Creed by James Herbert Page A

girlfriend with their pina coladas. After that, and considerably cheered, he’d completed a tour of duty, knowing that nothing would be happening at the Grosvenor until after midnight. He could have caught the Duchess of York going in, but the best time was coming out , when one or two glasses had been consumed and spirits were frisky (and Fergie was renowned for her friskiness). In a good mood, she wasn’t averse to obliging the cameramen, although right now, Creed seriously doubts she’ll pose for the particular shot he has in mind.
    But, he’s going to get something tonight, and it’ll be more than a cheery wave. As he drives he wipes the back of his hand across his lips, which have become moist. Oh yeah, no way is he leaving without something . . .
    Creed slowed down when he neared the Grosvenor’s Park Lane entrance, noting the line of waiting chauffeur-driven stretch-limos and Rollers waiting alongside the kerb. No space had been left unoccupied adjacent to the Great Room’s revolving doors, and that made him suspicious. The pack was gathered outside, along with the usual sightseers who gathered anywhere they saw waiting cameramen. He drove on.
    The hotel’s other entrance, this one leading directly into the reception lobby, was round the other side in a cul-de-sac off Park Street, a road parallel to Park Lane. Creed made his way to it and parked the jeep in a mews directly opposite the cul-de-sac. Hoisting the camera bag on to his shoulder, he locked up and walked back towards the main road. He paused when he recognized a familiar vehicle tucked in among others along the mews.
    He smiled, remembering the crack on the head he’d taken outside Langan’s the night before. It was nothing to the crack he’d received tumbling down the stairs, but at least there might be some retribution for this one.
    Creed lowered the bag to the ground and knelt beside it, popping the fastener to one of the small side pockets. He took out a tiny tube.
    He joined the other paparazzi – the more canny ones these – a few minutes later and in time to see his old chum, Bluto, arguing with hotel security inside the lobby. Oh wonderful. In his bid to pose as a regular guest, Bluto had left his cameras inside his car and was obviously packing a miniature. No doubt he’d been sussed two seconds after getting through the hotel doors. He was lucky they’d tabbed him for what he was and not a goddamn terrorist, which was what he looked like.
    The thickest paparazzi knew better than to argue unnecessarily once the game was up, and he left grouchily, ignoring the welcoming cheers of his compatriots outside.
    He managed a sneer for Creed as he lumbered by, then looked twice at Creed’s I-know-something-you-don’t grin. He passed on, crossing the road and heading for his parked Celica, no doubt to fetch his grown-up cameras.
    ‘Any action?’ Creed asked the closest photographer.
    ‘You just saw it. Other than that, nothing. Fergie’s inside though, and a few others worth getting.’
    Creed slipped his cameras around his neck, charging the batteries on both as he peered back into the lobby. He noticed the pool of royal snappers waiting in there, a permanent circle of privileged photographers who had special access to such events, known as the Royal Ratpack. Anyone else in the profession was an outsider and had to make their own opportunities. Creed, and the small group of (canny) snappers around him had guessed correctly: the Duchess of York would be leaving the charity ball through the main lobby and out these doors. The giveaway, and what the cowboys around the other side had been too dumb to spot, was the fact that no space had been left at the kerbside for the royal vehicle to pull into. No way would Fergie’s bodyguards allow her to walk out into the road.
    He checked his watch. Five-to-midnight. Plenty of time to grab a smoke or two. Hopefully, she had a full engagement list tomorrow, so she wouldn’t stay too late. Hopefully .