tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52084968687389946342012-02-16T09:24:20.329ZNarratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.comBlogger191100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-21442712320745906982007-07-12T16:39:00.001+01:002007-07-12T17:09:26.826+01:00

Brighton as Miami. A splendid idea marred only by the fact that Miami is a stifling seedy armpit of a city with rampant crime and drug use. So is Brighton, but why look at it that way?I stand shakily, with my back to the dark bricks of a high wall at the back of Hove Courthouse, far within the perimeter of eager journos. It's been two months, half of which I slept through while the swelling

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-83532650939982566342007-06-29T18:12:00.001+01:002007-06-29T18:27:15.130+01:00

I sat on the bleached sandstone steps of a building. It was a vague sort of time, aggravated by the door. There didn't seem to be anything other than the door. The door was all there was here. The doorway and the door and the step. There was me of course, but I didn't feel like mattering.I was so tired, or rather so weary. My limbs were heavy, though my mind seemed more alert than normal. I

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-4903038817359059092007-06-19T21:21:00.000+01:002007-06-19T22:02:10.519+01:00

The whole thing plays out in worryingly fast motion, no adrenaline slow-mo to sharpen my reflexes or help me dodge bullets. I run on distorted legs past blurs and hazes, as the fat man rushes up on me like the Earth to a parachute jumper.He catches me across the shoulder with the nailgun, the motors in it whine and hiss as it passes me by. I don't realise I'm hit until I'm off balance, and I tip

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-10609315164627865902007-06-11T13:12:00.000+01:002007-06-11T13:59:38.462+01:00

I sat on the bus, grim-faced, scaring the people next to me. Jumping at distant sirens, looking out the back window, they had to know. Somebody was bound to top me and say "Hey, you're that guy, that burglar guy!"The sick feeling rose in me, fear of being caught. My rational mind tried to square away these fears with simple knowledge: no fingerprints, nothing taken, no cameras, too fast to be

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-52640373306693191002007-06-05T18:24:00.000+01:002007-06-05T18:46:50.061+01:00

I'll admit now, because nobody's going to do anything about it, that I broke into 34 Carnelian Avenue, Carnassal's home. I didn't even do it surreptitiously. I knew he was out, his car gone, but I should have had a little more finesse regardless of my little experience. It was a little after 10 in the evening, the night sodium yellow from streetlamps, which helped me gracelessly go undetected as

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-81135785544136009792007-05-28T23:21:00.000+01:002007-05-28T23:49:52.296+01:00

I saw the news the next day at five, "Unnamed girl dead in docks, police suspect foul play." A dangerous call to Sally's mobile and then hastily researched home told me all I needed to know. If I'd have thought it through, however, I might not have brought a particular policeman to my door.Maynard sat in my mother's kitchen, while she was thankfully out, and drank tea from my favourite mug.

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-41166119532120175832007-05-15T21:23:00.000+01:002007-05-15T22:03:48.289+01:00

I had to shoot a parade-type thing for the paper the next day. It was quite nice, night shots with candles and children and spooky tissue-paper costumes. The night seemed to have a mystical air to it, the smell of melting wax and nighttime mixing with burger van food and the faint tang of burnt pitch. Someone had lit a tiki torch somewhere.There was a weird chain growing in my mind, a cobwebby

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-65097594208612891362007-05-07T21:14:00.000+01:002007-05-07T21:49:09.273+01:00

While Sally finished up, I got to looking around the office. I stumbled upon her boss's office at the end of the corridor. The door loudly proclaimed Eric Massiter was master here, He was still on lunch, so I let myself in. The computer was password protected, useless to me, but the papers were still around.It looked like Eric sorted out the dates for hearings regarding planning permissions.

