason they end up reading an article about champagne glasses.

 
"Here's one for you,
sir," says one of the younger policemen to Slapton. "Apparently flutes
are out for drinking champagne, we'll all be 'sipping from saucers' this season'.
Just your sort of thing."

 
"I think of we've
still got the saucer kind from the first time around, a wedding present or something,"
says Slapton.

 
"You're all right
then," says his colleague. The others laugh. It's supposed to be tongue in
cheek, you burks, I think. They also laugh at our survey about men spending more
on clothes than their female partners.

 
"Not in our house
they don't," says DI Slapton.

 
Zac doesn't take them
into 'Extra curricula', our ironic porn pages, I'm relieved to note, but there are
some gratuitous shots of the police shooting protesters at Penn State University,
the significance of which is clearly not lost on our visitors.

 
"Very impressive,"
says Slapton. "All this computer stuff - I leave it all to my son. He's a real
whizz at it. Personally I can't do much more than check my emails. Isn't that right?"
he asks his sidekick.

 
"Yes", says
the other policeman, clearly pleased to be drawn into the conversation.

 
"I'd be quite happy
to stick with a typewriter."

 
"He can't even get
his emails half the time," says the younger policeman. "Usually the whole
office gets involved. In fact, he doesn't even know -"

 
"Er, thank you"
says his superior pointedly. The younger policeman falls silent and looks to the
ground.

 
"Well I hope I've
been helpful," I say, pretty convinced that I haven't been.

 
"Oh, yes, either
myself or my colleague," he says, shooting the younger policeman another withering
look, "will be in touch if we have any more questions."

 
"Sure. I'm around."

 
I lead them to the door,
suddenly aware of how desperate I am for them to leave so that I can relax.

 
"So, from male model
to computer whiz," says Slapton as we stand in the open doorway.

 
"Hardly," I
laugh. He nods thoughtfully looking at me hard, eyes boring into me so that I have
to look away.

 
"Perhaps myself and
PC Newton here should set ourselves up as models - call ourselves Ugly Bastards
Incorporated or something."

 
I laugh again. What the
hell am I supposed to say to that? I've already clocked Slapton's face with its
broken veins, the cuts and stray hairs where he hasn't shaved properly, his blood
shot eyes, the chest hair poking up over the top of his collar and his stomach bulging
through his cheap shirt. Call me vain but how can anyone let themselves go that
like?

 
"Oh, no, modelling
isn't all it's cracked up to be, believe me," I mutter, opening the door. "That's
why I got out of it."

 
"Spending a whole
day doing nothing except hanging round with beautiful women?" he says. "Eh?
Can't be bad."

 
"Well, it does have
its good points," I laugh. "Anyway, great, thanks very much. Bye."

 
I close the door and rest
my head on it for a moment at which point a voice from across the room snorts sarcastically:
"Well, it does have its good points, fnurr, fnurr."

 
"Oh, fucking hell,
Scarlett, what else I was supposed to say? At least we haven't been arrested."

 
"I know" she
says. "What a fucking waste of gear. They didn't even search me - this time."

Chapter Eighteen

It's black tie, this do at Sir James Huntsman's, as if it wasn't
a pain in the arse enough already. Usually Lauren ties my bowtie for me after I've
cursed and sworn for a while but this time I don't even want to ask her. She's cooking
herself an omelette in the kitchen and I leave her to it.

 
The final attempt looks
like I've at least made an effort although the breeze from a butterfly wing in South
America will probably cause it to unfurl again.

 
"Bye, then,"
I tell her. "I won't be back too late."

 
"OK," she says
without looking around, her fork suspended in mid-air and her legs crossed as she
sits at a stool by the breakfast bar, reading a magazine while she eats. That I'm
going to this thing with Nora hasn't helped relations between us. Added to which
is the fact that instead of getting out of the whole 2cool mess, I seem to be wading
in even deeper.

Even though it’s warm outside I'm wearing a Mack so that I don't
look too conspicuous. I'm five minutes early at the pub and I order a whiskey for
my nerves. Then another. The juke box comes on and bloke begins to sing in a thin
tremulous voice:

 
"It's truth, yeah,
yeah, that has to be repeated:

 
Our love united, yeah,
babe, can never be defeated."

Nora, funnily enough, is late.

 
"Sorry," she
says, spotting me at the bar. "We had a bit of a crisis at work. Hey, you look
great."

 
"Thanks, so do you."

 
She's wearing a black
lacy dress, sort of Edwardian, with some heavy costume jewellery and dark red lipstick.

 
"We're running a
little news piece on your survey about men spending more on clothes than women,
you'll be glad to hear. Editor loves it."

