Birth Marks (26 page)

Now, at last, I turned and looked at her. The trembling had ceased. She was sitting instead like a statue of serenity, those lovely legs crossed into a long slender line, her hands clasped together on her lap. Whatever was going on inside, it was now safely under lock and key. She glanced up at me and gave me a big smile. It was the action of a pragmatist, not a woman to be troubled by moral ambiguities. ‘I'm so sorry you had to listen to all that, Hannah, I'm sure you have better things to do with your time. You've done a marvellous job. You should be very proud of yourself. If you just let me know how much we owe you, you can be on your way.'

She was still smiling, so I smiled back. In the end it was altogether fitting that the one woman who claimed to be desperate for a child didn't really want one at all. So what did you expect, Hannah? That someone somewhere in this grimy little tale would really turn out to be a hero? Or, more importantly, a heroine. Instead it was more a question of degrees of corruption, morality as a rubber band, with everyone rejoicing in its elasticity. Carolyn had needed eight thousand pounds, but she'd been willing to take sixty if she could get away with fraud. Belmont didn't see why he shouldn't buy anything and everything he couldn't legitimately have. And in the end Mathilde wanted to be in on the deal too, so that she could use it to carve out her own empire. Agnes, Maurice and the doctor could be explained by a mixture of loyalty and greed. And Daniel…well, Daniel had watched from the sidelines and then moved in to clear up the mess. Sure he was fond of his uncle, grateful for all the things he had done for him. But it was also in his interests to inherit a company free from scandal, and he must have known that he'd be well rewarded for his pains. So there they were, the complete character list, untarnished by moral principles. Which left me sporting my threadbare idealism like a pair of flared trousers. But everyone has to grow up some time. How much could I ask? What did I need? A new car? An apartment? All I'd have to do was not think of her each time I put the key in the lock. Because Daniel was right. She was dead, and nothing I could do was going to bring her back. You know what, Hannah, Frank's voice sighed like the sea in my ear, either way this could be the biggest mistake of your life. ‘My bill is in an envelope inside the folder,' I said quietly.

She stared at me for a moment, then pulled out the envelope and glanced inside. ‘This seems altogether too modest. You're sure there isn't something you've forgotten?'

Like a couple of noughts, you mean. I tried again. I parted my lips to say something, to construct some suitably shadowy, ambivalent sentence that would lead me later to dazzle my bank manager and buy Frank that gold nameplate he's always dreamed of, but the words wouldn't form and even if they had I wouldn't have been able to get my tongue out from the taste of bile at the bottom of my mouth. Damn it. Not so much a moral problem as a physical one. Principles as a Pavlovian response. God help you, Hannah. It's good you're freelance, because you'd never make a cop. It had even got to Frank in the end. Yeah, well, there had to be some reason why I worked with him, didn't there? ‘Thanks,' I said, the bile sliding away with the saliva. ‘But I'll just take what I'm owed.'

‘Of course,' she said quickly. She stood up and smoothed down her dress, then held out a hand towards me. ‘If you'll excuse me, I think I am needed inside…' I left the hand floating there, five perfect little nails flashing crimson in the sunlight. She didn't seem to mind. She turned. ‘Daniel—perhaps you'd settle up with Hannah and say our goodbyes. I'll see you later.' My last view of her was that gorgeous figure gliding its way inside the French windows on the way to charm a few more ageing professionals. Despite it all you had to admire her confidence.

Which left Daniel and me. He picked up my bill where she had let it fall on the table, looked down at it and up at me. And it was a very warm look, no curtains across it. Something in my stomach curdled. ‘I'm surprised. And you led me to believe that you practised a sliding scale, at least when it came to expenses.' I shrugged. He took a small wad of naked-breasted notes out of his pocket and handed them to me. It seemed altogether too crude to count them. Then he leant over, pulled the report out of its folder and started slowly to tear it into small pieces. It made a rasping angry sound. And as he tore he said, ‘Of course, we both understand that what I'm doing is just theatre. That you've already made copies of this, and that those copies are somewhere safe in case anything should ever happen to you. That way you are protected from me, although not necessarily me from you. But that's a chance I just have to take.' He gathered up the bits and let them fall back into the envelope which he handed to me. This time our fingers touched. ‘I said this once before to you, Hannah. You didn't believe it then, so there's no reason for you to believe it now. I'm sorry. If we could have done it any other way…As you probably know now, I've not always been the greatest judge of women. However, this time it feels like my loss.' And then at last he smiled, a big wide grin devoid of any guilt or restraint. ‘I'm sure I don't need to add, but if you ever need a job…'

And it was so exquisite, so much the stuff that myth is made of that I knew it to be both true and at the same time a gross lie. Like the rest of this whole bizarre tale. It didn't matter that much anyway. Happy endings were not what we were talking about.

I think I may have smiled back. Then I gathered up my bag, got up and walked away. Only this time I went out through the front gates. They clanged shut behind me. In the distance I heard the dogs barking in their kennels.

T
he news of the bursary hit the papers six weeks later. Miss Patrick, to my surprise, agreed to be the administrator. I wrote a note congratulating her. She sent me a short, polite reply. The French press spent a while speculating on the future of the Belmont empire now the dashing young Daniel was at the helm (with rather more shares than many thought good for him, certainly more than they had expected Belmont to leave him) but in general the business consensus was that it was in safe hands. They were a little more excited when two weeks later it was announced that Daniel had given a half of the Belmont estate to Jules's widow, the very lovely young Mathilde Belmont. There were some photographs of her looking positively scrumptious in some very expensive outfits, but, alas, she was not available for comment.

As timing goes that would have been the moment; such sweet symmetry. Well, you didn't really think I'd let sentiment get completely in the way of business, did you? But in the end you can't accuse an international tycoon of being an accessory to possible murder or his beautiful young aunt of covering up for him when you don't have any proof at all. And the saddest thing of all was that I didn't. Even assuming that Agnes and Maurice could be persuaded not to perjure themselves to keep alive the flame of the dead hero, the medical report could have belonged to anyone, Carolyn Hamilton's body had been cremated two days after the inquest and the pathologist's samples, in particular those darling little French water diatoms which could have brought down an empire, had all been chucked down the sink a week later. I can't say I was surprised. How disappointed I was I've yet to decide. Interesting I wasn't the only one to have checked. Apparently a man with an American accent had been making inquiries a couple of weeks before. So he had known all along. Well, I would hate to have thought he was more stupid than I. Or less diligent. What do they say about relationships? That the best ones are based on equality. And fantasy.

Frank refused to give me another job until I told him what happened. So I gave him a version of the truth. He seemed satisfied. I was about to go shopping with an Israeli heiress when I got some free vouchers through the post. Apparently my name had been picked out from a thousand others and I had won fifteen thousand air miles with any company of my choice. It was postmarked West London, no address. What was it a good-looking man in a suit once said to me? That every airline owes something to Belmont Aviation. I must admit I found it harder to refuse than money. In the end I compromised. I ditched the princess, tore up half the vouchers and booked myself a round trip to the Galapagos Islands. Well, I had earned a holiday and a woman in evolution needs to be reminded of what happens when you get stranded in one place too long…

Sarah Dunant has written eight novels, including
The Birth of Venus
and three Hannah Wolfe novels:
Birth Marks; Fatlands
, for which she received Britain's prestigious Silver Dagger Award; and
Under My Skin
. She has worked widely in print, television, and radio. Now a full-time writer, she lives in London and Florence.