Tripled Exposure

By Tony Nash/Stig Larssen and TONY NASH

Top fashion photographer Harry Page watches his latest model waltz across his lounge stark naked, and thinks what a lucky man he is: fortune, fame, and as much nooky as he can handle, from some of the greatest looking women in the world. But then his phone rings, and that happy, sett;ed world is shattered by the three words uttered by his sister,  Sheena, who, as far as he knew, was on her sheep ranch in the outback of Oz: "Dad has disappeared.'

His father, the owner of one of the most lucrative shipping lines in the country, had banished Harry from the house and from the family when he'd had to leave university, not believing or wanting to understand what had caused his problems. Why should he get involved - the old man had told him he was no longer a member of the family? But Sheena tells him she is in England, and has been looking after their father, who has been ill. 

Swearing under his breath, and against his every  inclination, Harry agrees to travel home, and see what he can do. Being forced to take over the company, in his father's absence, is the very last thing in the world that he wants, but he has no choice.

When he arrives at the house, he finds Sheena unconscious, and her part-naked body, an uncomfortable sight to him, makes him believe that she has been raped. At the hospital, it turns out that that has not happened, but that she was attacked shows him how determined their enemies are. 

At the works, he finds out that there have been many incidents of fires and accidents, causing death and financial problems. His father has been threatened, but refused to sell the company. Harry believes that is why he has disappeared.  

More accidents, and direct threats to him and to his model culminate with her violent death, and it has been made to look as if Harry has killed her. He proves that he did not, and wins the unlikely support of the police, but they are unable to stop the gang that wants the shipping line. 

Harry investigates further, and finds the house in whose cellar his father is being held and tortured, but the tables are turned, and he is made prisoner, and the house is set on fire over him. The final twist shatters every illusion he ever had.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TONY NASH
• Release date: Nov 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393698920

Tony Nash/Stig Larssen

Tony Nash is the author of over thirty detective, historical and war novels, who began his career as a navigator in the Royal Air Force, later re-training at Bletchley Park to become an electronic spy, intercepting Russian and East German agent transmissions, during which time he studied many languages and achieved a BA Honours Degree from London University. Diverse occupations followed: Head of Modern Languages in a large comprehensive school, ocean yacht skipper, deep sea fisher, fly tyer, antique dealer, bespoke furniture maker, restorer and French polisher, professional deer stalker and creative writer.

Book preview

This is a work of pure fiction, and any similarity between any character in it and any real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional. Where actual places, buildings and locations are named, they are used fictionally.

Other works by this author:

THE TONY DYCE/NORFOLK THRILLERS:

Murder by Proxy

Murder on the Back Burner

Murder on the Chess Board

Murder on the High ‘C’

Murder on Tiptoes

Bled and Breakfast

THE JOHN HUNTER/MET COP THRILLERS:

Carve Up

Single to Infinity

The Most Unkindest Cut

The Iago Factor

Blockbuster

Bloodlines

Beyond Another Curtain

HISTORICAL/WWI NOVELS:

A Handful of Destiny

A Handful of Salt

A Handful of Courage

WWII EPIC:

No Tears For Tomorrow

THE HARRY PAGE THRILLERS:

Tripled Exposure

Unseemly Exposure

So Dark, The Spiral

THE NORWEGIAN SERIES:

LOOT

CNUT – The Isiaih Prophesies

CNUT – Paid in Spades

CNUT – The Sin Debt

CNUT – They Tumble Headlong

CNUT – Night Prowler

CNUT – Past Present

CNUT – Mind Games

CNUT -  Nemesis

OTHER NOVELS:

The Devil Deals Death  

The Makepeace Manifesto

Panic

The Last Laugh

The Sinister Side of the Moon

Hell and High Water

Hardrada’s Hoard

The Thursday Syndrome

ESPIONAGE:

‘Y’ OH ‘Y;

CHAPTER ONE

Elsa ran naked and dripping from the bathroom to answer the ‘phone and picked up the receiver before the third ring. ‘Languid’ was the best adjective I would have used to describe her normal state, and to see her move that fast could mean only one thing: she was expecting an offer and would exit from my life very soon, with no more regret than changing a pair of panties, which would certainly have been a first. She would have died rather than be seen with a panty line and did not even own a thong. She held out the receiver, pouting, "A person who says she is your sister, dahling." Somewhere along the line, she had taken elocution lessons, with the worst possible results, but I had never liked to disillusion her. Alone with me, she used a wonderfully salacious melange of mixed-European slang and gutter language, and I had learnt a lot of words I had never heard before, but whenever a third person was listening, we had the voice she believed was a copy of the Queen’s.

