What You Wish For

by Mark Edwards

  ‘One of us should go down to the bottom,’ I whispered. ‘If you go down the steps by the café, you’ll be at the bottom before him, if he climbs down.’

  ‘Why me?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re bigger than me. More likely to be able to restrain him.’

  ‘True.’

  He jogged away and I considered my next move. As a kid, I had spent many weekends and holidays climbing up and down these rocks. Although it was dark and I hadn’t set foot here for years, I felt sure that my body would remember which way to go, where to place my feet. Besides, the moon cast enough light to be able to see.

  I clambered down onto the next ledge, then moved to the right, clinging to the smooth rock where generations of teenagers had carved their initials. Mine would be here somewhere. I was still above the man who had broken into my house. He hadn’t moved.

  I edged closer, slipping down another rock, my feet finding purchase in dents in the rock-face. I hung on and glanced to my left.

  He had seen me.

  ‘Stay there,’ I shouted.

  He looked left and right, trying to work out which way to go. The easiest route was towards me. In the other direction, the drop was sheer; he would need to be a skilled climber to traverse it without equipment.

  Worried he was going to do something stupid, I called out, ‘I just want to talk to you.’

  This didn’t work. After jerking his head left and right again, he chose the difficult exit. He hefted his body over the lip of the rock, holding himself up with his forearms.

  And then he fell.

  ‘No!’ I shouted.

  But there was nothing I could do. I watched with horror as he tumbled down the rock-face, his arms flailing at first, desperately trying to grab on to something, to find purchase.

  A second later I heard a sickening crack. Skull striking rock. He hit the ground at the bottom and lay still.

  Simon reached him before me, sprinting up to him and kneeling on the ground beside him, grabbing his wrist and feeling for a pulse.

  ‘He’s alive!’ he yelled.

  I descended the cliff as quickly as I could, choosing the safest route, heart lurching a couple of times when my feet slipped. It took me around five minutes to reach the ground. Much of the time I couldn’t see Simon and the injured man.

  But then I was on the ground, running over to Simon and the prone intruder.

  Simon looked up at me. ‘He stopped breathing,’ he said. ‘I tried to give him mouth to mouth but . . .’ He hung his head. ‘If I’d had my mobile with me . . .’

  ‘There’s no way an ambulance would have got here in time.’ I heard my own voice but felt like I’d split in two, half of me talking to Simon, the other half stunned by what and who I was looking at.

  Simon had pulled the balaclava off. The dead man – the man with the back of his head smashed like a dropped egg – was Fraser Howard. The country ranger.

  ‘Did he say anything?’ I asked. ‘Before he died, did he say anything?’

  Simon looked at me and nodded. ‘He said, “She promised me.”’

  Simon and I left the police station together, blinking in the morning light.

  After Simon had told me what Fraser said, I had walked to a phone box on the seafront and dialled 999. The police and an ambulance arrived within ten minutes, taking Fraser’s body away while we explained what had happened. Then they took us to the station to answer lots of questions.

  It took me a little while to realise that we might be under suspicion of pushing Fraser Howard to his death.

  ‘Why didn’t you call us?’ they kept asking, until it eventually seemed to sink in that we had left my house at speed, not stopping to pick up our phones. Mine had been charging in the kitchen; Simon’s was on the floor by the sofa.

  After two hours, at which point I was wondering if I needed to get a lawyer, they told us we could go. Of course, we had been questioned separately and the fact that our stories matched helped us. Simon being a journalist didn’t hurt either.

  ‘I’m going to have to call Bob,’ Simon said as we waited for a cab to take us back to mine. ‘He’s going to want me to write this up.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘If you hadn’t already quit he’d be shouting at you for not getting any photos.’

  ‘What did he mean, “She promised me”?’

  Simon shrugged. ‘Fuck knows. But he must have talking about Marie, don’t you think?’

  ‘That’s the only thing that makes sense. But promised him what?’

  13

  An October wind whipped through Brighton’s North Laines. I walked against it, eyes narrowed to guard against the fine sand that blew in from the beach.

  I took the printed Google map out of my pocket and refreshed my memory. I had twenty minutes.

  The North Laines is where Brighton’s alternative culture peddles its wares. Juggling shops and bead shops; places that sold second-hand books and comics, drug paraphernalia, old clothes and bric-a-brac. Everything but sticks of Brighton rock. I had arranged to meet a man called Gary Kennedy in a pub in the middle of these Laines. I was nervous. But also determined.

  I was on a mission.

  You’re not going to lose Marie. That’s what I kept telling myself. I was going to find her. Wherever she was.

  Fraser Howard’s mysterious last words had made me even more determined. What had Marie promised him? What was he looking for in my house? I needed to talk to his wife – now his widow, I realised with sadness – again. But I had decided to leave it till after the funeral, which was today. In the meantime, I had this other lead, however weak it might turn out to be, to pursue.

  As soon as I had got home from the police station, after showering to wake myself up and remove the grime and sweat from my skin, I had sat at the PC and visited the Planet Flesh site. I sent them a message:

  I’m a photographer seeking work. I’m experienced, discreet, and can provide examples of previous work.

