The Run-Out Groove Page 5

  On the other hand, perhaps they were hoping that the strange noises would lead to more food.

  “And perhaps a little light shopping,” added Nevada, putting the bag of cat biscuits back in the cupboard.

  “No shoes,” I said.

  “You don’t have to worry about that. There are no charity shops in Docklands.” Then she stopped and smiled a sunny smile, perhaps contemplating the inevitable collapse of capitalism. “At least not yet.”

  We strolled across the common and caught the train to Waterloo, then walked through the cavernous modernist spaces of the station to the gleaming entrance to the Jubilee Line, the newest and shiniest segment of London’s underground railway. “You know what I like best about the Jubilee Line?” said Nevada, as we descended to the eastbound spur.

  “The fact that it features sliding Perspex doors that seal the passengers on the platform away from the track and thereby prevent annoying suicides that slow everybody down?”

  “No, but that’s now my new favourite thing about it.”

  The train carried us east into the heart of Docklands. We got out at Canary Wharf and rode the long escalator up into daylight. Turning away from the water, we walked through Jubilee Park, a small green rectangle of grass and trees that had been mercifully spared by the skyscraper enthusiasts. Nevada took my arm.

  “This is where I’m proposing we have lunch afterwards. Get some sandwiches and eat them here.”

  “So long as we’re not attacked by pigeons. Or bankers.”

  We walked across Grime Street—a reassuring name amidst this mass of gleaming glass and polished steel—and back towards the water. We walked along Montgomery Street paralleling the water, then crossed it, past another block of glass skyscrapers to Cartier Circle, a rather more appropriate name for the neighbourhood.

  I was wondering about property prices as we came to a large open expanse of water with houseboats tethered in it and, facing the marina, a small residential street.

  “How much do you suppose it costs for one of these bijou residences?” said Nevada.

  “I was just wondering exactly that.”

  “Nic Vardy can’t be hurting for a few bob.”

  “Photographing the rich and famous must have worked out for him.”

  “The rich and famous and album covers,” said Nevada.

  We came to the house on the corner, which was Vardy’s address. Actually ‘house’ doesn’t quite describe it. It was a sizable two-level apartment occupying a large part of the first two floors of—wait for it—a glass skyscraper.

  It had floor-to-ceiling windows, some of which were sealed from view with floor-to-ceiling blinds in primary colours. This gave the place the look of a Mondrian canvas from the outside while offering, from the inside, a dramatic view of the water.

  We checked the address we had against the number of the front door, which was a big slab of pale wood varnished to reveal the beauty of its grain. There was a peephole at eye level and a bell just below it.

  Nevada and I looked at each other. She straightened my lapel and gave me a brisk kiss and then we rang the bell. It echoed in the depths of the house. We waited. Then we waited some more.

  “Do you think we should knock?” said Nevada.

  “On the principle that he might have some kind of selective deafness that renders him unable to hear the doorbell, but able to hear a knock?”

  Nevada shrugged. I knocked. Nothing.

  “Well, we’re early,” said Nevada.

  I checked the time. “No we’re not.”

  “Well, we’re not late. Which by the standards of these people is early.”

  “Which people are these?”

  “The fashionable people,” said Nevada. “They’re fashionably late.”

  I checked the time again. “Well, if he doesn’t get a move on he’s going to be unfashionably late.”

  Nevada sighed and we waited. And waited. What else could we do?

  We wandered to the edge of the water and stared out over the marina. “It’s a lovely day,” said Nevada in a determinedly cheerful voice. I could tell that, deep down, she was as doubtful as I was that this fucker was going to turn up for our appointment. I gazed out at some birds splashing happily in the water. At least they were enjoying themselves.

  I said, “Should we phone him?”

  “Give him a little longer.”

  We gave him a lot longer. I began to get pissed off and Nevada set about distracting me. “Shall we see a film here afterwards? They have a cinema at West India Quay. We can choose a film to see.” She took out her smartphone. “Let’s see what’s on.”

