Creed (12 page)

But lately – oh lately – something was lacking. One assignment seemed like the one before and the one after. They all had variations, of course, but essentially it was the same routine: hanging around, bored out of your skull, a sudden dramatic rush of adrenaline, the thrill lasting a couple of minutes at most, then waiting for the next fix, kicking your heels, wasting your time, married to your camera, cursing it when it let you down, loving it when it did all you asked; and you, yourself, scorned and courted in equal amounts – no, be real: scorned more than courted – cruising the streets when most good people were tucked up in bed, shrugging off indignities (Robert Redford had clipped Creed’s ear once), labelled a parasite by a society which, itself, fed off you.

These thoughts, and others, meandered through Creed’s mind during the down periods; at other times, when he was on a high, he had the greatest job in the world. Trouble was, the downs were exceeding the highs these days.

However.

Here he is, driving along Park Lane towards the Grosvenor House Hotel, his mood already beginning to lift. He’d checked it out earlier, had been thrown out the rear entrance, the staff entrance, the goods entrance (security being extra tight because of the visiting Royal) and had finally reached the conclusion that no way was he going to enter. Meanwhile, possibilities elsewhere could be pursued – the phone call earlier was from a publicist whose client, a fast-fading comedian of late-middle years, was celebrating his birthday with the latest bimbo in a
BIG
way at Annabel’s that evening (any publicity
was
good publicity when you were on the slide). Creed had covered that, particularly enjoying the moment when the estranged wife, along with the estranged daughter (who looked like a bimbo herself), doused the comedian’s girlfriend with their pina coladas. After that, and considerably cheered, he’d completed a tour of duty, knowing that nothing would be happening at the Grosvenor until after midnight. He could have caught the Duchess of York going in, but the best time was coming
out
, when one or two glasses had been consumed and spirits were frisky (and Fergie was renowned for her friskiness). In a good mood, she wasn’t averse to obliging the cameramen, although right now, Creed seriously doubts she’ll pose for the particular shot he has in mind.

But, he’s going to get
something
tonight, and it’ll be more than a cheery wave. As he drives he wipes the back of his hand across his lips, which have become moist. Oh yeah, no way is he leaving without
something
. . .

Creed slowed down when he neared the Grosvenor’s Park Lane entrance, noting the line of waiting chauffeur-driven stretch-limos and Rollers waiting alongside the kerb. No space had been left unoccupied adjacent to the Great Room’s revolving doors, and that made him suspicious. The pack was gathered outside, along with the usual sightseers who gathered anywhere they saw waiting cameramen. He drove on.

The hotel’s other entrance, this one leading directly into the reception lobby, was round the other side in a cul-de-sac off Park Street, a road parallel to Park Lane. Creed made his way to it and parked the jeep in a mews directly opposite the cul-de-sac. Hoisting the camera bag on to his shoulder, he locked up and walked back towards the main road. He paused when he recognized a familiar vehicle tucked in among others along the mews.

He smiled, remembering the crack on the head he’d taken outside Langan’s the night before. It was nothing to the crack he’d received tumbling down the stairs, but at least there might be some retribution for this one.

Creed lowered the bag to the ground and knelt beside it, popping the fastener to one of the small side pockets. He took out a tiny tube.

He joined the other paparazzi – the more canny ones these – a few minutes later and in time to see his old chum, Bluto, arguing with hotel security inside the lobby. Oh wonderful. In his bid to pose as a regular guest, Bluto had left his cameras inside his car and was obviously packing a miniature. No doubt he’d been sussed two seconds after getting through the hotel doors. He was lucky they’d tabbed him for what he was and not a goddamn terrorist, which was what he looked like.

The thickest paparazzi knew better than to argue unnecessarily once the game was up, and he left grouchily, ignoring the welcoming cheers of his compatriots outside.

He managed a sneer for Creed as he lumbered by, then looked twice at Creed’s I-know-something-you-don’t grin. He passed on, crossing the road and heading for his parked Celica, no doubt to fetch his grown-up cameras.

‘Any action?’ Creed asked the closest photographer.

‘You just saw it. Other than that, nothing. Fergie’s inside though, and a few others worth getting.’

Creed slipped his cameras around his neck, charging the batteries on both as he peered back into the lobby. He noticed the pool of royal snappers waiting in there, a permanent circle of privileged photographers who had special access to such events, known as the Royal Ratpack. Anyone else in the profession was an outsider and had to make their own opportunities. Creed, and the small group of (canny) snappers around him had guessed correctly: the Duchess of York would be leaving the charity ball through the main lobby and out these doors. The giveaway, and what the cowboys around the other side had been too dumb to spot, was the fact that no space had been left at the kerbside for the royal vehicle to pull into. No way would Fergie’s bodyguards allow her to walk out into the road.

He checked his watch. Five-to-midnight. Plenty of time to grab a smoke or two. Hopefully, she had a full engagement list tomorrow, so she wouldn’t stay too late. Hopefully . . .

He began to light up, but dropped the match instantly. Something was happening inside. Guests were stopping, the royal snappers were moving forward, raising their cameras. She was on her way out.

Even though there were only five members of the paparazzi present outside, the jostling began, each of them trying to manoeuvre into the best position. A doorman immediately hurried forward to move them back.

Meanwhile, in the mews opposite, Bluto was frantically struggling with his car door. For some reason the key wouldn’t turn in the lock. And when he tried to withdraw the key so that he could use the other door, it wouldn’t come out. He slapped the roof of the Celica hard as though it were being obstructive deliberately, and rattled the doorcatch as if wrath alone would do the trick. He leaned forward to examine the lock and when he touched the smeared chrome, the tips of his fingers almost stuck to it. He cursed loudly, stood back and kicked a tyre. He heard the commotion across the road, saw the first camera flashes.

