Ess waved as Martin entered the wine bar, not that there was a crowd.  He came over and before Ess could offer a hand he kissed her cheek.  It didn’t seem very professional, but she suspected in his circle everyone kissed, and the customer was always right, wasn’t he?
 
“You’re early,” he said.
 
Ess smiled.  “You too.”
 
He shrugged.  “Well, you know how it is.  I’m just keen to move things on.  You’ve found nothing out yet?  Nothing at all?”
 
“Only that she’s not been seen by her family either.”
 
“You’ve seen her family?”  His eyes widened.  “Really?  What are they like?”
 
Ess thought back to the imperious figure seated on the throne.
 
“Honestly?  Scary.”
 
“You didn’t, you know, mention me at all?”
 
“No.  I just said friends were concerned.”
 
“How did you find them?  I’ve walked through Regents Park dozens of times.”
 
“It’s complicated.  It’s a wiccan thing.”
 
“Okay.”  He stuffed his hands deep in his pockets and shrugged.  “So, you want another drink or shall we go crash a party?  It’s just around the block.”
 
Ess rose, leaving her glass on the table.  “No, we can go now.  It’s only water.”
 
They walked in awkward silence through streets still busy even though it was late evening.
 
“You look nice,” he said, in a tone that suggested he was just going through the motions for something to say.
 
“Thank you.”  Ess patted her hair, tied back and sprayed to within an inch of its life.  Her dress was an old party one she had literally pressed into service; no one shopped in Camden on a Saturday, it was too crowded.  She was going to look like Cinderella before the fairy godmother’s visit, but no matter.  This was business after all, and she’d not meet these people again.
 
The studio was a glass and stainless steel affair somehow bolted onto the front of a Georgian building in a Soho backstreet.  Through the window Ess could see knots of people studiously ignoring large photographs of people’s faces hung around the wall.  Martin told the suited bouncer on the door his name and they entered.  Inside a woman who surely was trying to break into the modelling business handed them a glass of champagne and a pamphlet.
 
“Do you know all these people?” muttered Ess out of the corner of her mouth.  “Who are likely to know Daisy?”
 
“I know some of them, but as a rule of thumb, the pretty young ones are models, singers or – ,“  He signed quotes in the air with his fingers, “’personalities’.  The old ones are artists, agents or journalists.  There are exceptions, but that’s a good starting point.  Most will know her, at least casually.  This time of the evening it’s less about the exhibition and more about schmoozing, being seen to be in the right circles.  Nick’ll be here, of course.  Um, so what happens now?  Do you need me to make introductions or will I cramp your style?”
 
“Probably best if you just do what you would normally.  I’ll circulate, and if I need help I’ll give you a whistle.”  Because if you see how hopelessly out of my depth I am, you’ll sack me.
 
“Martin.”  Nick Hever approached them.  He gave Martin a hug.  Did these people never shake hands?  “And, um, Ess?  What a delightful surprise.”
 
“I’m his plus one,” said Ess quickly, trying to justify her presence.
 
“Of course, of course.”  He grasped her shoulders and brought her close for the obligatory kiss on the cheek.  “Upset my guests and you’re out on your ear,” he whispered before releasing her.  Ess could smell alcohol stronger than Champagne on his breath.  He straightened and beamed as though he’d said nothing.  “There are canapés at the back.  Anton agreed to do the catering, but I’ve got to do a session for him, as if his restaurants don’t already have enough pictures of him smirking down on his diners.  Still, the man’s a genius with food.  Duck with ice cream.  Who would have thought?”
 
“Lord Hever.  Nick, I mean.  Can I ask you a couple of questions later?”
 
“Later I’ll be too pissed to talk straight.  Ask me now.”
 
“I’ll catch you later,” said Martin, touching Ess on her elbow and then moving off air-kissing his way through the people.
 
“Daisy, when she left your studio, how did she leave?”
 
Nick frowned.  “How?  She wafted away like a dandelion on the wind, like she always does.  What do you mean, how?”
 
