Lovers and Liars (17 page)

He turned. Gini fixed her eyes on the central video-screen: it showed a fireescape - an empty fireescape.

The porter consulted a clipboard, then the flashing control,“board. ‘Apartment 12 -‘ Mr McMullen again. Would you believe

It’s the second time this week. And we’re short-staffed. Here’s t address you need, miss. The police will be here in a minute. t I have to go straight up and check—2

‘rhe police?’ Gini said.

‘Direct transn-dssion to the station - they’re just up the street. waste of their time and a waste of mine. You know what sets them off half the time? The heat.’

‘HeatT ‘Heat and insects, blasted things. It’s all those magic eyes -heat and movement detectors. All the flats have them. And insects just love them - they’re always warm, see? Flies,

little earwig things. They crawl in, make a nice little est, and before you know where you are … Stillf I’d better up. Might not be insects. Might be Raffles, yesT He grinned. thanked him and left.

the coffee-shop, which was deserted ‘ Muzak was playing. tside there was an empty terrace, where dripping plastic chairs d tables were stacked. Pascal had positioned himself so he could

out through the room’s plate-glass windows front and back. He s reading a newspaper, and smoking a cigarette. Two cups of ffee were on the table. In the far comer a bored waitress leaned a counter reading a book. Gini sat down.

‘Pascal/ she

began, in a low voice, ‘the police are coming. It ht be kind of a good idea if we left.’

Pascal glanced at his watch. ‘But of course the police are coming. t is the whole point. Sit still. We wait.’

‘Act naturallyr ‘Something like that.’

‘Do you realize just how recognizable you are, Pascal? You’re feet four inches tall. You’ve got a ridiculous French accent-! ‘My accent is not ridiculous. I resent that.’

‘It’s memorable, dammit. You stick out. People will remember you. e porter. That waitress over there. They’ll remember me .

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‘So what if they do? I have no criminal record. Do youT

‘It’s a miracle you don’t have a criminal record, the stunts you pull. Creeping into people’s private estates, holing up in their shrubberies, burgling people’s flats … ‘ She broke off. Pascal was paying not the slightest attention. ‘In which context/ she said,

re leaning forward, ‘it may interest you to know - it could be we’re not the only people anxious to get into McMullen’s apartment. This is the second time his alarm’s gone off this week.’

‘You’re sure? How do you knowT

‘The porter mentioned it. Presumably there were no visible signs of a breakin. The porter put it down to mechanical failure. He didn’t seem worried at all.’

‘Tais-toi.’ Pascal rested his hand over hers. ‘Here’s the police look.’

A white car had pulled up by the courtyard. Two uniformed constables climbed out. They did not appear to treat this as a matter of great urgency, but strolled, almost sauntered through the gates.

‘Five minutes/ Pascal said. ‘Ten at the very outside. Wait.’

He was correct in his second estimate. Some ten minutes later, the policemen departed. Five minutes after that, Pascal rose to his feet.

He took her arm, paid for the coffees, exchanged a few pleasantries with the waitress, and led Gini outside, where he drew her back along the alleyway to the Thames, skirted the water whose level seemed much higher than before, and came to a halt at the foot of the fireescape steps.

‘Right. Now we go up. Fast. And we hope for the best. If this works we’ve got half an hour in McMullen’s apartment no more.’

‘Only half an hourT

‘After that, the tide will be in. It comes in at four feet a minute, which is fast. And dangerous. We’d have to sit on the fireescape and wait for the ebb. Not the best idea. OK, you first.’ He gave her a gallant look. ‘You don’t suffer from vertigo, I hopeT

Gini mounted the fireescape fast, Pascal at her back. She tried not to think about video-screens, or the apartment windows which overlooked these steps.

Halfway up, it began to rain without warning, and with considerable force. Pascal cursed. By the time they reached McMullen’s windows, Gini’s hair was drenched, and water ran down her face.

Pascal ignored these conditions. From his pocket he produced

a heavy clasp knife. ‘Now/ he said, ‘either we force the window and nothing happens, or we force the window and the alarm goes off. It’s a gamble.’

‘What are the oddsT

‘About fifty-fifty, I think. Usually, with these alarms, when been triggered, they have to be re-set .

Did you trigger it? How?’

‘Easy. Look.’ He pointed to two small black boxes on the inside of the window frame. ‘These are contact alarms. If you hit the svindow frame hard, they go off. Luckily, these are over-sensitive; they need adjustment. Sometimes you really have to slam into ‘,,,them. These went off easily. A gentle touch . He grinned.

Gini said, ‘You sound very knowledgeable. I guess you’ve done Wis beforeT

I ‘Of course.’ He inserted the blade of the knife between the “apper and lower frame of the window. ‘As sytems go this is inedium good, medium price. I’ve dealt with better than this. And worse.’

