The Girl Who Broke the Rules. Marnie Riches

her, a woman leaned over the balcony at the staircase’s summit. Lines etched deeply into a well-scrubbed face. Welcoming smile. Poorly dyed orange hair and a loose fitting jumper that draped over pendulous breasts. She looked like somebody’s mother.

      ‘You Georgina McKenzie?’ the woman asked.

      ‘Yes. Sharon Williams-May’s niece.’

      George shook the woman’s hand as she finally reached the top step. Made a mental note to use some anti-bacterial gel on the way out.

      ‘I’m Marge, Dermot’s PA. Come in. He’ll see you shortly.’

      George followed Marge beyond a steel security door which announced, by dint of an engraved brass plaque, that this was the London office of Skin Flicks Media Group, parent company of Skin Magazine, Skinclicks.com, Skin Licks Gentlemen’s Clubs and Skin Dicks Adult Toys. Spotlit, framed covers from Skin Magazine, hanging in a perfect line along the red crushed velvet walls, guided her down a narrow corridor. The covers featured an array of topless girls sporting disproportionately enormous pneumatic breasts on top of tiny, bony chests. All pouting lips, spidery eyelashes and big hair. The photographic trail opened out onto the reception area. Black carpet. More red velvet on the walls. Black leather sofas.

      After some ten minutes, during which time George noted, with a degree of surprise, that the sofa she sat on smelled good and was soft to the touch – not like the hard, cheap crap Aunty Sharon owned, which had the fishy stink of a bad tannery – a white-haired, moustachioed man bordering on elderly leaned out of an office door and waved her into an office.

      Smiling benignly. Red-faced. His gut overhung his baggy slacks by some margin. His legendarily large feet were clad in moccasins. George marvelled that this innocuous-looking man, who could be a semi-retired chip-shop owner, judging by his appearance, was one of the most successful creators of multi-platform erotica and related branded merchandise in Europe.

      ‘So, you work for me, do you?’ he asked, running an arthritic-looking hand through the thinning white hair.

      ‘Yes, Mr Robinson,’ George said. ‘I’m one of the cleaners at Skin Licks on Peter Street. My Aunty Sharon has been a barmaid there for ten years.’

      Dermot Robinson appraised her through rheumy eyes and rubbed a purpling nose, both of which attested to late nights and too much scotch. ‘You could be a dancer with a body like that,’ he said, stretching out the vowels with his East End tongue. ‘Want a promotion? My girls earn good money.’

      George opened her pad and clicked her pen into life. ‘That’s not what I’m here for, but it’s kind of you to offer. I’ve been keen to interview you for my PhD for over a year, Mr Robinson. Thanks so much for this.’

      This unprepossessing Soho porn king crossed his enormous feet on his desk top and leaned back in his chair. Arms behind his head. A man at ease with the world and with women.

      But not women like her.

      George cleared her throat and read her first question aloud. ‘Your harder stuff. The SM magazines and websites that are subsidiary Skin Flicks brands – do you create the content to meet an existing demand, or do you think your content drives consumer tastes in erotica?’

      ‘You think I’m a dirty old man? That Skin Flicks is just my own personal fantasy?’ Dermot Robinson leaned over the desk as far as his gut would allow. Stretched his arms wide along the rosewood. Narrowed his eyes at George and tried to see what she had written on her pad. ‘You can put in your notes that this is a multi-million-pound business, love. You think it’s all budget home movies and readers’ wives?’

      She shook her head avidly. ‘Not at all.’ Though she had seen the production values of many a porn film, and a sizeable proportion looked like they might have been recorded on amateur equipment. George had wondered if any of the Skin Flicks filming was done within the offices to cut costs.

      ‘My last film cost me over a million to make,’ Dermot said. ‘Think about it. All them staff. Location. Catering crew. Consultants for this. Advisers for that. Editing and post production.’ He pointed to a blown-up black and white photograph of him receiving an award in a dark and dingy-looking place. ‘See that? That’s me, getting a SHAFTA. Know what that is?’

      ‘Soft and Hard Adult Film and Television Awards,’ George said.

      Dermot closed his eyes and nodded. ‘The stuff we do here is art. I got marketing people who market research my films to death before they even see a story board. What the punter wants, the punter gets. That’s why my products get picked up by the likes of X Broadcasting network in Canada. My films is seen all over the world, love. Internationally successful.’

      ‘But the violent content in some of them. Women being tortured. Some goes beyond standard BDSM, wouldn’t you say? Do men really want to see that?’

      The Soho porn king rose and moved to his window, looking down onto Wardour Street below. Lord and master of all he surveyed, rolling up his sweater sleeves as though he were preparing for a fight with the entire West End. ‘Listen, darling, ain’t nothing been produced under my brand what’s not got artistic merit. I got good scriptwriters. Excellent camera men. Even medical people telling the directors what’s legit and what’s not. Looking after the health of my stars. And my legal team cost me a fucking fortune.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘You wouldn’t sleep nights if you seen my legal bills. Now the government’s banning all sorts of acts in UK porn. It’s gonna put the smaller guys out of business.’

      He was side-stepping her questions. George checked her watch. Irritated. Drumming her pen on the pad. For a start, the SHAFTAs picture was hanging too high on the left by at least 5mm. And those feet. Robinson’s feet were preposterous. She knew he had starred in porn films himself back in the seventies. His shoe size reflected how well he was endowed in other areas. An erotic legend who was about as sexy as a bucket of cold sick, George reflected. She wanted to go. Her cleaning shift began in less than thirty minutes and she would be glad to exchange the luxurious black carpet of Skin Flicks’ head office for the smell of bleach in the store cupboard of Dermot’s titty bar.

      No. Focus, George, she thought. You’re here to get the other side of the story. Don’t leave without it.

      ‘Do you think your erotica inspires men to commit sexually violent crimes against women, Mr Robinson?’

      Dermot turned away from his view and stared at her in silence. ‘You understand the true nature of your average red-blooded male, love, you don’t need to ask that question.’

      The phone rang, preventing George from asking her next questions. Dermot picked it up. Looked grave. Said, ‘OK. Jesus. Right. Well get another bloody girl in!’ and then hung up.

      ‘I’m going to have to cut our entertaining little tête-à-tête short, love,’ he said, scratching his moustache with a Biro. ‘Seems one of my actresses has gone AWOL. She was due on set two days ago. Now they’re telling me nobody’s seen the silly cow.’ He shook his head. ‘Can’t get the staff. You sure you don’t want a promotion?’

       CHAPTER 10

       Amsterdam, Norderkerk, later, then, van den Bergen’s apartment

      The actress, or what was left of her, was stretched across the rear seat of the Lexus. Having a wide car was very handy under these circumstances. After the bombing of the Bushuis Library, vans were still drawing the attention of the police. You were far more likely to be stopped and searched in one of those. Plenty of room for explosives in the back, if you had aspirations to becoming a terrorist. But a luxury saloon in black, with no changes to the manufacturer’s specifications, gliding along, observant of the speed limit and traffic lights…who would pay attention to a car like that? Certainly not the police. It didn’t scream, ‘drug dealer’