The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9 Part 20

He didn't see it coming but he felt his cheek sting as the slap landed.

It was the kind of slap he liked. Reminded him of who he was. Where he came from. "Thanks, Mum.'

He gave her a kiss on the forehead and ran up to his room without needing to be told, a great big grin spread right across his face.

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT.

Zoe Sharp.

A LONG TIME ago, when Angel was just starting out in the business, an old pro she met lurking in a doorway opposite the Russian emba.s.sy in Paris laid down the Rules of Engagement. "Get in. Take the shot. Get out," he'd said, with the careful solemnity of a man not quite sober at ten o'clock in the morning.

To this advice Angel had since added a bitter rider of her own.

Always get the money.

The fees for Angel's particular line of work were elastic, only sometimes connected to the difficulty of the shot. In this case, the money was nowhere near enough to justify attempting to evade capture across 200 acres of jealously guarded parkland in Buckinghams.h.i.+re. Not for an off-chance glimpse of her targets at the limit of her operational range.

There was only so much she could do for a decent covert photo even with a 1000mm mirror lens.

"So, what exactly," she'd demanded of George, when she'd b.u.t.tonholed him in his office on the thirtieth floor and wheedled the a.s.signment out of him, "are you expecting from this?"

"Pictures of the happy couple holding hands, bit of snogging maybe," said the rumpled little man who was her occasional employer, scratching his chin. "Wouldn't hope for much else. The groom-to-be isn't so love-struck that he hasn't twisted a deal with Blackley's for piccies of the nuptials themselves. They'll have that chapel sewn up tighter than a fish's armpit."

"How much?" Angel perched on the edge of George's desk, reaching for one of her Turkish cigarettes.

George, a forty-year nicotine addict, yelped "Don't!" jerking his eyes upwards. "They've turned up the sensitivity on the sprinkler system again b.a.s.t.a.r.ds." He nipped the unlit cigarette out of Angel's fingers and threw it into the filing cabinet behind him. He'd known her long enough to know she'd light up anyway, just to watch the indoor rain.

"How much is Blackley paying, George?" she asked now, voice husky.

George s.h.i.+vered. That voice went straight through him, plugged into his cerebral cortex and set his nerve endings quivering. She knew exactly what effect it had even on men a whole lot younger and less susceptible. He was determined it wouldn't get to him not this time.

"A mil," he blurted, to his own dismay. "Look, what's this to you, Angel? This is no bent judge or perverted politician. Just some pop star and some actress. I thought you hated celebrity fluff? You of all people."

Angel raised an eyebrow, jiggling the little silver hoop through the corner, and snagged the job sheet off the pile.

"You remember when those pictures came out?" she said eventually, seemingly fascinated by the view behind the desk, out over Canary Wharf. "Of me-"

"I remember," George cut in softly.

"Blackley syndicated them," she said, flat. She turned her gaze back on to him. Her eyes were startling violet today, with the slightest s.h.i.+mmer. "That's what put him on the map. Anything I can do to wipe him off it again will be worth it."

She slid off the desk and headed for the door with that long catwalk stride she'd never lost.

"Angel! Hey, kiddo, I-"

At the doorway she stopped, turned back with a wicked, dazzling smile.

"Trust me, George. Get a deal, and I'll get you pictures," she promised. "Besides, Johnny Franz is not just some pop star. He has a certain ... reputation. Maybe I just want to see for myself, up close and personal, if he deserves it."

Now, lying under a rhododendron bush only 400 metres from the great west wing of the house, Angel began to question her breezy confidence.

The tabloids had whipped themselves to a frenzy for months over the "Wedding of the Year". Johnny Franz was a playboy rock star whose ego matched his prodigious talent with a Fender Stratocaster. Born on a council estate in Sheffield, he'd shrugged off his working-cla.s.s beginnings further with every platinum disk.

Johnny's chosen bride was Caro Urquart, an English beauty whose tiny, perfect figure was made for crinoline and corsets, and she had the genuine cut-gla.s.s accent to match. Her diminutive stature ensuring all her leading men seemed giants by comparison was just one reason behind her international stardom.

They'd met at a Hollywood party and, oblivious to the eyes of the gossip press, struck instant sparks. By midnight they'd flown down to his villa in Mexico by private jet, ostensibly to watch the sunrise. n.o.body had seen either of them for a solid week.

And now they were tying the knot at the bride's family estate, with all the pomp their fame and wealth could supply. Johnny's PR guru had issued a statement declaring he'd found his true love, was finally ready to settle down. Caro's studio press release claimed she'd never been happier and didn't care who knew it.

Blackley's picture agency paid seven figures for exclusive rights to the wedding photos, and hired an army of security to make sure n.o.body else got a look-in.

But that didn't mean Angel couldn't try.

Getting into the grounds hadn't been hard. Guile and flattery, for the most part, learned during the time Angel had spent taking her clothes off for a living. Even now, something of that former life exuded through her pores like raw s.e.x.

The dogs hadn't caused her undue problems, either. She'd found the kennels the first night and bribed the motley collection of hounds. When they picked up her scent on their rounds they reacted as to a canine friend rather than an intruder. The handlers tugged the animals away, whining, from any proximity to her hiding place.