  This was a clever move, because there was no way I was going to let her choose a film without my input. Nevada shared my love of movies but, fatally, she was a sucker for anything esoteric, pretentious or subtitled—any two out of three would do. This penchant of hers had led to many an enjoyable shared experience in the cinema. It had also, on occasion, led to us sitting, interminably sitting, through what I now liked to recall—indeed only could recall—as the Sicilian movie about goat milking with the giant vegetables.

  “Here, let me see what’s on,” I said quickly.

  But even bickering about our choice of film could only occupy so much time. Soon enough we found ourselves again standing outside Nic Vardy’s empty house, waiting in the cold breeze blowing off the water. I gazed out at the marina to hide my anger.

  “Ring him,” I said, finally.

  Near the houseboats, the birds were busy ducking and diving. A lone man leaned against the railing watching them. “No reply,” said Nevada. “Went straight to voicemail.” A passenger jet trundled high overhead, leaving a glistening white vapour trail. “What should we do?” The man moved closer to the birds and something gleamed in his hands. At first I thought he was feeding them, but then I realised he was holding a camera. He was photographing the birds. “Should we wait?”

  I turned to Nevada and shrugged. “What else can we do?”

  The birds, perhaps disturbed by the man’s attention, lifted, flapping from the water, flew a short distance and settled in the water again, virtually at our feet. They were sleek black birds with white trim and striking red-orange beaks with white tips.

  “Aren’t they lovely?” said Nevada, eager to forestall any suggestions from me that we should just go home and call it a day. Which I was indeed just on the verge of offering.

  I watched the birds with her for a while. “We’ve got some ducks like that on our estate,” I said. “They swim in Beverley Brook.”

  “They’re not ducks,” said a voice. “They’re moorhens.” We turned to see the man standing there. He had walked the length of the marina and joined us. He was dressed all in black with a neat black corduroy cap. His hair and Van Dyke beard were also jet black, and dramatically angular, giving him a cultivated satanic appearance. The camera was hanging on a strap around his neck. It was an old-fashioned but very expensive- and professional-looking analog camera.

  A camera.

  Finally I put two and two together. “Nic Vardy,” I said.

  “Of course,” said Nevada, “Mr Vardy.”

  “We had an appointment,” I said. But before I could indicate my displeasure at being kept waiting, Nevada took his hand and said, “We are so pleased to see you.”

  “Sorry, I’m running a little late,” said Vardy over his shoulder as he walked to the door of his house. As off-hand apologies went, this one took the cake. He was more than a little late, and if he’d known he was running late why had he paused to photograph waterfowl? These and other thoughts ran through my mind as he opened the door and we followed him inside. Nevada must have sensed my mood because she shot me a warning look as he closed the door behind us. Despite the austere glass and steel of the place, it was warm and snug inside.

  “It’s the white spot at the tip of the beak that gives them away,” said Vardy, taking off his cap and coat. He looked at me in case I didn’t get it. “The moorhens.” He hung
up his cap and coat then turned and walked upstairs and left us to decide whether we should also take off our coats and hang them up or scamper immediately after him. We followed him up the stairs and into a long lounge with a wide window overlooking the water. The white wall at the back of the room, facing the window, was hung with photographs in chrome frames. All of these, I assumed, were his own handiwork.

  Vardy settled onto a green leather sofa, sprawling in the centre of it with arms spread wide across the back. This left us to sit in two red leather armchairs, spaced widely apart, facing him. Divide and conquer, I thought. We unbuttoned our coats and sat down. We were sitting either side of him but Vardy continued to stare straight ahead, through the window, not looking at either of us. Apparently we weren’t sufficiently important to make eye contact.

  “So, how can I help?”

  Well, for a start by looking at us when you talk to us, I thought. But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t trust myself to. Instead I took a cue from our host and avoided looking at his face, studying the wall behind him. To my surprise, considering the number of celebrities Vardy had snapped over the years, all of the photographs were of animals.