He remembered Joe Creed’s mocking grin.

‘
Bastard!
’ he hissed.

Unlike his colleagues, Creed bided his time, seeing no sense in wasting good film on pictures of the Duchess of York’s famous red hair bobbing into view over the heads and shoulders of those around her. He was now resigned to settling for less than he wanted, that he would have to eat shit when he delivered the goods to the
Dispatch
’s gloating diarist, but that was the way of it sometimes. Win some, lose some. There was nothing he could do about it. He’d get something though, even if it was only one of those loony-toon expressions of hers. A Daimler drew up to the entrance, forcing the paparazzi to move around it for a clear view. The doorman who had ushered them away before opened the rear door.

Here it comes, flouncing out the door, bodyguard ahead. Come on, babe, pull me a face, give me
something
. . .

He heard the roar coming up from behind and turned just in time to see a great black shape pushing aside anyone in its path and bearing down on him.

Creed ducked reflexively and Bluto piled into him, arms swinging, his incoherent roar startling if not terrifying everyone in the vicinity.

They both sprawled on the pavement, but Bluto’s impetus carried him further so that he was virtually prostrate at Lady Sarah’s feet. At once, two burly individuals had hurtled themselves on top of him, one being the Duchess’ bodyguard, the other a plain-clothes policeman who had been keeping an eye on the gathering outside. A tall, distinguished-looking gentleman in a dinner suit materialized from inside the lobby and quickly led the Royal by the arm around the scrimmage, to the waiting car. She bent down to climb in.

Creed, by then on his knees, had watched the proceedings in astonishment. Somehow he felt disembodied from the action, as though it were all taking place on a screen before him – and in slow motion at that. It didn’t take long to realize who had tried to attack him though and, of course, to understand why. But the bloody fool had spoilt any chance of his getting a decent shot of . . .

He saw her from the rear, leaning forward to duck into the Daimler, and his whole body – his whole
psyche
– snapped to attention. Oh thank you God, thank you . . .

‘
Look out, I think he’s got a gun!
’ Creed shouted.

Screams then, shouts, smacking sounds coming from the scrum only two or three feet away from him. And best of all,
best of all
, the Duchess of York, still bending forward to climb into the car, craning her head round, a look of alarm on her face.

Creed didn’t have to think further: his index finger did it for him.
Click
-flash. Simultaneously.

He was on his feet instantly for a better angle.
Click
-flash. Simultaneously.

Then the tall escort was bundling into the Daimler behind his charge, pulling the door closed behind him with a solid
clumph
. A last glimpse of wide eyes in a suddenly pale face beneath lush red hair before the car sped away, burning rubber as it made the tight turn.

Trying not to smile too broadly, Creed took a quick, almost contemptuous, snap of the three men rolling around at his feet before slipping away.

He carefully eased the Suzuki into the narrow garage, flicking a lightswitch on the wall as he passed. The garage was L-shaped, so that once inside there was plenty of room to climb out from the jeep’s passenger side. It was here that Creed stored odd pieces of junk and machinery; there were shelves filled with tins of paint, most of them half-f or near-empty, brushes, tools, a box containing nuts, screws, nails, several outdated telephone directories and a car battery recharger. He also kept there, when they were not in the back of the jeep, his camera tripod and small aluminium stepladder, as well as two tungsten lamps and three rolls of coloured backdrops for occasional (very occasional) studio shots.

He turned off the headlights and engine and waited until a yawn had been fully expelled before climbing out and sliding back through the narrow gap between the rear end of the Suzuki and the garage wall to close the garage door. His head was throbbing again, although his fingers told him the swelling on his forehead was almost gone. Despite the headache, he chuckled to himself – and not for the first time over the last hour or so – wondering where Bluto was right now. Locked up, or still ringing round for a twenty-four-hour motor mechanic who knew how to pull a car door-lock without doing too much damage?

Creed had developed that night’s take himself at the
Dispatch
and had been delighted with the results. He did a ten-eight of the Fergie snap (actually she’d looked pretty good that night, trim and vivacious, but at the angle he’d caught her and wearing a ballgown that billowed from the waist down, the result was inevitable) and put it on Blythe’s desk in an envelope with the message ‘Make it a Krug – I earned it!’ pentelled on the flap. The deputy picture editor was more interested in the bundle of arms and legs on the pavement, and Creed had given him the full details over a plastic beaker of whisky from a bottle kept close at hand in a filing cabinet.

Creed was tired, hurting some, but content as he unlocked the door leading from the garage area to the ground floor office. He locked up behind him, mindful that the intruder had come through this way (as there was no obvious damage, the police thought he’d forgotten to secure both office and garage doors the night before).

He turned to see the red light on the answerphone glowing from the shadows.

Creed was in two minds whether or not to play back the messages; all he was in the mood for was a drink, a cigarette, and bed. But when you live alone it’s hard not to be curious about messages from the outside world.

He switched on a desk lamp and pressed
PLAYBACK
on the machine. There was only one message:

‘Er, Freddy, Freddy Squires here, Joe. I ran a check on that photograph you gave me today, you know – the nutter at the funeral? I think I said he looked familiar, and Wally Cole thought the same when I showed it to him. As Wally’s been snapping longer than anyone else on this earth I thought he might recollect something. Trouble is, it can’t be who we thought it was, although he’s a dead ringer. Talk to you tomorrow about it.’

The tape stopped, then rewound itself.

Creed flicked through a square leather-covered book on the desk and found the picture editor’s home number. He tapped out the digits and lit a smoke while he waited for the phone to be answered. Eventually it was, and the voice that growled down the line wasn’t happy.

‘Who is it?’

‘Fred, it’s me, Joe Creed.’

‘Are you kid—? D’you know what bloody time it is?’

‘Some of us are still working.’