  I think you will like what I have to offer.

  I thought the word discreet might help sell me. I needed to enter their world. If my email didn’t work I was going to have to go to Brighton and find them physically.

  Luckily, that wasn’t necessary.

  An email came back hours later, asking for an example of my work. I scanned one of the pictures I had taken from the cupboard in the office into the system, then emailed it to the guy who had replied, Gary Kennedy. A couple of hours later I received the message:

  Not bad. Let’s meet. Bring more samples with you.

  I was given the name, the time and the place. I had to wait a couple of days, but now here I was, sitting down opposite Gary. I had told Simon I was going to Brighton to visit the university, which was in nearby Falmer, to see if I could find out any more information about Andrew from people who might have known him there. I wasn’t lying: I did plan to do this later. But I couldn’t tell Simon about my other engagement, and therefore nobody knew where I was.

  ‘Richard Thompson,’ I said, offering my hand. Gary took it and shook it firmly.

  He was in his early forties, broad-shouldered with cropped hair. He had a deep suntan and a faint scar below his left eye. He looked like a hard man, but when he spoke he was eloquent and articulate with a private-school accent. This accent only added to the sense of menace that emanated from him. If a shark could assume human form and put on a suit, Gary Kennedy would be the result.

  ‘Mr Thompson,’ he said. ‘Why do you want to work for us?’

  I leant forward, going into interview mode. ‘Because I love the material on your website. The quality is so much better than other sites in your space. Some of them are so amateurish. But yours is top stuff. I want to be part of it.’

  He laced his fingers together and cocked his head to one side. ‘Tell me about yourself.’

  ‘OK. I’ve done a bit of work for my local paper in Hastings, but I’m bored with it. I’ve always been interested in the more glamorous side of phot
ography. I like to take pictures of beauty. Beautiful women. Like the example I sent you.’

  He licked his lips. ‘And you’ve got more examples to show me?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ I lifted my briefcase onto my lap and unlocked it. I looked around. The pub was empty except for the barman and a few elderly drunks. I had scanned and transferred the photos to my iPad, which I handed to Gary.

  He swiped through them slowly. I watched his eyes roam across them, a faint smile on his lips. He said, ‘I love them.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Definitely. They’re tasteful. But still sexy. Exactly the kind of thing I’m looking for.’

  ‘Great.’

  He handed the iPad back to me. ‘I want to take the site upmarket. Less porn, more erotica. Stuff that appeals to women and couples. You know Planet Flesh is just one of our sites and we’re expanding all the time so need talent.’ He sneered. ‘The web is awash with amateur shit but there’s still a big market for quality erotica if you do it properly.’

  ‘Sounds exciting.’

  He handed the pictures back to me. I felt a hot flush of guilt as I put them away – because they were pictures of Mikage.

  I had taken the photographs shortly after we moved in together. It was actually her idea. She wanted pictures of herself that she could look back at when she was older. ‘I want to be able to look back and say, “Wasn’t I something?” And it will be something that we can share,’ she said. Mikage never lacked confidence.

  I didn’t argue. I took the photographs in our bedroom. They were beautiful photographs. Mikage had a fantastic body, toned and waif-like, a little taller than most Japanese women. They were black-and-white, very arty, erotic and explicit. She lay naked on the futon, a fuck-me stare aimed at the camera; or she stood in a demure and innocent pose by the window. I remembered that we had both been very turned on during the shoot, that we’d had the best sex we’d ever had afterwards. Mikage could have been a model. The lighting was perfect, the focus just right. I was very proud of them.

  When we split up, Mikage had taken the photographs with her and deleted the files. But, unknown to her, and to my shame, I had had a set printed, which I kept. I had actually forgotten they existed. They sat in the cupboard, gathering dust. I would have destroyed them after meeting Marie, but the thought never entered my mind. I was glad now that I hadn’t. Though if Mikage ever found out I was showing them to other people, that I was using them to find work with a pornographer, she would kill me. Actually, she would torture me, and then kill me. And I would deserve it. I was only able to do this because I knew I would never let Gary or anyone else publish the pictures. After this, I would destroy them and delete them from my iPad.

  Gary finished his pint.

  ‘You’re very lucky actually,’ he said. ‘Until very recently we had a regular photographer who did all our work. But he’s no longer on the scene.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He died.’

  ‘What was his name?’ I asked casually. At least, I hoped I sounded casual.

  ‘Jade,’ he replied. ‘Andrew Jade.’

  I had to put my drink down because I was afraid Gary might see that my hand was shaking.

  ‘And to make matters worse,’ he said, ‘our best model has disappeared.’

  ‘Cherry Nova?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He looked at me suspiciously.

  ‘I saw the appeal on the site, asking for information,’ I explained. ‘I’m a big fan of hers.’

  ‘Oh yeah, of course. Aren’t we all. She’s a lovely girl. I discovered her myself, actually. As soon as I saw her I knew she’d look great on our website. And I’ve got to hand it to him, Jade did wonders with her.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea what’s happened to her? The thing is, I’d really like to work with her myself.’

  Gary shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen her since the middle of October.’