  Birds, in fact.

  “Well,” said Nevada, “as you know, we’re researching a programme for Stinky Stanmer Enterprises, concerning the singer Valerian.”

  “Valerian?” said Nic Vardy. “Why?”

  “Well,” said Nevada, “because she’s a fascinating figure in the history of rock music. Of British rock music.” She flashed me a look to make sure she wasn’t getting any of this too wrong. “A great singer. A great British singer. And a fascinating personality.”

  “I mean, why now?” said Vardy.

  “Why now?” repeated Nevada.

  Vardy sighed, a tired, disgusted sigh as though he was watching someone take a piss off one of the houseboats into the beautiful blue water of his marina. “There has to be a hook. You people always have to have a hook for these things. What is the occasion?”

  “The occasion…” said Nevada, desperately playing for time.

  Vardy shook his head. “You people love anniversaries. There’s no anniversary coming up; not of Valerian’s birthday, not of the formation of the band…” He obviously had a very good memory for dates and Nevada had just strayed into quicksand.

  I did a quick calculation in my head. “It’s the anniversary of the album being released,” I said. “Their last album. All the Cats Love Valerian.” Nevada gave me a quick look of profound gratitude. And of course it was also the anniversary of Valerian’s death. But something stopped me saying that.

  Vardy considered this, then nodded. “All right, so what do you want from me?”

  “Your thoughts and memories,” said Nevada.

  He turned and looked directly at her for the first time. He smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. “My thoughts and memories.”

  “Concerning Valerian,” I said. “You knew her quite well.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” He was staring out the window again. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that at all.”

  “But you took all those marvellous pictures of her,” said Nevada. “Like that wonderful cover photo for All the Cats Love Valerian.”

  Vardy shrugged. “Just because you take someone’s picture doesn’t mean you know anything about them. In a way, you know less about them after you’ve photographed them. Because in the act of taking the photograph you’ve abstracted something. You’ve taken something away.”

  This was clearly a pet theory of his, and I hoped that by airing these cherished vapourings he was beginning to open up to us. But he immediately fell silent again.

  “I really love that photo,” said Nevada, gently nudging him back into conversation. But he just smiled a thin smile and stared out at the water. “I believe it was banned,” said Nevada. “The album was banned because of that cover image.”

  “That’s right.”

  “We’re particularly interested in the final weekend of her life,” I said. He turned and stared at me. Ah, eye contact at last. I could see that Nevada wasn’t sure I should have said this, but what the hell. There seemed little point pussyfooting around, not least since the bastard didn’t appear inclined to give us any help anyway.

  “Why?” he said.

  “Because it obviously ties in with the recording of the last album,” said Nevada hopefully. Vardy looked at her, then at me. He was grinning aggressively now. He glanced towards the stairway, the exit, and I realised we were on the verge of being invited to leave the house.

  “So,” he said, “it wouldn’t be anything to do with a lurid desire to rake up a lot of old muck and slime about how she died and what happened to her poor kid, to put it in this programme of yours and exploit it all and wring out the last fucking drop of blood and pain and suffering?”

  There was a long, tense silence during which Nevada and I looked at each other. I took a deep breath and turned to him and said, “Well, of course that’s exactly Stinky’s angle, because that’s the kind of pinhead he is.” Vardy had been moving forward on the sofa, shifting his weight as he was about to come to his feet. But this stopped him in his tracks.

  “Pinhead?” he said.

  “Oh yes,” said Nevada, nimbly joining in. “What an insufferable jerk.”

  He looked at us, a little bewildered, and settled back down onto the sofa. “I thought you said you work for him.”

  Nevada smiled. “Work with him.”

  He stared at me. “What exactly do the two of you do?”

  “I’m the senior researcher,” I said.

