Lyall looked anxious. ‘I never told that to the police — I couldn’t, it would incriminate me. Then I’d have to tell them about Art.’
Lorraine asked if she could smoke. ‘I get asthma but go ahead.’ He fetched an ashtray and turned up the air-conditioning. She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke away from him.
‘How did Art get hold of Hastings’s pictures if, as you said, they always take the negatives away?’
Lyall flushed. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You didn’t give them to him, did you?’
‘No, of course not, but... maybe his friend did. I photographed Hastings’s family — I knew them and I wouldn’t want to hurt them. They’re not even wealthy, but that was Art, he’d even settle for fifty dollars a month — awful, I hated it.’
‘By his friend, do you mean Didi?’
‘Yes, I suspected it was her. She was here, she made Norman up — made a very good job of it.’
‘She’s dead.’
Lyall gaped. ‘But you were just talking about her. When? Why didn’t Nula call me? Or Art? I don’t believe it.’
‘Last night.’
Lyall seemed genuinely shocked, so she said, ‘Will you take another look at the photo I brought, in case you might remember. I think it’s a cross-dresser, don’t you?’
Lyall took the photograph again and held it to the lamp. He viewed the picture through an eyeglass for at least thirty seconds before he nodded. ‘Yes, but it’s a very good wig and make-up... It’s the jaw-line, I can always tell.’
‘You don’t recognize him then?’
‘No, I don’t think so, but I do so many...’
‘He never came here with Hastings?’
‘Norman was always alone, unless he was with his family.’
A buzzer sounded from the dark room and Lyall checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to get these ready for tomorrow. It’s a twenty-first portrait.’
Lorraine was heading for the door, when Lyall exclaimed, ‘Of course! Let me see that picture again.’
Lorraine watched him, almost willing him to say that he had taken pictures of Janklow. Instead he shook his head. ‘There was a famous society hostess, very wealthy — now, what was her name? She came for a sitting, very crippled, arthritic, in a wheelchair. She had two sessions, I think, but turned the pictures down. Well, honestly, if I’d airbrushed any more of her she’d not have had any face left, not a line left, and they paid just the sitting fee. That’s why I remember it, because I was out of pocket, and I’m going back a few years.’ He traced his thin lips with his tongue as he tried to remember, and then he beamed. ‘Thorburn, that was the name, Delia Thorburn, and it must have been at least eight, maybe nine years ago. She could even be dead by now. Isn’t it strange? Really weird.’ Lorraine waited for him to continue. ‘It’s odd that I can remember her so well and from that photograph, it’s just that... Let me have another look at it.’ He used his eyeglass again. ‘It isn’t her — she couldn’t drive, she was very crippled. But the way the scarf is draped reminds me of her. She always wore these chiffon scarves to hide her neck, and the blonde hair, that old-fashioned style, a Grace Kelly roll at the back or just flicked at the sides.’
‘Did Didi do her make-up and hair?’
‘Good God, no. She was Society. She wouldn’t want somebody like Didi around. I’m talking old money.’
Lorraine wasn’t sure where this new development was leading. She asked if Mrs Thorburn had been accompanied by anyone. ‘Yes, of course, she was in a chair. Her son, if I can recollect, he brought her.’
‘Did you hear his name?’
‘Well, I presumed it was Thorburn.’
‘Can you describe him?’
Lyall screwed up his eyes. ‘God, I’m going back years, and I’m sorry I can’t. But Art maybe could, he has a mind-blowing memory — he can even remember phone numbers.’
‘Art was here?’
‘Oh, no, it was in Santa Monica, I told you, we worked together, had our own clients. But then I left and came here.’
‘Was Art doing similar photo sessions, with transvestites or transsexuals?’
‘Oh, yes — in fact he started me off, sent me clients. I told you before.’
His dark-room buzzer rang loudly again. ‘I’ve really got to go, I can’t leave them soaking any longer.’
Lorraine returned to the car. She sat a while as she went over everything Lyall had told her. She now had a link between Hastings and Janklow. She even had a tentative link between Didi and both men, and Art was linked to them all. Art was blackmailing Norman Hastings, she concluded, and Hastings might have discussed this with Janklow. But what if Art was blackmailing Janklow as well?
She drove home deep in thought. What if she was wrong about Janklow and Art was the killer? But she knew that couldn’t be right. Her attacker hadn’t been Art Mathews. What was the link between each of the dead women who, apart from Holly, all resembled each other in age? But then she thought again about Holly’s murder; according to Didi, the killer had gestured to her, had wanted her. She had even said to Lorraine that she was lucky because if Holly hadn’t been picked up then it could have been her. What if it was Didi the killer had wanted? Just as she had said to Rooney the women were or could possibly have all been mistaken for Didi. She, Lorraine, was tall, about the same height as Didi, and blonde. Was the killer looking for one woman in particular, a woman he knew worked the streets, a woman he knew was a transsexual?
Lorraine had to pull over, her head throbbing with all the jagged sections of information. Her attempts at trying to make them all fit exhausted her. She closed her eyes. She had left Art Mathews in the gallery the night Holly had died. What had he done after she left and where did he go? Were he, Didi, Nula even, all connected to the murders? She was too tired to get it together, tired and hungry. She started the car again and headed back onto the freeway towards Pasadena.
Art Mathews had been brought in for questioning. He had attempted to run from the police, who had been about to tell him that he was not being charged with anything but was required to assist their inquiries. As they entered his new studio, though, he had dived past them, which aroused their suspicions and they gave chase. He gave himself up after an abortive run between oncoming cars, zig-zagging across the road, nearly getting himself killed. A routine search of his studio yielded a vast selection of pornography stills.
Rooney had begun to question Mathews as soon as he was brought in. He was expansive and over-talkative, as if high on drugs. He had not as yet asked for a lawyer. He admitted to mild pornography but it was not until one of the officers entered the room with a black and white photograph of Holly that the interview took an upward spiral. Art admitted knowing her; he had even taken photographs of her. Agitated and sweating, the little man tried to recall where he was on the night of her murder.
At almost every turn he incriminated himself. When he admitted that he also knew the most recent murdered transsexual, Didi, Rooney could feel the hair lift on the back of his neck. He knew they had to get legal representation for Art and fast, and suggested as much to him. If he so wished, they would be prepared to wait. Rooney had also asked for a doctor to examine him: if he was drugged up they needed to know as they would have to wait until he came down from whatever he was on.
Suddenly Art jumped up, spittle forming at the sides of his mouth. ‘This is crazy! You think I killed Holly? Why would I do a thing like that? This is all a misunderstanding.’
At no time had Rooney suggested there was any suspicion that Art was involved in the murder. He had him on selling pornographic material by his own admission. Now it seemed he was about to talk himself into being accused of murder.