But Angel was bored. And boredom brought a restless recklessness that made those who knew her check nervously for the nearest emergency exit. She'd been here three nights without a sniff. Now, the sun had risen on the big day and she'd failed to snap a single frame. She was, she recognized, probably on the verge of doing something stupid.

And then somebody else did it for her.

She heard laughter. A girlie giggle, coquettish, pretending shock but hiding an edge of triumph. Angel recognized the giggle of a woman who's leading a man by the b.a.l.l.s and both of them know it, and neither of them care.

She felt the slight tremble of footsteps through the earth beneath her. A pair of shapely female legs, clad in pale stockings, came within a metre of Angel's nose, picking carefully through the dewed gra.s.s, careful of telltale stains on the dainty satin shoes. The man's legs were in official pinstripe morning dress.

They pa.s.sed close enough for her to smell their excitement.

The bride's mother was known as an uptight aristocrat who would never countenance the happy couple sharing a suite in antic.i.p.ation. Maybe that was why they'd evaded their own babysitters for this last, unfettered quickie.

Angel kept her head down until the legs had gone by, squirmed round in time to see the couple weaving away across the billiard-table lawn. There was no mistaking the trademark wild black hair of Johnny Franz.

As soon as they were too far to hear the whirr, Angel brought the camera up to her eye and kept the shutter pressed.

The Canon digital she was using was capable of ten frames a second and buffered just as fast. She took a long sequence of the couple's back view, their hands all over each other.

The gardens had been laid out in the mid-1800s, a vast testament to formal good taste, manicured within an inch of its life. At the end of the impossibly vibrant lawn, invisible from the main residence, was a wooden summer-house, built on a distant whim and rarely used. Angel knew entire families in Brixton who could have moved in and luxuriated in the extra s.p.a.ce.

The couple headed for the summer-house with clear intent, oblivious, almost grappling in their urgency. Johnny Franz had his hands up his intended's skirts and Angel wondered if they would even wait until they got inside.

George is going to want to have my children for this.

And then, just as he grabbed for the door, Johnny swung the girl around so that Angel's telephoto lens got a clear shot of her face for the first time, and she realized that wasn't all her boss was going to have. A heart attack, most likely.

Because the still-giggling girl Johnny pushed into the summerhouse was not who she was supposed to be. The long blonde hair was a similar shade and length, but the face was not the one that stared down from billboards and buses all over London. Angel checked the playback just to be sure, but there was no doubt.

So, Johnny Franz was cheating on his beautiful, famous bride on the morning of their wedding with, unless Angel was very much mistaken, one of the bridesmaids.

Even as the door closed behind them, Angel levered up, grabbing the padded backpack that held a second camera body, attached to a mid-length zoom lens. For this, she intended getting as close as she dared.

She sprinted across the gra.s.s. If the way Johnny had been tugging at the bridesmaid's dress was anything to go by, he wasn't planning a slow seduction.

The summer-house had two windows and Angel edged closer to one where the light would fall without the need for flash, not if she b.u.mped up the ISO speed just a touch. For what she was about to give him, George could put up with a little noise in the pictures. Too perfect and they looked fake.

There was nothing fake going on inside the summer-house. By the time Angel silently set down her bag, raising the viewfinder to her eye, Johnny had the bridesmaid thrust face down over a stack of lounger cus.h.i.+ons, her skirts thrown over her back.

With his trousers halfway down his skinny thighs, Angel could just make out yet another tattoo added to Johnny's collection since Vanity Fair shot him coyly naked for their best-selling summer issue. The name "Caro" in gothic script across his left hip. Angel shot a decent close-up, just in case there were any later accusations of Photoshop.

Johnny reached forwards and wrapped his hand in the girl's hair like taking up the reins of a horse. He dragged her head back, his teeth bared in what might have been a snarl.

This isn't about the s.e.x, Angel thought. This has never been about the s.e.x.

She lowered the camera and stumbled back, knowing she'd got more than enough, seen more than enough. Knowing, too, that she wouldn't clear the foul taste from her mouth, even if she gargled with Stolichnaya for a fortnight.

She scooped up her pack and ran for the trees. By the time the couple re-emerged, less urgent but more furtive, adjusting their clothing, Angel had the memory card bluetoothed to her Blackberry and uploading to her secure home server. Even if they caught her now, trashed her gear as they had before it would be too late.

She s.h.i.+fted back to the telephoto and took a series of them walking away. From this she surmised the bridesmaid had not altogether enjoyed the experience. Not enough to overcome an instant blossom of guilt. She hurried, flushed, awkward, not waiting when Johnny paused infuriatingly to dip his head and light a cigarette as if he'd all the time in the world.

Through the pin-sharp magnification of the lens, crosshaired by the focusing array, Angel watched him track the bridesmaid's hasty retreat as he blew out the first wreath of smoke. He didn't raise his head, but something about the predatory watchfulness of those legendary ice-blue eyes made her skin s.h.i.+mmy. Then he flicked the spent match into a nearby ornamental fountain, and he smiled.

