There was nothing conventionally beautiful about Miss Nyssa Blake, but he didn’t doubt that when she entered a room every eye in the place would swivel in her direction.
‘I wouldn’t rely on sex to put people off,’ he said. On the contrary, he was sure that any suggestion that the lady was free with her favours would have every red-blooded male in the country clamouring to join her action group. ‘I should think money is your best bet. Who’s putting up the money for her campaigns? Quality PR doesn’t come cheap. And the kind of coverage she attracts suggests there’s someone behind it who knows what they’re doing.’
‘Donations from well-wishers, according to the lady.’
‘That’s a lot of good wishes.’
‘We seem to be working on the same wavelength at last, Crosby.’ Parker sat back, a small, satisfied smile momentarily straightening his thin lips. ‘And if you draw a blank on the money side of things maybe you should take a look at her family. Her father was a soldier, killed in the Gulf War and posthumously decorated for bravery. I’m sure his daughter would do anything to protect his good name. And the dead can’t sue for libel.’
‘You can make up your own lies, Parker, you don’t need me for that.’
‘Lies won’t do. Even rumours need a little fuel to feed on if they’re going to do any damage; I need something with at least a grain of truth to glue it together. If you come across any suggestion of other women or money problems in her father’s life, I want to know. Do you understand?’ Parker didn’t wait for a reply, taking his understanding for granted. And Matt Crosby understood. He didn’t much like it, but he understood. ‘Her mother remarried three or four years ago,’ Parker continued, then paused. ‘Her new husband is James Lambert. He’s a property developer, too,’ he added, thoughtfully tapping the file. ‘Nyssa Blake dropped out of university at about the same time. That might be an angle worth pursuing. You’ve got plenty of material to work with—’
‘It’s quality that counts, not quantity.’
‘Everyone has something to hide, Crosby. Something that wouldn’t look too good on the front page of the tabloids. If you can’t find anything on the girl, maybe you can dig up some dirt on her family. There are a couple of stepsisters; one is an actress… I just need a lever. I can apply the pressure myself.’
‘If she doesn’t like the man her mother married she’s hardly likely to back off to protect him or his daughters. Why don’t you just ask her what she wants from you, Parker? It would save time and money in the long term.’
‘Wants?’
‘Well, she knows that she’s not going to win in the end. You’re going to tear down a past-its-sell-by-date cinema and replace it with a supermarket. Maybe a few locals have gone all dewy-eyed with nostalgia, remembering their lost youth spent in the back seats of the stalls, but most of the town would probably rather have the supermarket. All she can do is delay you.’
‘All? Every day that passes is costing me—’ He stopped abruptly but Matt didn’t need to be drawn a picture. The rumours were true; if Parker didn’t get the redevelopment of the site through the local planning committee quickly, he was going to be in serious trouble.
‘So why not ask her what she wants? You never know, keeping the original façade might do it. Try reason, be accommodating. And if you can smile while you’re doing it you might discover that you’ve become the hero and Miss Nyssa Blake will be the one who has to convince her supporters that she hasn’t sold out.’
‘That’s an excellent idea, Crosby. Unfortunately the supermarket has a corporate image; art deco Gaumont style doesn’t even come close. Besides, Nyssa Blake wants the whole thing restored to its former glory. She believes the town needs an entertainment centre more than it needs a new supermarket.’
‘Is it? Needed?’ Parker gave him a sharp look, but since Matt hadn’t expected a straight answer he carried on. ‘Look, this isn’t a six-lane highway being bulldozed through a site of scientific interest. It’s just a local battle with the planners. Small stuff. The media will soon lose interest.’
‘You think so?’ Parker, for the first time since Matt had entered the room, smiled with genuine amusement. ‘I wish I shared your confidence. It might be small stuff, Crosby, but Miss Blake is small in the manner of a mosquito—annoying as hell and quite capable of administering a lethal bite.’
‘Maybe you should call the local pest exterminator.’
‘I have. You.’
‘You’ve been misinformed. I’m considered something of pest myself—’
‘Even pests have to eat, and since I’m reliably informed no one in the City is going to employ you within the foreseeable future…’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not so fussy, and if you find something on the girl that I can use there’ll be a bonus on top of your fee.’ The fee he mentioned was substantial, but nowhere near enough.
‘Your informants are out of date, Parker. You’ll have to double that,’ Matt countered, then smiled briefly. ‘Inflation,’ he offered. Parker said nothing, and Matt had the uncomfortable feeling that he could have asked for more and still have got it. ‘I’ll want ten days’ payment in advance before I start, nonrefundable, and my expenses will be what I need to do the job. No more, no less, no quibble.’ He might not particularly relish this job, but right now he couldn’t afford to be picky; he had research of his own to finance. ‘And no dirty business,’ Matt added, just to reinforce what he’d said earlier about Nyssa Blake being locked in a dungeon with the key thrown away.
‘You think a lot of yourself, Crosby.’ Not true. He thought the chance of finding dirt that would stick to Miss Nyssa Blake rated alongside winning the National Lottery, or the discovery of a hoard of Celtic gold jewellery beneath the concrete yard at the rear of his flat, or even a credit balance in his bank account. All things were possible…but the odds were against it. ‘Cash isn’t a problem, is it? I’d prefer to keep this unofficial.’ Parker took a pack of banknotes from a small concealed safe.
‘So long as the ink’s dry,’ Matt replied wryly, taking one of the notes and flicking it through his fingers as if testing its veracity. ‘It all goes through my books—’ his enemies would enjoy seeing him on the wrong side of an Inland Revenue audit ‘—but what you do this end is no concern of mine.’ He stowed the money about the pockets of his suit, picked up the file and nodded. ‘You’ll be hearing from me.’
Image is everything. Nyssa had learned that at her first press conference. Eighteen years old, her hair had been cropped punk-short then, henna-bright against the hastily applied ivory-pale make-up, the black dress borrowed for the occasion from one of her stepsisters.
It had been pure drama and the press had loved her for it. She’d learned a lot that day about image and what it could do for a cause, and she’d abandoned charity store cast-offs and taken on the establishment on its own terms. These days there were developers who backed away from anything she showed an interest in. People took her seriously.
Presumably Charles Parker had thought a neglected cinema would be beneath her notice.
Image. Nyssa stared at her reflection in the mirror. She’d grown out the cropped hair to the briefest of sleek pageboy bobs, but it was still bright red. These days, though, the effect was the result of regular visits to a Knightsbridge crimpers rather than the enthusiastic use of her mother’s dressmaking shears and a packet of henna.
Her naturally pale complexion was accentuated by bright red lips that rarely smiled. And now that solemnity too was part of her image.
She sprayed herself with her favourite scent, with its luscious green topnote of gardenia, and turned to the elegant designer dress hanging over the wardrobe door. Black. Of course.
Fine