I could not imagine what Sheena might want, calling from the outback of Oz.

I moved the mouse, using the clone system to eliminate a stray hair from Elsa’s forehead, saved the changes, sighed and switched off the computer. I had fought long and hard against going digital, but had to give in eventually, and now was happy to do in five minutes with Photoshop on the computer what would have taken at least three hours in the darkroom, and, I had to admit, a more perfect result. The technology was mind-blowing: if I were so inclined, I could now, in just a couple of minutes, produce a photograph of a gorilla or a blackbird, or even the Prime Minister, endowed with Elsa’s mammary glands.

I took the ‘phone, Sheena – what’s up? You in trouble? The sheep got sick?

Her voice sounded so close she could have been standing in front of me, and I could tell she had been crying, Dad has gone missing, Harry.

How do you mean, gone missing? And, more to the point, why the hell tell me? You know perfectly well I’m the last person on earth the old man would want to find him. He’d probably disown me again on the spot.

He was home the night before last, went to work yesterday morning, and neverturnedup—- The garbled words ended in a sob.

I was completely mystified. Why was Sheena, on the other side of the world, involved, and who had involved her?

Whoa, there, Sheena! I know Michael and John both live over two hundred miles away from the old homestead, but they are a damned sight nearer than you are. Even as I said it, I knew that neither of them would be likely to ‘phone me, or even speak to me. Father had seen to that. Now just slow down and tell me how you came into the picture. Has one of the boys rung you from England?

No, Harry. I am in England. I have been since Easter. I’ve been looking after father since he had his stroke.

That was bloody nice of them, I thought – nobody bothered to tell me. Still, they probably thought I would have said that I couldn’t care less. How could they know I still loved the old bastard, no matter what he had done to me.

But why ring me, Sheena? Have you told the police?

Yes, of course, but they say they can’t do anything until he has been missing for at least a week. They say that with his business interests he may just have gone off for a meeting somewhere.

Well, I suppose that could be true, but if you’re so worried, why don’t you ask Michael or John to hire a private detective to find him?

Michael said not to worry, he’s probably doing some private deal or other, but he took no clothes or suitcase with him, his electric toothbrush and shaving kit are still in the bathroom, and he didn’t say a word about any deals, I heard a deep sob, and—-and—-they both say they are very busy at the moment.

And I’m not, I suppose. Every instinct told me I should just tell her to get lost, after so many years out in the family wilderness, but the old adage about blood being thicker was true. I had to do something, so I said, Look, Sheena, I’ve got a commercial take on Hampstead Heath booked for this afternoon, and the day after tomorrow I have to be in the Canary Islands on a hectic two-day shoot for one of the major international car companies. There is no way I can miss it. It has taken me more than ten years to build up my reputation, and it would be gone in an instant. Where are you now?

At home.

I considered the logistics, Well, I can’t get away until this evening, and I’ll have to be back tomorrow afternoon, but I’ll get up there sometime tonight and see what I can do.

There is something else, Harry——

Yes? I prompted her.

Alec Kassman, the Financial Director, telephoned. There is no money in the main account. No money to pay wages or bills. Dad cleaned it out before he disappeared.

I groaned out loud. What the hell is the old man playing at? He’s always been so careful with money.

He had started with nothing and built up one of the most successful small merchant shipping lines in the U.K. by the sheer weight of his personality and business acumen, seeing a niche market for small coastal tankers, while the big boys concentrated on buying larger and larger ocean-going bulk carriers. He’d cornered the market before anyone else realised the potential, and then it was too late for any competition to get started. That didn’t mean that there was no one wanting to take it off him. Even while I was still at home, the annual turnover was more than eighty million pounds, with roughly two mill net profit. I had no way of knowing what his personal fortune stood at now, but would have guessed it was in the region of twenty-five million plus. He could not possibly have gone through that lot, or had he gone gaga?

What about his personal accounts at the bank? Surely he hasn’t cleaned them out as well?

That’s strange too. Ever since he started in business he’s always banked at Barclays, in the High Street, and stayed loyal to them because they gave him his first ever loan, but the manager told me the accounts were closed two months ago, and he either couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me where the money had gone.