  “And I’m the producer,” said Nevada. Of course she had to be one rung up the ladder from me. He was staring at her and to my amazement and relief I could see that he was beginning to buy it.

  “But don’t you have to…” he gestured vaguely with his hands, “at least pretend to respect him, his opinions, Stinky Stanmer?”

  “Oh no, we’re very forthright about that,” said Nevada. “We’re more like independent consultants for Mr Stanmer rather than his wage slaves.”

  Vardy shook his head, grinning happily. “I assumed if you were working for the guy you would at least have to pretend to respect him.”

  “Not at all,” said Nevada breezily.

  “But I’m afraid we still have to pursue the angle of the last weekend of her life,” I said.

  Nevada nodded, right on cue. “They’re very insistent on that. Stinky and his cabal. You know the disgusting bloodlust of these people. They always want to sensationalise.”

  “Although we’re going to strongly recommend to the network that we don’t go that way,” I added.

  Nevada nodded again. “That’s right. We’ll do our best to curb his vile impulses. You know what Stinky’s like.”

  Vardy nodded like he did. He looked at us and got to his feet. “Okay. Let me see what I can dig out. Follow me. Can I get you something to drink?” We followed him, Nevada beaming at me and silently mouthing the words, Something to drink.

  We had evidently all bonded over our hatred of Stinky.

  * * *

  Vardy’s work room was south-facing and full of light. There was a desk at one end with a computer on it and the rest of the room was crowded with the kind of low table-surfaced cupboards with flat drawers, called plan chests, that you find in architectural practices. The walls in here were also lined with photographs of birds.

  Now that I had a chance to look at them more closely I was impressed. They caught quite strikingly the magnificence of these creatures, freezing them in moments of characteristic motion and casual splendour. They were beautiful.

  At the far end of the room, incongruously, there was a locked glass case with half a dozen expensive shotguns in it. Vardy caught me looking at them and said, “I was a kid from the East End who got rich very quickly and fell in with the wrong people.” He grinned at me. “Bankers and stockbrokers and managing directors. I started smoking their cigars and drinking their whisky and g
oing with them to their houses on the weekends. The green wellies brigade. And we used to go shooting. I loved getting up early and the fresh air and the cold and the feeling of excitement. And those birds looked so beautiful, flying, just before we knocked them out of the fucking sky.” He shook his head ruefully. “I hated killing the birds, but I loved everything else about it. Finally the penny dropped and I realised I could keep the bit I loved and get rid of the bit I hated.”

  “By photographing the birds instead of shooting them,” said Nevada.

  “That’s right, shooting them with a camera.” He sighed. “You would have thought a fucking photographer could have worked that out a little more quickly.” He touched the lock on the glass case. “Never shot one since. Not a living animal.” He turned to us. “Still do a little skeet shooting, though.”

  “I hope you wear your ear defenders,” said Nevada.

  He smiled at her. Nevada’s nefarious charm was finally starting to penetrate his defences. “Yeah I do,” he said. “Now, let’s see, Valerian…” He prowled between the rows of plan chests, checking the labels on the drawers. “I’ve had some interns in here, sorting everything out. The big project these days of course is making digital scans of all my slides and negatives. So I’ve got some young and enthusiastic help.” He suddenly turned and squatted by one of the chests, then shook his head. “Nope.” He rose and continued prowling.

  “You don’t have to show us the photographs immediately,” said Nevada. “You could just talk to us about those days…”

  “I do have to show you the photographs, darling,” said Vardy. “Otherwise I won’t be able to remember anything to talk about. It’s a funny thing. They say smell is the strongest stimulator for memory, but for me it’s definitely a visual thing.” He paused, then crouched down again. “Here,” he said, pulling out a drawer. “Valerian.”

  We went over to join him. “That’s odd,” he said. Looking over his shoulder we could see the white surface of the empty drawer, with just one photograph, about eight by ten inches, lying face-down in it. “They should all be in here.” I felt my stomach shrink into a cold knot.