Lorraine wondered what Rooney was playing at. She told Rosie she would call him right away and see her in a while.
‘Where are you?’
‘Ventura Highway. I’m gonna talk to this Craig Lyall. See you later.’ She hung up and called Rooney’s office.
‘Where are you?’ he barked.
‘Oh, just having a quick coffee, then I’m on my way home.’
‘Do me a favour and bring yourself to the station.’
‘You got a development?’
‘Maybe. I want you here where I can see you.’
‘I got something I want you to check out. Photographer, guy called Art Mathews. I think he’s involved, blackmailer, porno stuff. He knows Janklow... hello?’ The beep-beep-beep of her money running out cut off the call.
Rooney let the receiver drop back on the cradle. He waited, half hoping she would call again, wandering round his office, hitching up his pants. Through his Venetian blind he could see the suits working with the computer officers, sifting through the investigations. He let the blind fall back into place. He was, in some way, hiding out — he’d skirted around them all afternoon and evening.
Bean breezed in and Rooney jumped. ‘Fuckin’ knock, for chrissakes, you give me a heart attack. You ever heard of a porno photographer, Art Mathews?’
‘Nope.’
‘Run a trace on him, will you? And then bring him in. I want to have a talk to him.’
‘Okay, will do. You wanted to know if Vice had anything on a Steven Janklow? There’s no record, nothing... but the Thorburn family funded an entire section of the LAPD forensic lab and—’
‘Thank you,’ grunted Rooney.
‘You’re welcome,’ said Bean as he walked out.
Lorraine moved up the wood-slatted staircase to the small photographic studio belonging to Craig Lyall. She pressed the intercom and waited. Asked to identify herself, she said she was a friend of Art Mathews. Lyall unbolted the door. Small and dapper, he was shorter than Lorraine.
‘What do you want? You a cop?’
‘No, just a friend of Art’s.’
Lorraine followed Lyall up the narrow staircase towards his studio apartment. The TV was on loudly and he switched it off. ‘I was working in the dark room. Let me sort out these negs then I’ll be right with you. Make yourself at home,’
Lorraine put down her purse and remained standing, looking at all the framed photographs. She then crossed to two heavyweight albums, filled with portraits of kids and families. She turned over the heavy pages, awful smiling brats in over-colourful dresses, all much the same, similar to the pictures she had seen in Mrs Hastings’s home.
Lyall returned and offered her a drink. He seemed jumpy.
‘Art’s told me a lot about you.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. He’s in trouble, you know that?’
‘He’s always been in trouble, ever since I’ve known him.’
‘Yeah, well, this time he’s involved in murder.’
Lyall pursed his lips. ‘Jesus Christ, it’s not this fucking Hastings thing again. I’ve had them here, you know, asking me all kinds of questions. All I did was take some photographs — poor bastard liked to drag up, right? What’s wrong in that?’
Lorraine perched on the edge of a hard-back chair. ‘Can I see them? Just out of interest. I’m trying to help Art. I wasn’t all that honest with you — I’m a private investigator and I need to get as much—’
Lyall jumped almost a foot in the air. ‘I’ve got nothing to do with him! I know him, that’s all, I just know him, and a few times I’ve taken the odd photo for him, or if he’s sent somebody to me. I’m discreet, okay? That’s all there is to it.’
Lyall was even more nervous now, walking up and down.
‘Did you ever use a transsexual called Didi?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Did you ever take photographs of her? Pornographic ones.’
‘No way. I wasn’t into that kind of thing. I just do straight portraits.’
‘But sometimes you photographed transsexuals, or transvestites?’
‘Yeah, they just wanted a photo of themselves, nothing wrong in that, is there?’ He fidgeted, repeating that it wasn’t against the law and that he’d answered all the questions about Hastings; the police had been to question him, he’d given them his photos.
‘Did you know Didi well?’
‘Yes and no. She was useful sometimes. She did their make-up and hair, that’s all.’
‘Did she do Norman Hastings’s wigs?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’ Lorraine watched as he bent down to a chest and took out some envelopes. ‘She was good, knew her stuff, could make even Hastings look reasonable.’ He showed her two or three photographs of Hastings. Lorraine complimented each photo, and Lyall preened himself, started to take out more. She asked nonchalantly if he’d ever photographed a man called Steven Janklow.
Lyall was still looking through his work admiringly and didn’t hear so she repeated the name and he straightened. ‘Look, I don’t always ask who my clients are. This is a private thing between me and them. I have to make them feel at ease — they get quite excited, and then when Didi has finished with them, they’re almost orgasmic. It’s a big turn-on for them and after the session they take away their photos and that’s it.’
Lorraine nodded. She didn’t immediately mention Janklow’s name again but took her time, letting Lyall relax.
‘Did Art help out on any sessions?’
‘Not for years. He did once — I didn’t have a dark room of my own and he had a big place over in Santa Monica, so I used to use his facilities. If I’m honest, he taught me a lot. Many of them have a bit of a problem — you know, the skin. Art taught me how to airbrush all that out, lines. I can make them look beautiful.’
She tried again. ‘Did you photograph this Janklow?’ Lyall paused. ‘I really don’t know. Some of them use assumed names, or call themselves by their female name. Is it important?’
‘He’s Art’s alibi.’
‘Why don’t you ask Janklow?’
‘I can’t trace him and Art thinks he wouldn’t want to come forward — doesn’t want his family to know about his private life.’
Lyall repacked his photographs in their envelopes.
‘Do you know the S and A vintage car garage?’
‘Yes, it’s in Santa Monica. I’m going back years now, but Art used to wheel around in an outrageous Bentley. He bought it from them but he’s useless mechanically. It was always going wrong. Art just about knew where to put the gas in.’
Lorraine took out the photo of the blonde woman and gave it to Lyall. ‘Have you ever taken that person’s photograph?’ she asked.
‘I can’t say. You’ve seen how many I’ve done and they’re just the recent ones.’
Lorraine took it back, and asked if the clients took away their negatives. That was part of the deal, Lyall said, suddenly becoming evasive again. ‘Look, I know what you’re inferring. My clients always have the negatives. Some even wait until I’ve done them. I’ve never been in trouble with the police and I would never — Look, we all know about Art and I’ve always said that’s his business. No way do I get involved.’
‘You mean his pornography?’
‘No. Blackmail.’
Lorraine nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve warned him about it and I think that’s why this witness won’t come forward. I reckon Art was blackmailing him.’
Lyall groaned. ‘Art’s been in prison and that didn’t stop him. He’s always after making the quick buck but it disgusts me. These poor bastards, they come here and they’re like kids, you know, shaking with excitement, and they’re so harmless. I mean, who does it hurt if a man likes to pretty himself up? It’s no crime but society makes them hide.’
Lorraine agreed. ‘I feel sorry for the guys Art’s been tapping. Poor Norman Hastings, a decent married man, scared it would come out—’