Paparazzi Jo Fenton (the first e reader .txt) 📖

“Yes, why?”

“You’re smiling as you type.” Her knowing smile immediately irritates me.

“He was my partner at work for a long time. We had each other’s backs. He’s a close friend, that’s all.”

“It’s fine. You don’t need to justify anything to me. But if you’ve got a soft spot for someone, cut Matt some slack, particularly when he’s not done anything to earn your anger or jealousy.”

“I’m neither angry nor jealous. And it’s two-thirty. Don’t you think we should check out the equipment, to make sure all the angles are correct?”

She agrees, but with a glint in her eye. I have a horrible feeling she’s not forgotten the subject.

We spend the next twenty minutes adjusting camera angles and playing back film of a cuddly elephant sitting on the sofa. The elephant is the size of a ten-year-old child or thereabouts, and apparently watches over Joanna while she’s asleep in her bedroom. I find that a bit strange, but I’m happy to make use of Elinor Elephant to get the CCTV set up correctly.

At ten to three, Joanna returns Elinor to her dressing table, and returns downstairs to pace the kitchen. I make myself another coffee and obey instructions to raid the cupboard for biscuits; and settle myself at the table with the laptop to view the live images of the now empty sofa.

“Shit.” I bang my hand against my forehead.

“What’s up?”

“We forgot about speakers,” I say, frustrated with myself.

“We’ve got a few minutes; we could test them out now?”

“We didn’t buy any. I’m going to have to listen at the door, or just come in really early on.”

“Play it by ear – if you don’t mind the pun. I’ll try to take notes while she’s talking. That’s the doorbell. Shut this door for now and listen as well as you can.”

Chapter Eleven

As I watch on the laptop, with my ear as close to the door as I can manage, the guest settles herself in the seat indicated by Joanna. I can see her perfectly. The image is quite good. I’m looking at a young woman in her mid to late twenties, with short blonde hair and a pixie-shaped face. Joanna introduces herself, and then the prospective client speaks. I can hardly hear her. Damn. She’s got one of those soft, indistinct voices. I watch her again for a few seconds. She’s a complete stranger and doesn’t set off any alarm bells in my head. I leave the camera running on record, so we can watch back later, and open the door to the lounge.

“Hi, sorry I’m a few minutes late. I’m Becky, Joanna’s business partner.” I hold my hand out, and Penny shakes it. She has a limp, damp and pathetic sort of shake that leaves me wanting to clean my hand on my trousers. I control the temptation and smile at her instead.

“It’s okay. It’s nice to meet you.” Her smile is shy, and doesn’t reach her eyes, but I put this down to her obvious nervousness.

I sit down in the free armchair, and nod to Joanna in the other chair, to lead the conversation.

“So, Penny, how did you find us, and why?”

“You were in the paper, advertised as white knights who could rescue a damsel in distress. I need a white knight.”

“Why don’t you tell us the problem?” I can see Joanna controlling her irritation, by the way she speaks slowly and carefully – totally unlike her usual rapid communication.

“Okay.” Penny’s voice is still so quiet that I have to lean forward to hear her properly.

“Can you speak up a bit please? I think my ears are a bit blocked.” I know they’re not, but I feel the need to make an excuse.

“Sure.” There’s an increase of about half a decibel. “I go to this nightclub for work. Well, it’s a kind of club. You might have heard of it; Band On The Wall. It’s in Manchester, near Ancoats.”

“I know it. I used to go there when I was younger than you. Probably before you were born. In the days when people could smoke in clubs and bars, and the air was thick with smoke – usually a mixture of tobacco and weed. I’ve not been there for a few years though.” I know some of my ex-colleagues have been for work reasons, and a few of them socially. They said it’s changed.

“It’s not like that now. It’s nice. Anyway, I’m a photographer for a local press agency, and I go to take photos of the bands. A bit like the paparazzi.” She chuckles, and I warm to her by half a degree. “There’s this one band that’s on quite a lot, but whenever I’m at their gigs, I feel like someone’s watching me. It freaks me out, and I wondered if you’d be able to help.”

“How many times has this happened?” I ask.

“At least three, going back over the last three months. They play there about once a month.”

“Can you tell me about the first time?” Joanna chips in.

“It would have been about the middle of November, on the Friday night. They like Fridays.”

“Sorry,” I interrupt. “What’s the band’s name?”

“Troy’s Tigers.”

Joanna raises an eyebrow, and I have to stifle a grin. I guess she agrees with me that it sounds like a group of primary school kids.

“Sorry for interrupting. Carry on.”

“Yeah okay. As I said, it was November. I’d taken a good lot of photos and was walking home when I heard footsteps. I turned around, but couldn’t see anyone. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end though.”

She seems to need a prod to carry on.

“So what happened?”

“When?”

I take a slow deep breath; patience is clearly going to be needed for this case.

“That night. Did you get home safely? Did you see who was following you?”

“No, I didn’t. I got a taxi home, just in case. My moped is in and out of the garage for repairs. There’s an intermittent fault, and it keeps breaking down. I wondered if someone has tampered with