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IT WAS THE DAILY EXPRESS building that Bronstein wanted, and he was prepared to stand outside it all day if necessary. The honking traffic echoed between the London Rehearsal Rooms and the Britannia Hotel and on Lower Thames Street people scurried unseeingly to work with jackets draped over cuffs and Smartphones to ears.
He took the stairs and arrived on the fourth floor just in time. In a busy, parquet-floored corridor with fire doors leading left and right and phones bleeping and people shouting, Garvey Simpson stood before the elevator with his hands in his pockets. He wore a short sleeved shirt, chinos and trainers. He had a pair of sunglasses perched in his hair, although the sun wasn’t shining outside. Bronstein waited for the lift to arrive and got in beside him.
“What floor?” Simpson asked.
“I need to ask you some questions.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were there when Jerry Cauldwell was killed, yes? The photographer?”
Simpson scowled and pressed Ground. “Is this for a features article? Because I charge.”
Bronstein showed his card.
“I’ve already spoken to the police,” Simpson said.
“Speak again.”
“I’m busy. Can’t we do this another time?”
“You kept any pictures of that day?”
“Nope.”
Bronstein followed him through the foyer and back into the city bustle. Commuters and shoppers brushed past, taxis and red double-deckers blared their horns, the air smelt of diesel and dust.
“You’re the seventh photographer I’ve spoken to who was there at one of those murders,” Bronstein said. He had to walk quickly to keep up with him. “Not one of you kept any pictures. To anyone else in my position, that might appear suspicious.”
“So arrest me.”
“Let’s say, for the sake of argument, I was doing a features article. How much would you charge?”
Simpson smirked. “Two hundred thousand, up front.”
“You must have some pretty decent information.”
“Maybe I’m just a good poker player.”
“A man who claims to have information of that quality is probably worth arresting.”
“I’ve sued for wrongful arrest before. And won.”
“My, another bluff?”
“That’s for you to judge.”
Bronstein removed a wad of stills from his pocket. “I’ve been doing a little photographing of my own. Have a look at these.”
Simpson flicked through them. “Pictures of me at a bar with a hot chick,” he said, pretending to yawn. “Boy, the features editors will be climbing over themselves to get hold of these.”
“The girl you’re talking to. Know her?”
“A girl.”
Bronstein smiled. “Only, she’s a reporter for Private Eye.”
“So the hell what?”
“Let me join the dots for you, then. A: You’ve just come out of the Daily Express building. B: The Daily Express is owned by Richard Desmond. C: Richard Desmond’s one of Private Eye’s most vilified targets, and someone keeps telling Private Eye all about him. Stuff that really shouldn’t get out, embarrassing stuff. ‘Dirty Des’, they call him. D: If Mr Desmond were to see these photos of you talking to Miss - ”
Simpson had turned pale. “He might draw the wrong conclusion.”
“And you might find it difficult to get paid.”
“Look, if I tell you what you want to know, will you promise to destroy them?”
“Better than that. I’ll let you have the camera.”
Half an hour later they sat in a bar on Gracechurch Street where a handful of early morning customers – mainly women - sat on padded benches against the wall with coffees and phones or copies of Metro, listening to Susan Boyle on the jukebox. Faded watercolours in gilt frames hung on maroon wallpaper. Bronstein ordered a Martini, shaken not stirred. Simpson tore open a packet of crisps and ate them singly in between gulps of Strongbow.
“Given that a man died,” Simpson said, “no one wanted a still of Jilly Bestwick teetering away in a pair of Jimmy Choos trailing ‘Rob from Simply Boyz’. It seemed disrespectful. Or at least it was thought that’s how it would be perceived by the punters.”
“So you simply trashed those pictures?”
“Deleted them, yeah.”
“Even before the police had time to arrive?”
“I haven’t time to get involved in a pig investigation. I’ve got work.”
“And you all felt that way?”
“It wasn’t a conspiracy, if that’s what you’re saying. More like great minds think alike.”
Bronstein shook his head incredulously. “It didn’t occur to you that by scrapping your pictures you’d be helping the murderer? Of your colleague?”
“I guess it might have. To some of us.”
“Did it to you?”
Simpson grimaced as if he didn’t like looking too hard at himself. “Look, you’ve got to remember that most of us are drunk most of the time. We don’t always do the most ... sane thing.”
“Were you drunk?”
“Sort of.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“They didn’t ask. What difference would it make? They’re our pictures. If we’re destroying evidence, we might conceivably be guilty of a crime. If we’re destroying it under the influence of booze, we might just as conceivably be let off on the grounds of diminished responsibility. Unless it’s a crime to be drunk at ten in the morning.”
“Even so: your colleague?”
“I didn’t know him. He was a rival.”
“You’re saying you were pleased by his death?”
Simpson shrugged. “I guess I’d have preferred it if he’d just been maimed or something like that. Something that meant he couldn’t take photos any more.”
Bronstein shook his head. “Hot diggity, now that’s compassion.”
“I happen to know that some of my ‘colleagues’, as you keep calling them, were pleased by his death.”