 
"Great," I say.
I suppose 2cool might as well carry on generating news - perhaps even positive stuff
- until it is finally closed down for good. I've decided to say nothing to Nora
about the Fraud Squad visit.

 
"I think it's a crap
story, so obviously manufactured but my editor loves 2cool which is good for you
- and for me, I suppose."

 
"I suppose so."

 
"Now, tactics for
tonight. Let's start with a large G&T." I call the barman over and give
her order plus another whiskey for myself.

 
"So what are the
tactics beyond a large gin and tonic?" I ask.

 
"Well, I say we mingle,
OK? We've been invited by a friend of a friend of mine called Anna. She'll be there
so we'll say hello to her and she'll introduce us to Huntman's children and, hopefully,
some other friends of Piers and we'll chat 'em up and see what we can find out."

 
"Sounds simple enough.
So who's this Huntsman geezer, then? His name's familiar."

 
"He's a financier.
Mainly property but also a bit in oil and airlines. Came to Britain as a kid from
Poland or somewhere. You know the story - no money, name like a bad hand at scrabble.
Got a job in the post room of a bank or something, changed his Polish name to Huntsman
and built it up from there."

 
"I see."

 
She clinks her glass against
mine and then starts off again: "Incidentally I've found out a little bit more
about Piers' past business activities."

 
"Dodgy?"

 
"A bit."

 
"Oh, God, like what?"

 
"Well. There was
one where, let me remember this right, oh yes, he'd employ out-of-work actors to
come around and cook dinner for you and then stay and eat it with you and make witty
conversation. An instant dining companion. You could even order two or three of
them and have your own dinner party if you had the money."

 
"And no friends.
That sounds quite above board."

 
"Well, apparently
the most popular part of the service was where a girl came round, cooked you a delicious
dinner with wine, made charming conversation - and then had sex with you."

 
"Very nice."

 
"The vice squad put
a stop to that one."

 
"Spoil sports."

Sir James Huntsman welcomes us with a bored, superficial charm
as we move along a sort of receiving line.

 
"Hello, good evening.
How nice of you to come," he drawls. White haired and florid but tall and slim,
he has no trace of a Polish accent. I'm about to thank him for inviting me and explain
that I'm a friend of his children's friend Anna when he turns to the person behind
me and says: "Hello, good evening. How nice of you to come."

 
"Hello, Pamela Huntsman.
Lovely to meet you," says Lady Huntsman. She is a tall, thin woman with great
cheek bones. She reminds me of someone called Diana at my agency who has cornered
the mature women's market and does a brisk trade in smart, older travellers and
elegant grandmothers. The only difference is that Lady Huntsman's hair seems to
be backcombed to within an inch of its life and so she looks like she's just been
electrocuted. "We're relying on you young ones to get the party going,"
she says.

 
"Oh, Charlie'll get
it swinging, he's known for it," says Nora, giving her a huge wink. I'm so
fazed by this comment that I just stare at Lady Huntsman.

 
"Super," she
says and turns to the next person.

 
"What the hell did
you say that for?" I ask her when we've moved away from Lady H sufficiently.

 
"So she'll remember
you."

 
"She certainly will.
Right, where's your friend, then?"

 
"Can't see her."

 
"What does she look
like?"

 
"Erm, sort of short
with, dark hair."

 
"OK, keep any eye
out for her. Do you want a drink?"

 
"Gasping. Oh, look
here's a tray - and some nibbles. Grab 'em."

 
Knowing Nora's relationship
with waiters and trays I hold her back for a moment.

 
"Now, what do you
want?" I ask her.

 
"Champagne, please,"
she says, looking surprised.

 
Carefully I pick up a
glass of champagne and hand it to her. Before I can stop her she reaches for a smoked
salmon thing. My heart stands still for a moment but she seems to manage to pick
it up without sending the rest flying. I take a glass of bubbly too and ask her:

 
"How do we introduce
the subject of Piers and what if someone recognises me or knows your name? And why
would they tell us, anyway?"

 
She tuts. "Well,
they're not going to say, 'Actually, since you ask, he's gone to Acapulco' or 'Oh,
of course, he's hiding in my attic?' are they?"

 
"No, so what are
they going to say?"

 
She rolls her eyes. Why
do I always feel like a dumbo with Nora even though I'm usually the one making sense?

 
"Well...I need another
one of these to think." She drains her glass and reaches over to another tray.
I close my eyes ready for the inevitable but when I look back she is holding a full
glass and looking thoughtful. "The point is, Charlie, that people like to gossip,
like to show off their knowledge. You find it all the time as a journalist. You
think 'Why would anyone want to tell me that?' But they do. We'll just chat and
pick up some clues, get to know something more. As I say you'd be amazed how much
people are willing to gossip even when they know they shouldn't."