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-46859913833584988862007-04-29T18:20:00.001+01:002007-04-29T19:09:09.833+01:00

I was out of the house before 7 AM, my digital watch feeling heavier on my wrist the more I looked at it. Pushing this to the back of my mind, I strode out and turned up the Clash. The camera bag's reassuring pat with every step gave me some comfort. It was cold, mornings unfamiliar to me this long after college and this far away from a "proper job".I had looked at the card, Sussex CID had a

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-51656642685782341112007-04-24T21:02:00.000+01:002007-04-26T18:32:12.907+01:00

I was awake at dawn, slept until 10, woke again. I ached with fatigue, but I wiped the sleep from my eyes and curled my guts around a cup of coffee as I spread Richard's notes on my desk.Essentially it came down to a comparison. Four building projects, large ones, being approved planning permission. The approvals stated protest and notification dates. The protest records didn't say squit. My law

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-22499897854298374262007-04-17T19:28:00.000+01:002007-04-17T20:14:11.514+01:00

The car, a black European sedan with a single occupant, was crawling along behind me. I can't imagine anything more obvious than following someone like that. The fact that the car reminded me of some stalking predatory insect didn't help. The driver didn't care if he was spotted.I waited a minute, or so it felt, before throwing myself into a full run. Behind me, a flare of blue light and an

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-88805470309450042742007-04-12T14:41:00.000+01:002007-04-17T20:18:14.453+01:00

I spent the rest of the day photographing cyclists for the paper, and thinking. Sally didn't kill Richard. She wasn't there, CCTV placed her outside a railway station and her family said she got in and stayed in after that. I doubt she got someone else to do it either. No self-respecting employer of contract killers was that contrite. Besides, I doubted she made enough in that crappy Department

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-91725366261548949532007-04-09T19:11:00.000+01:002007-04-09T19:37:48.547+01:00

I walked over, sat down. She got up, ruining my aura of civility as I realised she didn't recognise me. I cleared my throat, and launched into the pitch I had painstakingly prepared over the last ten seconds.I started with a strong serve. "Do you know why Richard died?" She turned on her heel. I noticed all the forward momentum had gone out of her, and she was now advancing on me. I held my

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-7947522925673057402007-04-07T15:22:00.000+01:002007-04-07T15:46:26.103+01:00

The wrong road in a big city can take you to scary places. I'd spent a fitful night at home, sweating in the dark, muscles tensing at every noise outside. I never watch horror movies, with good reason.The next day was as dazzling as the last. I picked up a pair of cheap sunglasses and took a bus into town. This left did not feel right. I was going to talk to Sally, but I wanted to get a reason

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-32830940281117522312007-04-04T14:03:00.000+01:002007-04-04T14:33:07.029+01:00

Rather than brave the dragon, I decided to hit the books. A quick walk and a long drink of coke later, I was sat in a newspaper archive at the library.Richard was drowned, there was no question, the papers didn't mention any other injuries but that meant nothing. I had trouble believing such a dedicated childhood basketball player would go quietly into this particular goodnight. I looked into his

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-14961483190226473112007-04-01T15:23:00.000+01:002007-04-01T15:39:17.494+01:00

I walked a while to clear my head. This was a big thing."I am now involved in a murder investigation. I have a lead." This seemed hard to reconcile with the one-legged duck I had to shoot for the Monday edition.The seafront calmed me down as only it can. I silently wished it wasn't term-time, so I could go crash with a student friend or five. Without the option of drink, it was time to think. I

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-61489931216705205612007-03-27T22:09:00.001+01:002007-04-02T15:41:38.208+01:00

Mrs Clements caught up with me through the office, my boss's secretary called me about it. She'd sent a letter asking for me, asking to meet outside the Town Hall of all places. I felt a bit like Sam Spade.I knew what this would be about, really. Nobody whose only son had just died wanted a set of family photos done. What I didn't know is why she wanted me. I'm no reporter, my name's always in

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-37986752122082039842007-03-27T00:14:00.000+01:002007-03-27T00:23:58.971+01:00

I always wanted to shoot Brighton like Miami. There are no palms on the beach, but the water to the south and the on-season sun make for nice images. Two people framed in silhouette. They could be lovers, strangers, friends, cold-hearted killers. The sun makes them into symbols, Man and Woman. There's a beauty in that, we see qualities in them we'd like to see in ourselves.Mostly I take pictures

Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15946323568002824692noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5208496868738994634.post-45360178324838830042007-03-26T23:54:00.000+01:002007-03-26T23:57:43.979+01:00

Richard Clements drowned on 13/05/2007. More precisely he was murdered. I'm going to tell his story, and mine. He was found that day, handcuffed to the iron frame of the West Pier, Brighton. He was below the high-tide level, and appeared to have been there since the night before. Somebody had taken the trouble to boat out there in the middle of the night, secure him, and leave him to die. I

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