That was what did it.

In her s.p.a.cious bedroom suite at the top of the east wing, Caro Urquart fussed with her hair. When she and Johnny first met, the length and the colour and the weight of it had captivated him.

She'd been preparing for another wretched period drama Africa this time. Growing her own hair was less c.u.mbersome, less hot, than using one of her selection of wigs.

Normally, the first thing she would have done after the final wrap party would have been to visit her stylist in New York for a total makeover. Her screen agent warned her keeping static wasn't good for her career. "You mustn't risk typecasting, darling," he'd fretted at Cannes. "You have to keep reinventing yourself."

But when Johnny played her the hastily mixed demo for the new alb.u.m, featuring "The Girl with the Sun in Her Hair" as t.i.tle track and debut single, how could she have it cut or dyed? The song had debuted at number one, the alb.u.m following suit, and Johnny had given her the platinum disc as a keepsake.

Besides, once they were married she'd be cherry-picking roles anyway. On Jay Leno, Johnny declared he liked the idea of a working wife, but she knew that was just image talking. That secretly he'd be delighted to have her on the road with him, touring with the band for part of the year, at least. Besides, she'd heard the rumours about those groupies ...

Caro teased her fringe into artfully casual disarray. n.o.body realized how much effort it took, looking this d.a.m.ned natural all the time. She twisted her head sideways. And maybe it was time for the little nip-and-tuck her beauty therapist suggested. She was nearly twenty-seven, after all.

A small stone flipped against the window pane behind her, making her start. Her rooms were right at the top of the house, five storeys up. Who ...?

Then a smile lit her face. Johnny!

The window led out on to a small balcony, level with the many-turreted rooftop. The suite had once been servants' quarters, but Caro loved the view and had long since claimed it as her own.

She flung open the window and stepped out.

In the far corner of the balcony lounged a tall figure, just in the process of lighting a cigarette. She had the high slanted cheekbones of a model, black and white spiked hair, and she wore urban-cam cargoes and a skinny sleeveless T-s.h.i.+rt that revealed a strange interwoven Celtic symbol tattooed on her shoulder.

Definitely not Johnny.

For a moment Caro froze. Then her eyes flicked to the bag at the girl's feet. To the very pro-looking camera balanced on the top of it.

"Get out!" she thundered, voice quivering with anger. "How dare you!"

The girl exhaled, giving Caro a narrow-eyed stare through a lungful of smoke. "I'm here to give, not take," she said mildly. "Call it an early wedding present, if you like. And it took some dare to climb that ivy, I can tell you." For the first time Caro noticed that the girl's hands were shaking, her skin unnaturally pale and sheened with sweat.

"Are you so desperate to s.n.a.t.c.h some grubby shot of me in my wedding gown, you'd risk your neck for it?" Caro demanded, incredulous.

"I've got all the shots I want, and not of you," the girl said. "I was never here for that not really."

Cold fear trickled down the back of Caro's spine. She s.h.i.+vered in her elaborate dress, despite the balmy air.

"I know you," she said, uncertain. "You were that model. That one who-"

"Became a paparazza, yes," the girl said flatly. "I take pictures people don't want taken, of them doing things they don't want publicized." She took a last long drag on her cigarette and looked up suddenly into Caro's face. The girl's eyes were a remarkable shade of amber, golden like a cat. Coloured contacts? "And I've got something you really need to see."

Caro recoiled instinctively. "I don't want-"

"Didn't say you'd want to, babe," the girl said, almost gently. "But I've already cut a deal on these pictures. By tomorrow, you're not going to be able to avoid them. And then it'll be too late. Then you'll have married the slimeball."

Caro swallowed. Common sense urged her to yell for help and have this insolent stranger thrown out. To watch as she was marched down the drive with Caro's largest minder twisting her arm up her back, and kicking the bag of expensive cameras alongside him as he went. But the image of those groupies still clung.

She stepped sideways, to the edge of the parapet, and glanced downwards. The creeper-clad stone walls stretched away towards the gravel below.

"You really climbed all the way up here," she murmured, "just to show me some pictures?"

"Yes," the girl agreed gravely. "And I don't fancy going back the same way. So, if you're going to have me chucked out, at least do it through the tradesman's entrance, would you?"

She picked up the camera. Caro stiffened, but the girl merely held it out to her. Cautiously, Caro took it from her. The action brought her near to the parapet again and her gaze returned to the seemingly impossible climb.

It was more years than she could count since someone offered a favour and expected nothing in return, and Caro had grown cynical. She held the camera out over the long drop. It was surprisingly heavy.

"What's to stop me simply letting go?"

The girl grinned. It transformed her face into that of a street urchin. "Absolutely nothing," she said cheerfully. "But those Canons have a magnesium sh.e.l.l and are tough as old boots, so the lens would be knackered, but the memory card would survive. And that's the bit you should worry about."

Caro considered for a moment, then slowly brought the camera back inside the parapet. "You've already made copies, haven't you?" she realized bitterly.

"h.e.l.l, yes," the girl agreed, fervent. "Made copies and sold the rights, worldwide."