“I mean, did she leave on foot?  Car?  Taxi?”
 
“Shanksy’s pony.  There might have been a car at the end of the street.”  He indicated the direction from which Ess and Martin had walked.  “But I wouldn’t know.  She was on foot when she left here.”
 
“Alone?”
 
“Yes, though she’d have had company if Peter hadn’t been dragged away.”
 
“Peter?”
 
“Yes, I told you about him.  The punter I was shooting when she arrived.  Oh, wait, I didn’t tell you his name before, did I.  Well, it’s public domain now.  Peter Davenport.  I was shooting him and he hung around for a while when I started to shoot Daisy.  Tongue on his chest and eyes on stalks, but that’s politicians for you.  Then his shadow dragged him away.  Some baby kissing to do or something.”
 
“Is he here tonight?”
 
“Ha!  Yes, yes he is.  Gallery two, third picture, round the corner there.”  Chuckling at some joke Ess didn’t understand, he nodded to her and moved on to more important guests.
 
She looked around the gallery.  Martin was right, very few people seemed to be interested in the pictures so much as the other people.  It was University all over again, cliques building walls that excluded her before she’d even approached.  She looked at the brochure in her hand.  The exhibition was entitled “Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner”.  She scanned the paragraphs that contained words like chiascurro and synergy.  She ran her eye along the wall.  The photos were all in monochrome.  The first showed a twenty-something woman in a flimsy dress and broad hat, poised and graceful at a racecourse, a flute of champagne in her hand.  Ess felt she should recognise her.  Was she connected to the royal family?  The next showed another twenty-something, micro mini rucking up her thighs, belly button pierced, using a dirty wall for support, bottle of alco-pop in her one hand, pool of vomit at her feet.  A hen night victim.  She walked down the wall.  The photos were all on a similar theme, alternating between the cream of London and less fortunate individuals.  They weren’t all as stark but the pattern was obvious.  There was a lady dowager, lapdog in her arms, and there a shaven-headed man with a pit-bull on a length of frayed string. Yet every one displayed a story.  You felt these were real people, and there for the grace of God…
 
She realised she was wasting time, putting off the moment she would have to talk to someone.  What had Nick said?  Third picture in gallery two?  She followed the sign and turned a corner on another wall of photographs.  There was no one at the third picture.  Had he left?
 
She looked at the picture, then at the brochure index.  Oh, very funny.  The photograph was of Peter Davenport.  She stared at the photo, memorising his features so she could recognise him in the party, if he was still here.  He hung between a barrow boy, all cheeky grin and flim-flam, and a tramp, his face a mass of grimy crevasses and dirty beard, hand held out in a silent plea for money.  She grinned.  Surely the positioning wasn’t coincidental.  Was Lord Hever equating Davenport with wide-boys and beggars?  Wasn’t every politician out to sell you dodgy fruit and empty your pocket?  He certainly looked like a politician, a smug smile on his face as he looked forward to greatness in his future.
 
“Handsome devil, isn’t he,” said a voice behind her.
 
“Actually I think he looks –“ she said as she turned to the speaker, then abruptly snapped her mouth shut.
 
Peter Davenport grinned back at her.
 
“Ugly?  Two-faced?  Like a serial-killer?”  He treated her to a chuckle.  “Don’t worry.  I’m a politician.  I’ve heard it all.”
 
“Well, I don’t think he caught you at your best.”  It was true.  The man in front of her, though undeniably wearing the same face as in the photo, wasn’t the same man that stared down at them from the wall.  In the flesh he looked much more human, more faceted, somehow someone whose company you could enjoy, unlike the smug git in the photo that she would run a mile to avoid.  She had heard of this, politicians reviled in public but charming in person.  Was that what charisma was?
 
“What a nice thing to say.  You can be honest though.  Nick is a nice enough chap, but he has to earn a crust like all of us, and making me look smug and pretentious looks better in the exhibit, I suppose.”
 
