9 – SHARP SHOOTING

Lunchtime the next day, I push open the heavy door to Sharp Shooters' upstairs studio. The room is open-plan like a gallery with pale wood floors and the crisp white walls exhibit a variety of photographic art. In the corners are glass cabinets showcasing camera equipment for sale way over my budget and through an archway I can just glimpse a flipchart facing a row of desks.

Max wanders over to look at the cameras, muttering, 'Goodness, things have come a long way.'

More immediately is an office desk under the window. The boy from Holly's group photo is sat behind his laptop. He gets up at my arrival, a broad smile on his face. He's quite ordinary looking, of stocky build with short brown hair and nervy hazel eyes.

'Can I help you?' he asks.

'Hi, yeah,' I say with a bright smile. 'I was just passing and wanted to see what you're about.'

'Are you a photographer? Amateur? Professional?' he probes.

'Neither really,' I say truthfully. 'I'm just starting out,' untruthfully. 'This stuff is amazing.' I step over to look at some mounted photos on the wall. Immediately recognisable are a couple of Holly's shots – one of her back garden in Germany with the brook at the bottom and another landscape shot of a forest.

'Well, we do evening classes for all levels,' says Dylan, following me over and clasping his hands. 'You'd just need to become a member. I'm Dylan, by the way, Dylan Quarry.' He holds out his hand. 'I'm the assistant manager, I suppose you could say.'

I shake his hand and give him an understanding grimace. 'I guess that means you have to work weekends when all your friends are out enjoying the sunshine. I'm Noa, without the H.' I give him my most winning smile. 'I take it all these pictures were done by your members?'

'Yeah,' he replies, nodding enthusiastically. His nervous energy is making me jumpy. 'We have an ongoing exhibition; all prints are for sale, including digital copies.'

I nod, make a big show of looking impressed. Max apparently has to try less hard, he's off the other side of the room examining the prints over there and making distracting noises of approval. I look closer at the print in front of me, and see Dylan's name under one of those derelict semi-circular World War 2 shelters made from corrugated steel in a forest clearing. The old grey metal contrasts well with the greenery around it.

'This is yours?' I ask.

Dylan looks down at his shoes, his cheeks pink and his hand-clasping intensifies. He points to another wall panel. 'We have a Sharp Shot of the Week competition just to keep things interested. Members only, of course, but entry is free.'

Centre stage is this week's Sharp Shot of the Week – a misty river at sunrise and two swans wading down the centre, sending apricot ripples across the still silky smooth water. Winners from previous weeks are further along. Last week's is a black and white image of an old woman with her gnarled hands folded in prayer. The week before is a huge orange fire in the black of night.

'Wow, these are amazing,' I say, genuinely impressed. 'Who –'

I see the captions below the images just in time that list the photographers' names and my breath catches in my throat. Holly Winslow's name proudly adorns the picture entitled 'Night Blaze'.

'The photographer's name is down the bottom here,' says Dylan, pointing unnecessarily. 'They are good, aren't they? The competition helps us strive to better our art.'

I've stopped listening to him. I'm trying to work out how long Holly has been missing. Surely longer than when her Sharp Shot of the Week was chosen? I glance over to Max and wish I could signal him somehow to get over here, but he's still busy examining the other wall.

'When were these taken?' I ask.

'Usually the week they're entered. Unless, of course, they're taken on holiday for instance when there's the delay of getting home before entering them.'

'And it would have to be the person who took the photo who enters?'

Dylan's brow knits as he gives me a bemused look. 'Well, yeah. This one, for example, was taken by Sherry O'Rourke,' he says pointing at 'Swan River'. 'She took it on Monday I think it was, and she entered it on Tuesday, and it was crowned Sharp Shot yesterday evening.'

Holly would just have been able to enter her picture before going missing, I realise. She'd disappeared two Mondays ago, straight after attending Sharp Shooters. It's a bit weird that they still awarded her the prize if she was missing. Could it have been one of those posthumous honorary awards in remembrance? Given that they dish out the awards on the Friday, they would have been jolly quick to assume the worst… unless someone here already knew Holly's fate. Then again, would any of them have known that Holly was missing at all? Mr and Mrs Winslow have been awful keen to keep her disappearance secret.

I try to concentrate on the task at hand as I notice Dylan giving me funny looks. 'Sounds like fun,' I say, beaming. 'What does the winner get?'

'A place on the wall. It's just a little competition to encourage our members.'

'I see. Like I said, it sounds like fun. I like this one, especially.' I point to Holly's 'Night Blaze'. 'Does she have other stuff on exhibition?'

'Oh, yeah. She's got a couple over here.' Dylan is quick to lead me to the original two photos I spotted when we first came in.

'She's very good,' I say. 'Is she a professional?'

'No, an amateur like most of us. She's probably around your age.'

'She's miles more talented that I could ever be,' I say, again not lying.

I try to gauge Dylan's feelings about Holly but he's not making things easy for me. There's a ring of pride in his voice as he speaks about her, but also a breathlessness. Is this just him eager to sign up a new member or is he a little nervous talking about Holly?

'Do you know her – what's her name – Holly?' I say, glancing at her name on the photo caption for effect. 'Do you know Holly well?'

Dylan gulps and his forehead prickles with sweat beads. Again, he could just be a nervy salesman. It could also be because it's really quite warm in here.

'So-so,' he replies, but he can't keep my gaze. 'We have lots of members. It's impossible to know them all really well.'

I nod. Is that so? The picture of him with his arm around Holly springs to mind, but I let it slide for the minute. I get the sense that if I push Dylan too far his nerves will boil over.

