‘You must know,’ said Moomie with a serene smile and a wave of her arm, ‘these lovely musicians it is my privilege to work with. Mike Manifold on guitar, Cornish Pete on bass, Sticks Karanikis, drums.’
The trio nodded, absently. Professional musicians rarely look up above their score-sheets and then only to talk to each other – there wasn’t any point in wasting time getting to know them.
‘Gorgeous, Moomie,’ said Terry, seizing the initiative, ‘you put a special dress on for me! You look a million dollars! Harrods, is it?’
He said it ‘’Arrods’.
‘C&A, darling. Cost me five guineas.’
‘Gorgeous,’ burbled Terry. You couldn’t tell whether he meant it, or whether it was the standard snapper-patter to create an early intimacy between lensman and subject. Betty had heard it a million times before and wandered off in search of a cup of coffee.
Terry launched into his routine – flattering, cajoling, instructing, begging – and Moomie happily went along with it, her queen-size laugh and roistering personality turning the event into a lively celebration.
‘You’re a bit gorgeous yourself, Terry,’ she said, pouting her lips and leaning forward.
‘Fantastic!’ panted Terry, as he threw himself onto his back on the dance-floor to get the up-shot.
‘Fabulous! Can you spare a couple of tickets for tonight, Moomie?’
‘Have a dozen, darling!’ she laughed, batting her eyelids. And so the courtly ritual continued for the next twenty minutes. The pair may never meet again, but for this short span they had been lovers in all but fact. Such is the compact between photographer and celebrity – a secret contract which no reporter could ever be part of, since photographers flattered and wooed while the scribblers just asked damned awkward questions.
‘Contessa,’ snapped Moomie in answer to Betty’s first question. ‘Strongest support in the business. I’ll give you the name of my fitter if you want.’
Betty blushed – had her intention been quite so transparent? – and stumbled on into the interview. Meanwhile Terry wandered over to the musicians who were lighting cigarettes and drinking cups of tea.
‘One word from me and she does what she likes,’ said Mike Manifold, the band leader, nodding at Moomie.
‘We don’t normally do requests, unless we’re asked,’ added Cornish Pete.
‘You must understand – our music is far better than it sounds,’ said Karanikis.
Terry grasped that these were musicians’ jokes, a polite way of telling him to shove off. The trio really only wanted to sit there moaning at each other – about the management, the accommodation, the number of encores they were expected to play before going into overtime, and the next recording session. So he dutifully strolled off, back out to the lavish entrance hall, with its wide sweeping staircase and important-looking sculpture. He paused for a moment, then went over to the receptionist.
‘Will you tell the lady reporter I’ll be back in a little while? She’ll be half an hour or more with the band. I won’t be long.’
He loaded his camera bag into the boot and drove off through the gates. It took no more than two minutes to arrive at the entrance to Buntorama where he left the Minor in the car park, and strolled away without any apparent purpose. Over in the distance he could hear the funfair going at full tilt, the screams from the helter-skelter cutting through the still morning air.
Terry had a pocket camera with him – he rarely went anywhere without it – and as if to justify his presence in the camp took a handful of snaps. There were a few pretty girls, a couple of irritable pensioners, and a lively group of teenagers. A man and woman got very cross and swiftly parted when he levelled the camera at them – moral trappitude, thought Terry, and moved on.
Soon he reached the management block and, led by instinct, he walked up the steps. There in a corner sat Bobby Bunton in his braces, and Bert Baggs with a tragic look on his face. He thought he’d wander over and have a word with the King, but His Majesty was too busy holding court. So Terry sat down behind a potted fern and waited his moment, watching the dust particles slide through the bright sunlight in their gradual descent to earth. It would take an f1 at 1/24, he calculated, to capture that.
‘. . . then he said to me, “She died on your property, how’s that going to look?”’ This was Bunton’s voice, though since sitting down Terry could no longer see the two men.
‘What we going to do, boss?’
‘It’s blackmail. Blackmail! And all because I…’
‘It wasn’t you, boss,’ came Baggs’ sycophantic tones, ‘it was ’er.’
‘Hardly matters now. This has never, ever, happened before. And just as I’ve got the Archbishop of York to come and do the Sunday service!’
‘’E won’t know, boss. Not as if this is going to end up in the newspapers.’
‘But it is, Bert, it is! We’ve only had the local rag round so far, but in another twenty-four hours the whole of Fleet Street will be here – soaking up our hospitality, writing innuendoes, behaving in that rotten two-faced way they do.’
‘You’ll win ’em round, you always do. Don’t forget we’ve had dead ’uns before,’ came Baggs’ reply. ‘Remember that couple up in Essex…’
‘That was different! They shouldn’t have tried that out!’
‘Within the privacy of their own bedroom, boss!’
‘Oh, shut up!’ burst out Bunton. ‘This is different, I tell you – this woman, dead in bed, bullet through the chest. We might get away with that but the fact that nobody knows who the devil she is suddenly turns it from routine into Page One. Put mystery in a headline and things turn nasty. Trust me, I know.’
‘Well, what are you going to say to – you know?’ said Baggs.
‘I wouldn’t put it past him to go public. It’ll ruin me – finish the business. The Archbishop of York, Bert, the Archbishop!’
‘We can always cancel him.’
‘How will that look when Fleet Street gets a hold of it?’
‘If only I’d known,’ said Baggs dolefully, ‘I’d never have let her in in the place. She looked an odd ’un, sounded it too. I blame myself.’
‘Go on doing that and you’ll be out of a job. You’ve got to help me think of something – and quick!’
Things suddenly went silent and when Terry looked up, there was Bobby Bunton standing over Terry with a thunderous look on his face. ‘What the fuffin’ fuff are you doing here?’ he demanded.
Eagleton, a cool hand in times of crisis, looked up with a relaxed smile on his face. ‘You know, Mr Bunton, those pictures I took last week of you and Miss Janetti turned out so well I thought I’d drop some prints off. Might look nice in a frame on your desk.’
Bunton eyed him sideways. ‘OK,’ he said suspiciously. ‘Thank you. Where are they?’
‘Back in the car,’ lied Terry with a smile. ‘Just wanted to make sure you were here first.’
‘Well, give them to Baggs. I’m going off for lunch.’
‘I will, sir. And…’
‘Yes?’
‘Miss Janetti, sir. The editor asked if she would do a separate interview, talking about her life as a dancer. A few more nice photos. Wouldn’t take up too much of her time, make a nice Women’s Page feature.’
‘Fix it up with Baggs,’ said Bunton, still uneasy.