“Not at all,” blurted Ess, embarrassed he so accurately reflected her thoughts of a few moments ago.  Davenport raised a brow.  Ess gave an embarrassed laugh.  “Well, maybe a bit.”
 
“Too be fair, I can be pretentious at times.  Oh, I’m sorry.  Peter Davenport, member for Elstree.”  He held out his hand.  Not an air-kisser, then.  Ess shook it.
 
“Yes, I know.  Ess.”
 
“Ess?  That’s an unusual name.”
 
“It’s short for Vanessa, but I’d really prefer you not to use that.”
 
“Ess it is then.  So you’ve heard of me?  I’m flattered.  Most pretty girls here don’t give a damn about politics.  It’s refreshing to find someone who has a head on her shoulders.”
 
Ess blushed and looked away.  Normally she would bridle at being labelled a ‘pretty girl’.  There was so much that was demeaning and patronising about that term, and yet she felt a giggle rise that, should it ever surface, she was sure would be labelled as a schoolgirl giggle.  What was going on?  The champagne?  Surely not.  “Thank you,” she mumbled.
 
“So what brings you here?  Are you in one of these photos?”
 
“No, I’m with Martin Prescott.”
 
“Prescott,  Prescott.  No, don’t tell me, I know that name.  Allen!”  He called to a younger man in a trendy suit with wide tie.  Allen came over.  “Allen, Martin Prescott.  How do I know him?”
 
“He’s the artist, Peter.  Remember?  He’s on this evening’s guest list.”
 
“That’s the fellow.  Sorry, mind like a sieve sometimes.  Oh, sorry, Ess, this is Allen Whitmarsh, my right-hand man and general wet nurse.  Allen, this is Ess, who’s heard of me.  How about that?”
 
Allen shook her hand.  “Of course she’s heard of you, Peter.  I keep telling you, your star is in the ascendant.  We’re going places.  And what do you do, Miss… Ess?”
 
“I, um, I find missing people.”  She still couldn’t bring herself to say ‘private invetigator’.  It sounded deceitful.
 
“A detective!  How wonderful,” exclaimed Peter.  “Do you carry a gat?  No, of course not.  Silly of me.  Watched too many old films.”  He leant forward conspiratorially.  “Are you on a case now?”
 
“Actually, yes, I am.”  His intimate closeness flustered her.  This was stupid.  The man was a stranger.  She had a boyfriend, a good one at that.  This man in front of her was far too privileged, far too full of himself, to be her type.
 
“How exciting.  Makes my life of committees and letter writing look tame.
 
“Actually, that’s how I knew your name.  I’m trying to trace Daisy.”
 
“Daisy?  Gorgeous girl.  I met her the other week.  At Lord Hever’s actually.  Small world.”
 
Allen took hold of Peter’s elbow.  “Peter, remember why we’re here?  I need you to talk to a journalist from the Guardian.”
 
“Yes, yes.”  He pulled his elbow free and continued talking to Ess.  “Enchanting girl, utterly enchanting, and then this wet blanket hauled me away to talk to a group of boring businessmen.  Still, probably best.”  He waved his hand, wiggling the ring finger.  “Wouldn’t want the little lady to know.  She –“  It was amazing.  Ess saw the moment the penny dropped.  “Wait.  She’s missing?”
 
“We think so.”
 
“Miss… Ess,” said Allen.  “I’m really sorry, but Peter absolutely needs to talk to someone, and I think he’s getting ready to leave.”
 
“It won’t take a moment.”
 
“He will of course do everything he can to assist you, but not just at this moment.  Do you have a card?”
 
Reluctantly Ess dug into her clutch bag.  “Here.”
 
Allen tucked it into his jacket pocket without looking at it.  “I’ll phone you tomorrow.  We’ll arrange a meeting, I promise.  Peter, please, we really have to charm the press.”
 
Peter Davenport shrugged an apology at Ess and allowed himself to be led away.  As he made his way through the tight groups of people they turned their head.  There was definitely something about him.  She shook her head.  Expensive wine was obviously stronger than the cheap stuff she was used to.