  My pulse accelerated. Marie had vanished on sixteenth October.

  ‘I was extra gutted because she had an appointment with me.’ He winked. ‘If you know what I mean.’

  I smiled my best fake smile. ‘I’m with you. Perk of the job, right?’

  He stood up and gestured for me to follow him. Into the Gents. He stood in front of a urinal and unzipped. I looked the other way.

  ‘Are you free on Friday?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good. I’d like you to meet a couple of the models. If you come over to my office on Friday I’ll introduce you to them and we’ll discuss schedules, money, etcetera.’

  He zipped up and stuck out his hand. I shook it, forcing myself not to hesitate.

  ‘I think we’re going to enjoy working together, Richard. We’re on the same wavelength.’

  He gave me the address of his office – it was actually in his house – and I left the pub, my briefcase under my arm.

  I felt a little shaky, queasy. I couldn’t believe my meeting with Gary Kennedy had gone so well. It had been almost too easy. But I also felt dirty, and not just because of what I’d done with Mikage’s photos. I had just been hired by a pornographer. I was getting deeper into this world. This alien world.

  I went straight to a public toilet and washed my hands.

  I walked back uphill to the train station. It was just two stops to Falmer and the campus of Sussex University.

  It was near the beginning of the new term. All around me were wide-eyed freshers, eighteen years old, away from the protective arms of their parents for the first time, three years of freedom ahead of them: three years of late nights, cheap beer, drugs, casual sex and the occasional lecture. God, I envied them.

  I had become almost as obsessed with Andrew as I was with Marie. I was convinced their fates were intertwined, that any clues I could find about his past would help me understand Marie better. I had become convinced that he had some kind of hold over her. If I could understand him, really get to ‘know’ him, then maybe I could understand more of what made Marie tick. And what made her vanish.

  First, I went to the library. I wanted to see if they had a copy of Andrew’s dissertation, but the librarian told me they only kept a select few and, after consulting her computer, confirmed that Andrew’s wasn’t among them.

  ‘I know that name, though,’ she said. She was in her late fifties, I guessed. ‘Andrew Jade. Hmmm . . .’ She gave me a suspicious look and I made my excuses and left.

  I asked a passing fresher for directions to the geography department. She consulted a friend and together they managed to point me in the right direction. I found it without too much difficulty.

  At the end of the corridor was a door marked ‘Head of Department – Ronald Richardson’ which stood ajar. I hesitated for a heartbeat, then knocked. A gruff voice called, ‘Enter.’

  The room’s occupant was in his mid-fifties. He was wearing an expensive-looking suit and appeared more like a City businessman than my bearded, elbow-patched mental stereotype of a geography lecturer.

  The screen saver on his PC showed an array of tropical fish drifting languorously from left to right. The window gave an impressive view of the campus, and the atmosphere was tranquil and academic. I could imagine relaxed seminars and discussions taking place in this room, the benevolent lecturer guiding his young undergraduates towards wisdom. I looked around at the bookshelves: they were crammed, sagging in the centre, dust gathered on the highest volumes. Not for the first time, I felt a pang for the life I had missed out on, the years I’d never had. I liked it here, and immediately warmed to Ronald Richardson.

  It made me feel guilty that I was going to have to lie to him.

  He waved a hand in the air and peered at me, waiting for me to introduce myself. I told him I was a first year and could see that he was trying to place me. No doubt he had addressed the new crop of geography freshers, but I was banking on him not knowing them individually. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have a list of names to hand. I worried for a moment, but then he said, ‘Ah, one of
our mature students. Always a valuable asset to the course. How are you settling in?’

  ‘Fine. Really enjoying it, in fact.’

  ‘Good, good.’ He gestured for me to get to the point.

  ‘Um . . . You might think this is a weird one but I recently met this guy . . . this chap who used to study here. He told me I should look up his dissertation, that I’d find it helpful.’

  He raised an eyebrow and waited for me to continue.

  ‘The library doesn’t have a copy. And, well, I know it’s a long shot but thought I’d ask if there are any records . . .’ I trailed off. I knew my story sounded pretty unlikely.

  ‘What was this student’s name?’

  ‘Andrew Jade.’

  He took off his designer reading glasses and stared at me. ‘Andrew Jade. Why are you really asking about him?’

  From his tone it was clear that Richardson was not a fan of Andrew’s. I decided to change tack.

  ‘OK. I apologise. I’m not really a student here. I’m actually a private detective. I’ve been hired to look into Andrew Jade’s past.’

  His eyebrows lifted. ‘Really?’

  I gambled that the professor wouldn’t know about Andrew’s recent death. ‘Yes. My client’s daughter is engaged to Jade and her father, who is very well off, wants to know about his past. Make sure he’s not a criminal or a gold-digger.’

  ‘Goodness.’ He paused, then barked out a laugh. ‘I ought to throw you out. And normally I would. But Andrew Jade . . . well, let’s just say I feel sympathy for your client.’

  I waited.

  ‘Will Jade know I spoke to you?’

  ‘No, sir. I operate with absolute discretion.’

  He settled back in his chair, a smile on his face like someone who had waited a long time to settle scores.