Free Creed by James Herbert

so that was how the thief had gained access and why the front door was still bolted on the inside. When asked by the boys in blue to describe the intruder, Creed had become somewhat coy for, by this time being fully dressed and with people around, daylight flooding through the windows, and three cups of tea inside him, plus the original brandy, and five cigarettes smoked, normality had overruled the memory. ‘A thin guy with a bald head,’ he told them. ‘And oh yeah, he had a humpback.’ ‘Not a lot we can do, sir, but get a strong lock on your garage and the connecting door. A decent alarm system wouldn’t go amiss, either. If you find anything else has gone missing, anything important , that is, give us a call at the station.’ Standard response from the police in cases where no real harm has been done and there wasn’t a hope in hell of catching the culprit anyway.
    It was only when they and the girl, Cally, had gone that it dawned on him just what the break-in was all about.
    He went up to the darkroom to check again and nodded at his own conclusion. All the previous day’s funeral shots were missing. Someone – and it was obvious who – hadn’t wanted his picture taken.
    Judging by what the man had been up to at the cemetery, Creed could understand why. But was evidence of gross indecency (of course, the shots he’d taken had shown nothing of the sort, but this kinky mourner wouldn’t know that) with necrophilic overtones reason enough to break into someone’s home? Certainly, if the perpetrator was important enough for his whole life to be upset by the disgrace. For the first time that morning, Creed smiled.
    More puzzling though was how the loony had found out who Creed was and where he lived. The coverage of Lily Neverless’ funeral wouldn’t have appeared until this morning’s edition of the Dispatch – if it appeared at all. He had a deal with the newspaper that his name usually appeared beneath his pictures, but the question was still the same: How had the thief known where to come last night?
    He could be wrong, but Creed felt a tiny prickling in his gut and that usually indicated that he was on to something hot, a story worth following up. Besides, his personal territory had been invaded and, hypocrite that he was, Creed didn’t like that at all. Not one bit.
    The thing to do was find out just who the dirty old man was. Surely someone in the business would be able to recognize him from his mug shot if he truly were anyone of note. But the negs and prints, even those totally black sheets of shiny paper which he’d kept out of curiosity, were gone.
    Creed smiled a second time. Oh no they weren’t.
    The wall-phone brurrped at that point.
    ‘Yeah?’ he asked into it, irritably.
    ‘It’s me – Cally. I’ve just got to my office and I wanted to make sure you were all right.’
    ‘Yeah, I’m great. Thanks for calling, ’bye.’
    ‘Hey wait. Didn’t you wonder why I came over this morning?’
    ‘I hadn’t given it a lot of thought.’
    ‘I had a schedule of Daniel’s movements this week to give you – you know, social events, film locations, that kind of thing. I got into the office early to type it up for you.’
    ‘Daniel? Who’s Daniel?’
    ‘My boss, Daniel Lidtrap. Don’t you remember our conversation last night? You were going to try and get him some mentions in the diary column. For publicity, remember?’
    ‘Uh – oh yeah, that’s right. Slipped my mind.’
    ‘I’m not surprised. How’s your bump?’
    ‘Rich in colour. Thanks for this morning, Cally – d’you have a phone number and last name, by the way?’
    ‘It’s on the list I put on the hall window-ledge before I left. My other name’s McNally.’
    ‘Cally Mc Nally ?’
    ‘Sorry, not my fault.’
    ‘Well it’s got a rhythm to it. Look, I gotta get going. Can I call you later, talk about those publicity shots for Giltrap?’
    ‘Lidtrap. That’d be fine. Don’t forget, the number’s by the front