“On the grounds that he’s a rival.”
“Nothing personal, that’s correct. I’m hardly the worst of them.”
“Hasn’t it occurred to any of you that you might be next?”
“Like I said earlier, most of us are poker players. And the odds are pretty good. Say the murderer turns up at every twentieth photo-op. Individually, we only attend one in every three. Each time, there’s roughly sixteen of us. That’s odds of about a thousand to one against.”
Bronstein’s mobile rang. He picked up, as glad of the interruption as if he was coming up for air.
“Where are you?” Hartley-Brown said.
“I’m doing an interview. Garvey Simpson.”
“Bring him in. I think I’ve found something. And his life might be in danger.”
Bronstein ended the call and leaned over to Simpson. “If I buy you something nice to drink on the way, would you mind accompanying me to the police station?”
Bronstein left Simpson in the waiting room, with instructions to the WPC in charge not to allow him to leave. Hartley-Brown was stationed at his computer. Around him, a hundred men and women sat working at desks or carrying documents. Rain slapped against the tinted windows.
“Early this morning,” he said, “I went round to James Docherty’s flat in Islington. Initially, he was reluctant, but he decided to cooperate when I showed him the ‘Lady from Lord Gnome’ photos we mocked up. Even so, he didn’t make an awful lot of sense. He’d drunk half a bottle of Courvoisier for breakfast and the other half for lunch, and he was about ready for bed. Ten minutes in, he went to the toilet and when, half an hour later, he still hadn’t reappeared, I thought I’d better check on him. He’d fallen asleep in the bath. I tried, but I couldn’t wake him.”
“So what did you do? Call an ambulance?”
“Eventually, but not until I’d copied the contents of his hard drive.”
“Attaboy. And?”
“Case solved, I think.”
“Go on.”
Hartley-Brown plugged a USB pen into his computer. “Docherty told me he’d deleted all his photos. Not true. And, from what I’ve been able to piece together so far, neither did any of his friends.”
The phone on Hartley-Brown’s desk buzzed. He looked at his watch and picked up. “Hello? ... Yes ... Thank you.” He listened for another thirty seconds, said ‘thank you’ again and hung up.
“News?” Bronstein said.
“Our Russian is about to arrive. Name of Colonel Sergei Orlov. We’re to meet him at Heathrow in just over an hour. I’ll tell you the rest as we drive over.”
“That wouldn’t be the Colonel Sergei Orlov, would it?”
“You’re ahead of me.”
“Listen, Jonathan, you need to file a report on what you’ve found, pronto, before we set off. You wouldn’t want a newbie taking credit, now, would you?”
Orlov sat in his window seat on commercial flight BA-1264X, next to a woman in a Greenday T-shirt and flip-flops with rubber flowers on. A representative from the British Embassy in Minsk had given him a briefcase containing yesterday’s newspapers and an update on the case he was scheduled to work on. It was a thorough analysis, he had to give them credit. About Bronstein and Hartley-Brown, he reserved judgement. Their photographs showed them looking impassive.
As the plane entered German airspace, he turned to the newspapers. He read the headlines, the leaders and one or two features and turned to the chess page of The Independent. Checkmate in two. He looked at it for a long time. Bishop to c3, then black was forced to block, and Rook to a8.
But then – what if: Queen takes Rook? It was still checkmate for sure, but not in two. For some reason, he felt angry. He tore it out and thrust it in his pocket.
The plane landed at Heathrow in bright sunshine. He wondered if the Kremlin had sent someone to intercept him. He hoped not. He’d handed his Ots-33 in at Minsk.
He walked into Arrivals and put a trilby on by way of a disguise, pulling it down at the front. There was no one at all as far as he could tell. He sat down on a plastic seat and took out the chess puzzle.
“Bishop to c3,” said an American voice above him. He got up and realised the two men grinning at him must be Bronstein and Hartley-Brown. They exchanged handshakes.
“Yes, then Rook to a8,” he replied for want of anything better to say, “but what if Queen takes Rook?”
Bronstein took the puzzle. “I think it’s c7 to c8, Queen. Or Rook.”
Hartley-Brown wasn’t paying any attention. He was intensely focussed on something beyond them. Suddenly, he grabbed both their arms and pulled them down, hard. The advertising hoarding behind them burst like someone had hit it with a halberd, and people started screaming.
The marksman was already on his way out. Dressed only in a T-shirt, shorts and trainers, with a man-bag strapped across his chest, he cleared two sets of plastic chairs like a professional hurdler and ran into the road outside.
“Where’s our car?” Orlov said.
“It won’t make any difference,” Hartley-Brown said. “After that, there’ll soon be a queue out there a mile long. If the airport staff are properly trained, they’ll be ready. They’ll stop him at one of the checkpoints on the way out.”
“Better get going then,” Bronstein said.
A round of gunfire came from outside the building. More screams.
“I think you’ll find he’s just been killed by security,” Orlov said.
They looked at each other as if the seriousness of what had happened was only just sinking in. Hartley-Brown brushed himself down.