Did you ask how much was in them when they were closed?

No – I’m sorry, Harry. Was it important?

I guess not. Not at this stage, anyway. I’ll go and see what I can get out of the manager, if I can find the time. How was the old man’s—-Dad’s mental health?

His mind is as good as ever. We play chess every night. The stroke just left him with less mobility on his left side.

Do you know if he has had any worries with the business?

He hasn’t told me anything, but Charlie, his chauffeur, told me today that there was a serious fire at the works, where a man died, and lots of little things, fires and accidents on the ships and in the yard, and I know he has been fighting off yet another takeover bid, but he wouldn’t discuss it with me, and you know how he used to like to boast about how he was giving them the cold shoulder.

It was quite true – there was a trail of failed takeovers stretching back to the time the old man bought his first tanker, but during and after the fight he would tell the entire family the whole story at a hundred decibels plus over the dinner table. He loved a fight, and never lost. He had always retained a fifty-one percent share of the company, with the family members owning another twenty percent. Even I had five percent, which I knew nothing about until I began receiving dividend payments six years after he had thrown me out and I found out that the certificates had been lodged with my bank. At the time, it had warmed me a little to realise that he must have put himself out to find out that I was still alive, and what I was doing, though he had not wanted to contact me.

I could not envisage a takeover battle he could not win hands down, unless the company was in deep financial trouble, and it never had been. Though it was the last thing on earth I wanted to get involved in, I supposed there was no way I could leave him in the lurch, if he really was in trouble. At that point, knowing my father as well as I did, I believed that like an old, sick dog, he had gone off somewhere to lick his wounds. I was sure he could not have come to harm, or done something stupid. He was certainly not a man to consider suicide.

There was just one thing more, and I knew before asking that it was impossible: There isn’t a woman anywhere on the scene——?

The resultant explosion was just as I expected. He would never look at another woman as long as he lived, and was still in love with the only woman he had ever loved.

I made the only possible decision: Okay, Sheena. Stay at home in case he tries to contact you. Oh, by the way, how is Bill?

He’s—-I don’t know, Harry. We aren’t speaking.

Bloody hell, I thought, Families! Who’d have ‘em?

Well, perhaps you’ll tell me about that later. In the meantime, use the old man’s address book, get on the ‘phone and ring every contact you can. Someone, somewhere, must know something. Look, I have to go now. I’ll get there as soon as I can. Try to keep calm. Don’t bother to cook anything for me – I’ll grab something on the way.

I could tell she was close to tears again, as she said, All right, Harry.

I replaced the receiver and headed for the door, grabbing my equipment bag as I went. I didn’t need to look at Elsa to know that she was wearing one of her famous pouts. She hated it when I photographed other models, and I would much rather have used her, but the firm paying me wanted their own girls. One of them, on the bottom of the ladder, but clawing her way up, was rumoured to be the latest plaything of their managing director.

On the Heath, for once, everything went swimmingly. No cyclists or idiot runners in parkas got into the shots, the light was perfect – sunshine behind thin clouds, the grass and trees looked wonderfully fresh after a light shower just before lunch, and the clients had hired top make-up artists for the models. I knew they would be delighted with the results, particularly the shots of the new girl, who certainly had all that it takes, and that meant more work for me in the future. We finished slightly ahead of time and I drove home, after thanks and handshakes all round, arriving just after six.

Elsa was lounging on the Victorian chaise, wearing nothing but a favourite, heavily embroidered cheongsam. She was looking very pleased with herself, and I knew there was something in the wind.

There was no point in prolonging the agony. I always believed that straight talking saved a lot of grief, and it wasn’t that we were deeply devoted lovers. I wondered if I should sit down beside her and hold her hand, but instead gave it to her straight off the shoulder, You’ll be moving out, then?

She nodded gently, her face showing no emotion whatsoever.

When?

La semaine prochaine, peut-être.

Milan?

She nodded again.

Alain Delacroix, I guess? Well, he is one of the best over there, with really good contacts, and it is the next logical step for you. You need more exposure in Europe. Though I had contacts with most of the magazines in Europe, and occasionally worked with them, my main outlets were in the Far East, Britain, and the U.S., with the emphasis on the latter. Her face was well known in the States and at home, but there were other markets.

Elsa was the most recent of a string of beautiful women who entered my life, stayed until I placed them on the next rung of fame,