Hide & Seek

With a smile she left the room, off to the kitchen or darkroom to fill a kettle.

‘So,’ said Hutton. ‘What can I do for you?’

That was another thing about the man. His voice was high, not shrill or girlish, just high. And slightly rasping, as though he had damaged his vocal cords at some point in his youth and they had never recovered.

‘Mr Hutton?’ Holmes needed to be sure. Hutton nodded.

‘Jimmy Hutton, professional photographer, at your service. You’re getting married and you want me to do you a discount?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘A portrait then. Girlfriend perhaps? Mum and dad?’

‘No, this is business, I’m afraid. My business, that is.’

‘But no new business for me, right?’ Hutton smiled, chanced another glance towards Holmes, drew on his cigarette again. ‘I could do a portrait of you, you know. Nice strong chin, decent cheekbones. With the proper lighting—–’

‘No, thanks. I hate having my picture taken.’

‘I’m not talking about pictures.’ Hutton was moving now, circling the desk. ‘I’m talking about art.’

‘That’s why I came here actually.’

‘What?’

‘Art. I was impressed by some of your photos I saw in a newspaper. I was wondering whether you might be able to help me.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s a missing person.’ Holmes was not a great liar. His ears tingled when he told a real whopper. Not a great liar, but a good one. ‘A young man called Ronnie McGrath.’

‘Name doesn’t mean anything.’

‘He wanted to be a photographer, that’s why I was wondering.’

‘Wondering what?’

‘If he’d ever come to you. You know, asking advice, that sort of thing. You’re an established name, after all.’ It was almost too blatant. Holmes could sense it: could sense Hutton just about realising what the game was. But vanity won in the end.

‘Well,’ the photographer said, leaning against the desk, folding his arms, crossing his legs, sure of himself. ‘What did he look like, this Ronnie?’

‘Tallish, short brown hair. Liked to do studies. You know the sort of thing, the Castle, Calton Hill.

‘Are you a photographer yourself, Inspector?’

‘I’m only a constable.’ Holmes smiled, pleased by the error. Then caught himself: what if Hutton were trying to play the vanity game with him? ‘And no, I’ve never really

done much photography. Holiday snaps, that sort of thing.’

‘Sugar?’ Christine put her head around the door, smiling at Holmes again.

‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘Just milk.’

‘Put a drop of whisky in mine,’ said Hutton. ‘There’s a love.’ He winked towards the door as it closed again. ‘Sounds familiar, I have to admit. Ronnie. .. . Studies of the Castle. Yes, yes. I do remember some young guy coming in, bloody pest he was. I was doing a portfolio, some long-term stuff. Mind had to be one hundred percent on the job. He was always coming round, asking to see me, wanting to show me his work.’ Hutton raised his hands apologetically. ‘I mean, we were all young once. I wish I could have helped him. But I didn’t have the time, not right then.’

‘You didn’t look at his work?’

‘No. No time, as I say. He stopped coming by after a few weeks.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Few months. Three or four.’

The secretary appeared with their coffees. Holmes could smell the whisky wafting out of Hutton’s mug, and was jealous and repelled in equal measure. Still, the interview was going well enough. Time for a side road.

‘Thanks, Christine,’ he said, seeming to please her with the familiarity. She sat down, not drinking herself, and lit a cigarette. He thought for a moment of reaching out to light it for her, but held back.

‘Look,’ said Hutton. ‘I’d like to be of assistance, but.. . .’

‘You’re a busy man.’ Holmes nodded agreement. ‘I really do appreciate your giving me any time at all. Anyway, that just about wraps it up.’ He took a scalding mouthful of coffee, but dared not spit it back into the mug, so swallowed hard instead.

‘Right,’ said Hutton, rising from the edge of the desk.

‘Oh,’ said Holmes. ‘Just one thing. Curiosity really, but is there any chance I could have a peek at your studio? I’ve never been in a proper studio before.’

Hutton looked at Christine, who muffled a smile behind her fingers as she pretended to puff on her cigarette.

‘Sure,’ he said, smiling himself. ‘Why not? Come on.’

The room was large, but otherwise pretty much as Holmes had expected, excepting one significant detail. Half a dozen different types of camera stood on half a dozen tripods. There were photographs covering three of the walls, and against the fourth was a large white backcloth, looking suspiciously like a bedsheet. This was all obvious enough. However, in front of the backcloth had been arranged the set for Hutton’s present ‘portfolio’: two large, freestanding sections, painted pink. And in front of these was a chair, against which, arms folded, stood a young, blonde and bored-looking man.

A man who was naked.

‘Detective Holmes, this is Arnold,’ said Hutton by way of introduction. ‘Arnold is a male model. Nothing wrong, is there?’

Holmes, who had been staring, now tried not to. The blood was rising to his face. He turned to Hutton.