Birth Marks (15 page)

N
ow I knew, of course, it had been obvious all along. The weather, the odd dance performance, a bit of chat about this and that—there had never been anything in any of Carolyn's postcards which couldn't have been gleaned from any English newspaper or magazine. A copy of the
Guardian
two days late regurgitated on to a card in Senlis and posted in London and, hey presto, Carolyn Hamilton was alive and well and living in Kilburn.

It had its own satisfaction, like finding the last piece in a jigsaw puzzle. The January postcard now sat reunited with its sisters, laid out on my bed in front of me. So Carolyn had been here all along. And the cards proved something else. They proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the baby was meant for someone else. Why else go to all the trouble and deceit of pretending she was still working in England, single and most definitely not pregnant? And if it was meant for someone else, then who could that possibly be but the childless, wealthy Belmonts? So, according to Mathilde, it wasn't his flesh—strangely, even though I know I shouldn't, I had believed her. That didn't mean it still couldn't be in the family. The flying nephew had yet to be discounted, although he would hardly tell me the truth even if I could get to him. Either way it didn't really matter that much. They were desperate for a child and she had one to offer. This way everyone got what they needed, she enough money to get her out of debt—no doubt there would have been more cash promised on delivery—and they a little Belmont to take on the family name.

So far so symmetrical. Except, of course, for the unhappy ending. What could have happened between 6 December and 14 January to propel her back across the Channel and into the river? And what could have been serious enough to have everyone treating it like a national defence secret guarded by dogs, house-keepers, French postcards stamped in England and Belmont's smokescreen of lies to anyone who came asking awkward questions? Certainly nobody wants a suicide on their hands, particularly not someone of Belmont's national prominence. But it was hardly his fault. And what makes the headlines in England probably wouldn't raise an eyebrow in France. Tough business, this detecting. A couple of answers and what do you get but more questions. When in doubt put yourself in their shoes. I conjured up an image of Belmont, old, dry and angry, sitting at his big desk while his secretary tried to raise my Paris hotel on the line, only to be told I had checked out that very afternoon. What would he do next? Wait for me to get in touch, or try to find me? After all, I had to be staying somewhere, and somewhere near enough, presumably, to get to Villemetrie. Put like that it was child's play. Only a question of time, and not long at that.

In my little room the sun had dropped behind the rooftops and it was getting chilly. It would be dark within the hour. I pulled the window closed and put on the bedside light. Rather than wait to be discovered, I decided to take the initiative.

It was almost 6.00 p.m. Not late for a workaholic. But I got Cerberus again, barking her way down the phone. The boss was not available.

‘Then maybe I can leave him a message. Perhaps you'd tell him I will meet him tomorrow morning outside the main entrance to the Louvre. Let's say 10.00 a.m.?'

‘That is absolutely impossible. He is in meetings all day.'

‘Fine. But perhaps you'd tell him anyway. I think he'd like to know.'

‘But-'

I put the phone down. To my surprise my hand was shaking slightly. ‘And you never get scared?' Scumbag's teasing question slid into my mind along with a picture of a tasty man in a good suit. Frank, never a man to respect privacy, joined in. ‘You know what I say, Hannah. It's only as dangerous as you're stupid enough to make it. Why do you think coppers always go out in pairs? So someone's covering your back. You get into trouble—how do I know where to look for you if I don't know where you've been? Boy Scouts' motto. Be prepared.' Thanks, Frank. Who needs friends when you've got employers?

I didn't have the right change to call England, so I reversed the charges. 6.30 p.m. in France, 5.30 p.m. English time. Frank would be cleaning his Smith and Wesson and thinking of all the pubs he could be in. Or he could, of course, be in them already. Since answering machines do not accept reverse-charge calls the operator informed me that I would have to call again. I gave her another number. At the other end I heard a high-pitched little shout before they cut me off. Amy, guardian of the telephone. A few seconds later Kate's voice broke through.