“Shit,” Bronstein said.
“We think we may have solved the crime, sir,” Hartley-Brown said. “Or crimes.”
Bronstein turned to Hartley-Brown. “Wait a minute. You just called him ‘sir’.”
“That’s right. He’s in charge now.”
“No one told me.”
“I’ve only just found out myself. I received an email forty minutes ago.”
Bronstein shrugged. “Although it is kind of a technicality, I suppose.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Orlov said. “I believe you said you had something to tell me.”
A group of policemen in flak jackets was on its way over slowly with guns trained on them at arm’s length.
“Put your hands on your heads and lie down on the floor,” a megaphone said. “Repeat - ”
“Tell you another time,” Bronstein said.
An hour later, they were on their way back to Scotland Yard in a London taxi. Orlov sat facing the rear. Hartley-Brown and Bronstein sat opposite him.
“I’ve been looking into a computer owned by one of the paparazzi,” Hartley-Brown said.
“How did you get in there?” Orlov asked.
“Low-level subterfuge. He fell asleep and I copied its contents. We’ve interviewed seven photographers so far. All of them claimed to have no relevant pictures, including the fellow whose files I copied. It turns out they were lying. Look at these.” He handed Orlov a set of photographs. “The first batch was taken at the shooting of a photographer following the Britain’s Got Talent star, Bobby Keynes. The second comes from when the photographer following Zane Cruse was killed, the third Mikey from Bad Lads Zero, these Stallone Laine, and finally, these from Jilly Bestwick. I’ve produced a grid,” he said, passing Orlov a new piece of paper. “In the first column, we have the celebrity who was being pursued, in the second, the photographer who was killed, and this last column lists the photographers who have been secretly sharing pictures of the killings. Some twenty-five names.”
Orlov looked hard at the grid. There wasn’t time to digest it, but it was obviously good work. “What’s your theory?” he said.
“They think if they pool enough photos they can identify the killer. A big news story and when it breaks, the pictures will be worth their weight in gold.”
“Have they?”
“Identified the killer? Yes.”
“So why haven’t they gone to the police?”
“They’ve discovered a face. I think they believe – given a little more time - they might be able to put a name to it.”
“Why would they think that?”
Bronstein smiled. “Jonathan thinks, and it rings true, that they believe the murderer’s a professional rival, another photographer out to eliminate the competition.”
“That would surely be rather a drastic way of staying ahead.”
“Not one of these guys is normal,” Bronstein said. “You’ve got to meet them to appreciate that.”
“The face of the supposed murderer,” Orlov said: “presumably, you’ve isolated it.”
“First thing I did,” Hartley-Brown said. “It isn’t too difficult. It’s the common denominator to most of the pictures. A man, some way behind the celebrity, usually with his body partially obscured. We’ve no idea who he is yet. Here.”
He handed Orlov a new batch of pictures and was surprised to see his expression change.
“What’s up?” Bronstein said.
“This isn’t a photographer,” Orlov said. “It’s a Russian secret serviceman. Dmitri Vassyli Kramski. He once interrogated me. I say ‘interrogated’.”
Bronstein let out a guffaw. “This wouldn’t be your classic misinformation, would it?”
“I’m sure you’ll find MI6 has a photo of Dmitri Kramski somewhere in its mainframe,” Orlov replied.
“Yes, of course ... Apologies.”
“What would a Russian secret serviceman be doing, killing paparazzi?” Hartley-Brown said.
“I’ve no idea,” Orlov replied. “However, I do have a question for you two.”
“Fire away, sir,” Bronstein said.
“According to the briefing I received before I arrived here, you’ve been out interviewing newspaper photographers. John Boorman, Kevin Wiles, Sydney Cromberforth, Jake Cassidy.”
“Add to that list James Docherty and Garvey Simpson,” Hartley-Brown said.
“Do you know anything about what happened to them afterwards?”
Bronstein shrugged. “We haven’t had them watched, if that’s what you mean. There’s only us two. We don’t have extra manpower at our disposal.”
“It may surprise you to know that Boorman, Wiles and Cromberforth are all dead.”
Hartley-Brown sat up as if he’d been stung. “How?”
“Alcohol poisoning. Nothing remotely suspicious, given their medical histories. Unless you’re aware of their common involvement in this, and you’re looking for a pattern, you probably wouldn’t notice anything untoward.”
“Who the hell briefed you?” Bronstein said. “We sure knew nothing about it.”
“What about that photographer you brought in earlier?” Hartley-Brown asked Bronstein.
Bronstein scowled. “Simpson? Hell, I forgot all about him. He’s probably still there.”
“You’d better find out,” Orlov said.
Bronstein took out his mobile. “Reception? This is David Bronstein. I need you to confirm that you’re still holding on to Garvey Simpson. ... What? But I specifically requested you – what?”
He listened for a few moments in silence like he couldn’t believe his ears were still working, then he lowered his phone, pressed ‘end call’ and looked up.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said. “They’re clearing our desks. As of thirty minutes ago. We’ve been folded.”