'I'd love to buy a print of this "Night Blaze", if that's okay? Do you have a contact for her? I'd love to look at more of her portfolio.'

'All purchases are done through Sharp Shooters.' There is a definite edge to his voice now. Considering he's about to make a sale, if he was just a nervy salesman he's ruining it now. It must be something deeper, something like Holly that's putting him on edge. But what though? What does he know? What did he do?

'Ah, okay,' I say pulling a face of mock disappointment.

'Do you want a print or a digital copy?' Dylan asks. 'I can do it for you now.'

Crap. Now I really have to buy it. 'Sure.' I beam at him again. 'A digital copy would be great.'

Dylan's shoulders marginally relax and he leads the way over to his desk and laptop. While he gets to work typing and clicking, I rummage through my bag for some money.

I hand it over and he takes it without meeting my eye. 'Thanks. What's your email address?'

'Noa Drury at livewire dot com.'

For a moment I'm seized with fear that he'll recognise my surname. I don't know if Dad came snooping around here when he was on the case. I should think he did considering this was the last place Holly was seen. But then he was probably smart enough to give a false name. Either way, Dylan doesn't appear to notice anything awry. He continues to tap away.

'There. That's sent now.' He meets my gaze at last and I give him a gentle smile. It seems to do the trick as he relaxes a little more. 'Do you want to join, maybe have a go at Sharp Shot yourself?'

'Oh, I don't know. I'm nowhere near as good.'

'It's half price for students,' he says gesturing to a members' price list on the desk. There is no way I am shelling out more money at Sharp Shooters.

'I'll think about it, Dylan. Thanks.'

'No problem. Is there anything else I can help you with?'

I hesitate. Now that he asks… I weigh up my options. Do I walk out of here never to return having picked up precisely no information except to confirm my suspicions that Dylan knows Holly more than he's letting on? Or do I stay and probe further and blow my cover?

A chill seeps over me as Max arrives at my shoulder. 'Ask him about Holly's disappearance,' he murmurs in my ear.

'Yeah, one,' I say to Dylan. 'When was the last time you saw Holly Winslow?'

Dylan's head comes up defensively and his eyes widen in surprise. 'Pardon?'

'When was the last time you saw her?'

'I – I don't know,' he splutters. 'Why are you asking?'

Having Max next to me bolsters my confidence – I don't know why; it's not like he can do anything if I talk my way into trouble – but it does. 'You might have noticed she hasn't come in for the past three weeks or so.'

Dylan's cheeks turn a deep shade of crimson and he gets to his feet. He walks over to a cabinet of camera lenses and fiddles with the glass door. 'Then I presume she's away on holiday,' he says, his voice ever so slightly shaky. 'It is summer, you know.' He looks back and I can tell he has recovered most of his composure. 'Who are you? Why are you asking about Holly?'

I shrug. 'I'm just looking out for her, is all. Where were you on Monday, the week Holly's picture won Sharp Shot of the Week?'

Dylan's mouth drops open and his composure begins to crack. 'I – I don't know, Jesus, that was ages ago.'

I pull a mock undecided face and place a finger on my chin. 'Hmm, not really. Do you work here every day? Presumably you would have seen Holly that Monday?'

Dylan glares at me, his face turning puce again. Leaving the glass door of the cabinet to swing open and bang against the wall, he strides towards me and points at the door. 'I think it's time you left, don't you?'

I can't help myself. I swallow nervously and back away a couple of steps.

'Hold your ground, Noa, hold your ground,' says Max by my shoulder.

'Holly's a friend of yours, isn't she, Dylan?' I challenge him. 'That's what the group photo of you all tells me –'

'Get! Out!' Dylan stands over me, nostrils flared, chest heaving as he breathes angrily in my face. He stabs the air with his finger towards the door. 'Go on!'

I do my best not to step back again. He's a good foot taller than me. Instead I fill my lungs and raise my chin. 'You know she's missing, don't you? Aren't you worried about your friend?'

Dylan curls his lip in a sneer and grabs my arm. I gasp as his fingers press painfully into my skin. Before I can fight back, he's dragging me to the door.

'I don't know what the hell you're talking about,' he says through clenched teeth. 'I don't know Holly! I don't know what's she up to. It's none of my business –'

I try to wiggle free from his grip, desperate to keep eye contact with him. 'What are you scared of, Dylan? What do you have to hide?'

'– And it's no business of yours either! Go on!'

With that he pushes me out of the studio onto the narrow landing and slams the door in my face.

Max is waiting for me on the pavement outside once I've come down the stairs, rubbing my forearm.

'Well, that went well,' he says. But there's an apology in his smile and I can see he feels bad.

I readjust my t-shirt which Dylan yanked out of shape and walk over to the railings where I've stashed my bicycle. 'I don't know, Max. Maybe he doesn't know anything, maybe they were just posing in the photo. But I wasn't getting anywhere just admiring the pictures.'

'No?' says Max. 'Then perhaps you weren't paying enough attention to them then.'

I fiddle with my bicycle lock. It seems to have warped in the heat. 'Oh?'

Max tries not to look too pleased with himself. 'Only that one of Dylan's photos on display is an almost exact replica of one in Holly's portfolio.'

I stand up, on the alert. 'Seriously? Which one?'

'The one of the cattle drinking by the canal with the water tower in the background.'

'And it's not a copy?'

Max shakes his head. He gestures to me to hurry up. 'Not a copy, but one would have to conclude they were taking photos of the same thing at the same time. Quite extraordinary how photography has advanced this past century.'

My mind races as I try to repuzzle this new clue. 'So, he's either lying about knowing her, or he's stalking her.'

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016