‘Hannah? Hello there. What's up?'

‘Oh, not a lot. I'm here for a few days and I thought I might pick up an outfit for Amy, but I couldn't remember her size.'

‘Where's here?' She seemed so close I wondered why they needed a Channel tunnel. Why couldn't we all just drive along the telephone lines?

‘Senlis. A little town to the North East of Paris.'

‘You working?'

‘Ahah.'

‘Your sad pregnant little dancer?'

‘Yep.'

‘Find the father?'

‘Not yet.'

‘You all right?'

‘Fine. As I said I just called to get Amy's size.'

‘I think they might be different in France, though you could always say three years. But I wouldn't bother. She'll probably have grown out of it by the time you get back. Why don't you bring her something for later. How about a poster of Johnny Halliday? By the time she's ten he'll probably be a cult hero again.'

‘Johnny et Sylvie.
Vers une nouvelle séparation
?' Headlines from a dozen
Paris Matches
came back to me, found lying in the dusty corners of Brittany guesthouses and painstakingly translated on the beach while the wind whipped sand in our seven-stone weakling faces. Family holidays, we used to call them.
In loco parentis
: for years I thought it meant a form of madness brought on from spending too much time with your parents. No wonder I preferred to work. But some things are never forgotten, especially by sisters. On the line Kate was talking.

‘What?'

‘I said are you sure you're all right? You sound strange.'

‘No. I'm fine. Just busy. I'll be back in a few days.'

‘OK. Listen, I'm sorry to cut this short, but Benjamin's howling, it's Amy's bathtime and Colin isn't home yet…'

‘No problem. It's your phone bill anyway. I'll call you when I get back.'

‘OK. Oh, wait. Just say goodbye to Amy.'

I put down the phone with the little voice still chattering brightly in my ear. It was only then I remembered I had never given Kate my number. I thought about calling back, but it seemed absurd. She would only worry, and anyway, the sense of threat had slipped away with the baby talk. At least she knew where I was, and I could always call Frank later at home.

Upstairs twilight had turned to darkness. I lay down on the bed and thought about supper. But sleep kept getting in the way. I recognized the syndrome: too much adrenalin in one day. Once it goes there's nothing to keep you going. I would take a nap now and eat later. A nice little local restaurant with the patron personally introducing each course. Even if Belmont was seriously looking for me he surely wouldn't risk drawing attention to himself by making raids on his local bistros. I set my wrist-watch for 8.00 p.m. I don't remember lying down again.

The door woke me. For an old lady she packed a hefty punch—even the frame was rattling. I was up and talking before my brain had caught up with me. There was someone on the phone for me. A man. He said it was urgent. You could see I had taken a dive in her estimation. Men calling me after 8.30 p.m. Shit. So much for the alarm. Since I didn't have any option, I took the call. It hadn't taken him long to track me down. I girded my loins.

‘Hannah. Is that you?' Well, of all the bars in all the towns…Scumbag. I wondered how I felt about it. ‘It's David Mercot. Remember me?'

‘Barely. How did you find me?'

He laughed. ‘With some difficulty. The clerk at your hotel in Paris told me you'd asked the way to Roissy the day before. I figured if you were Belmont hunting you'd have to end up at Villemetrie. And Senlis is the nearest town. From there it was easy. Although I must admit for a woman on expenses I had expected something a little more chic than a pension.'

‘Yes, well, I've been spending rather a lot on food lately.'

That one hit home, not so much what he said as the pause before he said it. ‘I rang to tell you I've been doing a little digging on your behalf. And I've come across something I thought might interest you. About the Belmont family.'

‘Really,' I said, but with zilch enthusiasm.

‘Yeah, something to do with a girl they employed last year. I gather there was some trouble. I thought you might like to know.'

Deep inside, the juices began to run. Only this time it wasn't just sexual. Work before pleasure. Except sometimes with both it's wise to play hard to get. ‘Yeah, I probably would.'

