Josh goes, “Either they’re right in front of the blokes shagging, or that’s one impressive telephoto lens. Sorry, guv, but I was looking at new phones recently, wanting a good camera. There’s no phone what could do that without it being all grainy at a much lower resolution! That’s been taken by a pro-level camera, I reckon.”
Bob glares, but realises he’s right. Tanya looks at him, knowing the game has changed. “Paparazzi. That’s someone sticking their hand round the corner, that is. Planned. Which rather scuppers your suggestion they were caused any distress. Actively seeking it out, more like!”
“Planned?” It bursts out of my mouth. It’s not quite an admission, at least. “Who on earth would be planning to photograph – I catch myself – a couple random blokes? I mean, follow some geezer on a walk home, what’s the chances of him doing anything… note-worthy?”
Bob keeps a straight face. “You tell me, Mr Cullinane. You tell me.”
Tanya whacks my ankle with her high heel. It hurts.
Josh purses his lips and measures the picture of the alley with a ruler. “You know, sir? If they’re here, and they can see there’s no-one anywhere here,” – he describes a semi-circle with his finger, showing the area of the road visible from the gates – “is that not private? There’s no windows anywhere overlooking the space. And even if someone’s at the entrance to the alley, I doubt they’d see anything with their own eyes.”
“How long’s this ginnel?” Bob rolls his eyes at the useless youth. “The alleyway, boy?”
“Thirty feet. Ten metres.” Josh measures with the ruler again, plays with his calculator on his phone. “Yup.”
“Hm. Let me walk to the other end of the office.” The room we’re in is at the far end of a large open-plan area. “The floor tiles are twelve inches, right?” Old hairy carpet tile, probably 1980s, almost certainly illegal to install nowadays. “Ms Jeffries, Mr Cullinane, you stand in the doorway.”
Josh and Bob count as they walk nearly to the other end of the office. Bob puts his glasses on, and waves. Tanya waves back. Then she steps behind me, but puts her hands in front of me, in front of my crotch. She waves with one of them, while I lean my arm on the doorframe – like in that picture. No response from Bob, but Josh starts walking back towards us.
Tanya is making wanking gestures in front of my cock. Not touching, of course, just pretending. I open my mouth to try to look like I’m being fucked.
DC Josh has crossed half the distance between Bob and us before he sees Tanya’s hand move. He cracks up laughing. He beckons the DI over. Bob manages to nod sniffily. “Yes. Anyone over there wouldn’t have been able to see in detail, even in good light.” We all sit down again, Bob telling Josh to ask for teas all round, which suggests something more friendly than the average arrest interview.
“Right, Mr Cullinane. I’m willing to no-crime this on account of the photos being misleading, and accepting that there could have been a reasonable assumption of privacy. But don’t you fucking do it again, do you understand?
I look to Tanya, not wishing to incriminate myself at the last hurdle. “Yes,” she says. “Thank you. Can I conclude my client is no longer under arrest?”
“One moment. What we have now is one big fucking question. Who took those photos, and why? Obscene photos, even. No, they didn’t come with a name, just a burner email and anonymous phone call. A car just happened to be in the area.” Bob tries to exaggerate a sigh, though it’s half a yawn. “Mr Cullinane, do you have a stalker? A bitter ex-lover or something? Have you experienced harassment recently?”
report I shake my head. “I’ve been happily married these ten years. I mean, sure, we do…” Tanya nods at me to go on. “Shag other people, sometimes, but that’s just friendly. Or strangers, even. Dan’s never had any grief, either.” I run my finger over the picture of him almost exposing his face. “That site is his first big project, he’s managing it. He showed me round and asked my professional opinion – a while ago,” I add hastily, “and it’s so good to see. He’s so proud, and I’m so proud of him, working his way up, only going to uni at the age of thirty, and all. He thinks he couldn’t have done it without my support.” I gesture at image one, at the building, while not admitting it’s anything to do with me.
“Uh-huh. So you’re telling me, you don’t actually go in for regular al fresco sex, so that wouldn’t be why someone was following you?” Bob raises a grey eyebrow.
I laugh. “Really, no. If someone had been hoping for me to do anything like that in public in the last – ooh, nearly ten years, they’d have been sorely disappointed. Outside is usually too cold, anyhow. That’s what certain clubs are for. Is that sufficient information on that subject?”
“I bloody well hope so,” Bob rolls his eyes. “The thing is, if someone’s not stalking you for your fine figure of manhood,” – Josh and Tanya both splutter, the cheeky gits – “then why are they?”
“That’s professional photography, that is.” Josh gives his opinion.
“Plenty of hobbyists with good kit,” I object.
Bob goes, “I suspect the chances of an amateur photographer passing you, with all his gear, is about the same as that of a random man just happening to be in the area and wanting you. About zero, in other words.” He gives me another steely gaze; at least Tanya kicks me more gently this time.
“What else could you be interesting for?” she queries.
I shrug. “Pissed-off work client?”
“What do you do again?” Bob asks.
Josh stares at my business card. “Fire engineering? That’s stopping fires, yeah, not building them?”
“Outside a furnace, yes. Recommending products and how to use them for getting renovations up to spec: that sort of consultation, mostly.”
“Like what they should have done for the tower block?”
Everyone knows which tower block. “They did. Only they used a number of different products, and never adequately tested them together. I’d rejected one of the new types of cladding. I hope I’d have rejected the whole plan, if they’d sent it to me. But they didn’t.” I look to Bob. “Does that make sense? I’ve got to explain it in court, next month, to a jury. There’s all these individual items which should be safe in a renovation – insulation, cladding – but put them together in certain arrangements, and turns out they’re not.”
“Like bleach and ammonia,” Josh pipes up. “Never mix toilet cleaner with bleach, or it explodes.”
“A lot more complicated, and depending on the type of fire, and all the ways that air might get under the cladding, but yeah, that kind of idea.” I try to encourage young Josh. “Imagine a layer of your bathroom wall flaking off, from your bleach, say, and creating a chimney behind it. Whoosh…”
Bob halts my lecture. “Let me get this straight. You’re giving crucial expert evidence in court in a few weeks, in one of the most high-profile legal cases this century, where someone might be held liable for seventy-odd deaths, not to mention for millions in repairs to buildings? Billions, more like, in liability. And you ‘can’t think’ of anyone who might want to intimidate you?” Bob pushes his glasses back up his nose. “God give me strength.”