‘Fuck off.’
‘Let me in, Nula, I’ll stay here all night if needs be.’
Nula eventually opened up the door. Lorraine looked around. Suitcases had been dragged down from the wardrobes. Nula was on the move.
‘What happened?’
‘I’m going away.’
‘Why do you have to go?’
Nula hurled a cushion at her. ‘Stop asking me questions, just leave me alone.’
Lorraine took out the picture of Steven Janklow in drag. ‘Will you have another look at this, Nula?’
Nula picked up the cushion and hugged it to her chest. Lorraine dangled the photograph between finger and thumb. ‘It won’t hurt you to have a look at it. Is it Steven Janklow?’
‘If you fucking know who it is, why are you asking me?’
‘Because I need to be sure.’
‘I don’t know, do I?’
Lorraine was deflated. She didn’t know what her next move should be. She flopped back on the sofa.
‘You gonna leave now?’
Lorraine slipped the photograph back into the envelope and stood up, facing the big four-sectioned screen behind which the models changed for a session. It was plastered with photographs of males and females, males and males, part females. Nula looked at her, then to the screen. Lorraine started to move out then stopped and glanced back to Nula, who hid her face in the cushion. She stared at the screen. At first she wasn’t sure that she was right so she moved closer, then she bent down and peered. She straightened up and waved the file. ‘You don’t know him? Then why is his photograph up on the screen?’
‘Because it fitted the hole.’
‘Who took the photograph?’
‘Why?’
‘Because if you don’t know who it is, then whoever took the photograph might. Who took the picture, Nula?’
‘Art.’
Lorraine could feel the adrenalin pumping; it was all as crazy as Rooney had said. ‘What’s Art’s scene apart from the porno?’
‘Use your head, clever bitch. Where do you think he gets all his dough from?’
‘Why don’t you tell me?’
Nula stood up and leaned against the doorframe to the bedroom. ‘Blackmail. Some fucking detective you are. Art blackmails everybody, he’s a bleeder — you should know, you copped a few grand from one of his little leech jobs. I don’t know that blonde in that photo on the screen and I don’t know whoever it is in your precious folder. That’s not my screen, it’s Art’s. Now would you get out and leave me alone?’
‘Where’s Art?’
‘I don’t know.’
Lorraine followed Nula into the bedroom. ‘Was he blackmailing Steven Janklow?’
Nula kicked out at the wardrobe and screamed, ‘I don’t know, leave me alone? She began to pull clothes out of her wardrobe.
‘He was blackmailing him, wasn’t he?’
Nula was hurling dresses onto the bed.
‘The night Didi died—’
‘Yes, what about the night Didi died?’
Lorraine kept her distance. Nula was becoming increasingly hysterical, dragging things off their hangers, dropping them, kicking them. She suddenly turned to Lorraine in a fury. ‘He used us. If we had a john, he was sniffing around. He never let us have any peace, but then we couldn’t have any because he’d give a few dollars here, a few dollars there, he let us have this apartment, okay? He said we never had to pay rent, okay? Well, if you believe that you’re dumb. Art used me, used Didi, he made us both pay. Now if you don’t get out and leave me alone I swear before God I’ll scream this place down and have you arrested.’
Lorraine didn’t budge. ‘Was Art blackmailing Norman Hastings?’
Lorraine looked over the screen at the laminated photographs. She was frantically glancing from one blonde to another in a vague hope that one or other of the dead women as well as Hastings would have been photographed. ‘When did Art make this screen?’
‘Years ago. He brought it here with him when he left Santa Monica — he had a place there on the beach.’ Nula stood, hands on hips, smirking. She had decided to try another tactic to get rid of Lorraine.
‘Did he ever own a vintage car?’
Nula rolled her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘A custom-made car or an old sports car.’
‘Nah, he had a Bentley once for about six months, then he went broke again and sold it.’
‘The blonde in the photograph, the one I showed you on the screen, did you meet him?’
Nula sighed. ‘No.’
‘What about Didi?’
Nula was holding a long chiffon dress. ‘This was her favourite. It never fitted her but she wouldn’t throw it out.’
‘Nula, please, did Didi know the blonde?’
‘She may have, she used to do wigs, she was always good with hair. Art used her sometimes for photo sessions, so she may have, I don’t know who she knew.’
‘Did Didi know Art before you?’
‘Yes, I met him through her.’
Lorraine’s mind was racing, trying to put two and two together but she wasn’t sure what she was trying to come up with. There was no point in staying any longer. Her priority now was to contact the photographer who had taken pictures of Norman Hastings. She asked Nula if she could use her phone.
Rosie was still watching TV when Lorraine called. No, there had been no contact from Rooney. Lorraine asked her to check in the files for the name and address of Hastings’s photographer. She hung on, waiting impatiently, until eventually Rosie found his name: Craig Lyall. She gave the address and phone number. Lorraine said she would call in again. If Rooney made contact, Rosie was to tell him that she would be back in about an hour: it was imperative she speak with him.
‘Have you ever heard of Craig Lyall, a photographer?’ she asked Nula.
Nula clicked the suitcase shut. ‘Professional, is he?’
‘Yeah, takes family shots, portraits.’
Nula shrugged. ‘Name isn’t familiar but then I’m never good with names.’
‘What about Didi? Do you have her address book? Maybe she has his number.’
Nula took a small key and locked the case. ‘No, she never kept one, and now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to take a bath. Unless you want to watch me soaping my tits I suggest you leave.’
‘You need a lift? I’ve got a car.’
‘I’ll get a cab.’
‘Can I ask where you’re going?’
‘You can, but I don’t see why I should tell you.’
‘Just in case I need to get in touch with you.’
Nula carried her cases to the door, dumped them and went back to pick up two more bags.
‘Curtis knows how to contact me.’
Lorraine reached out to shake Nula’s hand but she turned away. ‘Goodbye, and thanks.’
Nula stood in the centre of the room, arms folded. As soon as she heard the front door slam behind Lorraine, she clutched the sides of her head and started to scream, ripping off her wig and hurling it across the room. She screamed and screamed.
Lorraine drove to Craig Lyall’s studio. She looked around for a phone kiosk to check with Rosie if Rooney had called. He hadn’t but two uniformed police officers had been there. Rosie hadn’t been unduly worried when they arrived, partly because she was expecting Rooney. She even asked if they were there because of him. They did not answer her questions but moved from room to room, even swishing back the shower curtain. When they asked if there were any other ways into the apartment, Rosie started to get uneasy. She was edgy after they left because they remained outside in their patrol car and didn’t look as if they had any intention of driving off.