Another pause. At the other end he sighed, but it didn't sound too guilt-stricken. ‘OK. So I also rang to apologize. I know what you must have thought. I didn't intend it to sound so…brutal.' I was still trying to think up something clever for that one when he said: ‘Oh come on, Hannah. Don't go all cold and English on me. I realize it was a lousy thing to do. And I don't blame you for being mad. I just didn't have any option. At the time, I couldn't tell you about it. It was a professional appointment. In confidence. Something you should know all about. But if you'll let me buy you dinner I'll come clean.'

Bloody cheek. Tell him to stuff it, said the bruise in my ego, now turning from purple to yellow. ‘No problem. I'll be back in Paris next Easter. I'll call you then.' But we both knew my heart wasn't in it.

‘I can pick you up in about three-quarters of an hour. There's a new restaurant I've heard about, just outside the town. My treat, of course. Shall I wait by the hotel?'

‘You know you could always just tell me over the phone. Save yourself the time and money.'

‘Hannah, give me a break. Don't make it harder than it is. I'm trying to say I'm sorry. And that I want to see you.'

I took a deep breath. ‘OK. I'll meet you in the square by the cathedral at nine thirty. But if you're more than a minute late I'll assume you've stood me up.'

Swallowing pride; sometimes it tastes better than you expect. I took a bath and washed my hair—not so much vanity as cleanliness. Under torture I might admit to a little mascara, but just to make my eyes look more open. Then I set about unpicking a couple of inches of stitching from the inside of one of the pillows on the bed. When the hole was big enough I slid the postcards in. Since I didn't have a needle and cotton I put the open end back into the pillowcase first. Eventually the feathers would start to escape, but not yet. Should anyone come looking they would have to be willing to cause considerable damage to find them. As far as I remember it was an action of instinct rather than intellect—I don't think I had seriously considered the possibility of coming back to find my room ransacked—but sometimes you do things anyway. This was one of those times. Then I put on my coat and went out.

It was a beautiful night, colder now, but clear with a half-eaten moon and a few choice stars. The square was right behind the pension. On a bench at one end two teenagers were huddled over the lights of their cigarettes. That's one of the few things to be said for adulthood: it's no longer adolescence. I walked past them over towards the façade of the cathedral and its huge rosepetal window. The stone glowed ghost-white under the street lamps, not so much welcoming as imposing. The doors were closed. What happened if the faithful suffered spiritual crisis after 10.00 p.m.? The devil take them until morning. I looked at my watch: 9.28 p.m. I heard him first. Footsteps on cobbles. I turned and watched him walk towards me. He was wearing a trenchcoat, belted in the front, and dark shiny shoes. Very Jean-Paul Belmondo. It suited him. He stopped a few yards in front of me. I wondered if I should hold out my hand but I don't think either of us felt like touching.

‘Hello. I'm glad you came.' And there was no doubt that he was just a little embarrassed. Guilty is as handsome does. I enjoyed his discomfort. ‘Shall we go? I parked the car a couple of streets away.'

We walked but we didn't talk. The car was bigger than I had anticipated, shiny and new. He opened the passenger door for me. Inside it smelt of new leather. He noticed I was noticing. ‘Sorry. It comes with the job.'

He slid in beside me. The key in the ignition started off a slow swell of cellos and violins. Vivaldi. He turned to me. ‘Maybe we should leave the talking till we get to the restaurant. It's not far. What do you say?'

And once again for a man so poised he felt surprisingly nervous. I thought it was rather touching. ‘OK.'

We purred our way out of town, past closed doors where the good burghers of Senlis were no doubt drinking their wine and water and watching yoghourt ads on the television. A mile or so out, darkness engulfed us, the car headlights piercing a narrow shaft through country roads. I stole a glance. He was concentrating on the road, but he felt the look. He smiled back. It said, ‘I'm glad you're here.' But did it also say something else?