‘Sessions?’

‘He is a most popular model. He poses very well. I suggested him to Mr Gus. We are working at “The Mayerling Hütte” restaurant. You know this place, in the Kings Road? Is all German specialities, and Mr Gus gives me twenty-five pounds for finding him. So maybe …’ She flicked her cigarette ash over the board floor. ‘So maybe he will give me something to find a room.’ Her green eyes narrowed, her boy’s head tilted into the moulting collar of her jacket. ‘You don’t work here; for the photographs?’ She appraised him through a haze of smoke from her nostrils.

‘No. I told you. I just brought some stuff.’

‘You should, you know. I can tell. You are …’ her voice was soft and whispery like a soft wind stirring dead leaves ‘… very fine, you know. A fine fellow. You would be very good. Fantastic, I think.’

Gus came out of the office followed by the black man. He stood for a moment in silence pushing his lank grey hair out of his eyes.

‘No joy. No joy at all. Had a word with Sergeant Mason up at the station. Of course he doesn’t know anything … not his area. Says he’ll try and find out and let me know; but it’ll be too late by then. Custody could mean anything.’ He turned to the pale girl crossly. ‘What the hell was he up to, Leni? You know? Did he tell you? Must have,’ he added, ‘but you won’t tell, I know you.’

The girl shook her head. Dropped the cigarette, trod on it. ‘I don’t know. He is always going to have a little journey … it is not for me to ask. He went with Fritzie and Bennie. To be back today, he said. Certain.’

‘Well, he’s not and won’t be and that’s final. You’ll have to cart that ruddy horse back to where it came from; we’ll have to scrub the session and that’s farewell to a hefty lump of lolly. A very good client … knows what he wants. If he’d liked them, he wanted them blown up nine foot by four, panels for his bathroom. Huge. It’s a bloody shame.’

The black man was picking his teeth with a matchstick, leaning against the office door. He spat out a splinter of wood, wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘I could give Terry a call? Or Allan? If they’re free they’d do it, boss.’

Gus Bender thrust his hands into his cardigan pocket. ‘They aren’t blond. Terry is too thin anyway, and Alan’s too butch: he’s all right for military stuff, torture chambers and that; but he doesn’t look romantic. This stuff has to be classical, Nig, I keep telling you. It’s four classical poses he wants. And he wants Dieter. And where am I going to find another Dieter in ten minutes? I got all the props, got the rocks, the dead tree. Even got the bloody horse and the vulture, even got the stick-on arrows for the Sebastian pose; and no bloody Sebastian. Great! I’m getting out of this business – you get let down every time. I’ll stick to portraits and wedding groups.’ He stabbed an angry finger at the pale girl. ‘Leni, you’re bad luck, my girl. You and your bloody discoveries.’