He grunted, pushed harder, levered the knife back and forth. tiside, the catch slid back, and Pascal gave a sigh of satisfaction. ,,He eased the window frame up, and held out his hand to her to *eIp, her up.

Gini ignored the hand. She hauled herself up onto the window .,kdge and peered into the huge room beyond. ‘What about those *Lagic eye things? The porter said they had them.’

I., Pascal showed signs of impatience. ‘I told you. It’s all right.

4,he system’s off. If it was on it would have gone off the n-dnute I inserted the knife. Listen, when an alarm system’s been triggered, )t has to be re-set by an engineer. There was just a possibility the

er ad the codes but I thought he wouldn’t - too great a *ty risk. He’ll be downstairs now, calling the alarm company, g them no, he’s checked, the police checked, there was no of forced entry, so it must be a mechanical fault. They’ll

me out to re-set, but not immediately - at least I hope not Damediately. Sometime this afternoon, I expect. Meanwhile we ve half an hour before the tide rises so hurry up.’

‘A common criminal.’ Gini looked at him with admiring disgust. ‘m working with a common criminal. Great.’

‘Get a move on,’ Pascal said, charmingly. ‘I’ll take the bedm. You check the desk.’

‘What am I looking forT

‘Anything. Diary. Address book. Letters. Telephone messages.

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Something, anything, that tells us where McMullen’s gone to ground.’

The apartment was the nearest thing Gini had seen in London to a New York loft. The living-room was enormous, its ceiling double-height. Looking around her, Gini revised her ideas of James McMullen. It had not occurred to her that McMullen the drifter could be rich.

Yet rich he must undoubtedly be. He could afford floor space that dwarfed most London flats. He could afford, or had perhaps inherited, some fine antiques. The room gave her clues to the man: he liked both old and modern furniture. McMullen was not only well-off, he had taste. He liked listening to music - there was a large collection of CDs, most of them works by Mozart. He was a reader - one wall contained floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. There must have been at least two thousand books, many of them works of history, many of them in languages Gini could not read. She stood frowning in front of these, revising her opinion of the man again. A former Oxford scholar after all, she reminded herself. She checked the kitchen - well-equipped, the refrigerator empty - then made for the desk.

An expanse of well-polished mahogany. Some books, one blottingpad - urunarked; one container for pens, and one photograph the only one she had seen in the flat. She turned its heavy silver frame to the light. Lise Hawthorne smiled up at her. It was a studio photograph, taken some time before evidently, for Lise looked no more than twenty. She was radiant in a d6butante’s white evening dress.

Gini turned her attention to the desk drawers. There were six of them, all unlocked. Empty too: she stared at them in astonishment. No stationery, no files, no letters, no diaries, no address books nothing - not so much as a paper clip. The desk had been cleaned out. Gini gave a low whistle. She felt around the back of the drawers. Nothing.

Moving quickly now, she re-checked the room. Examining it more closely, she could see that it too had been stripped. Yes, there was furniture, rugs, paintings, books - but the details of McMullen’s existence had gone. There were no papers, no letters, no bills: she opened every drawer, including those in the kitchen, but there was nothing to be found, not one single scrap of paper.

She looked around her with a sense of frustration. Who could have done this? McMullen himself - or someone else? From the

bodroorn beyond she could hear the sound of Pascal, opening ODOrs and drawers. Gini frowned, and returned to the desk.

0A blottingpad, a container for pens, that pile of well-worn s, the photograph of Lise Hawthorne. Leaning across, she d up the books and shook them, half-hoping some hidden unication from McMullen n-tight flutter out. There was noth—

concealed in them, just three books: The Oxford Book of Modern , a copy of Milton’s Paradise Lost, and a battered paperback of Carson McCullers novel The Ballad of the Sad Cafg. The second

had McMullen’s name written on the fly-leaf, and beneath e words: Christ Church, Oxford - 1968.

.s helped a little - it identified the Oxford college McMullen attended, and the year he was there, but nothing more. Gini ced the books. She stared fixedly at the desk. There must be thing - she was certain of it. After all, McMullen had initiated whole story: if he had had to disappear, if he had chosen to ppear, would he not try to ensure he could be traced?

e blotter? Carefully, she removed the paper, but there was thing concealed beneath. She lifted the photograph of Lise, and tly undid the frame fastenings on its back. At first she thought re was nothing there either, just a backing of cardboard and per between the picture and the back of the frame - and then e saw it. On one of the sheets of paper used as padding, a series numbers, written in pencil, arranged like this:

6/2/6

2/1/6

could have been something; it could have been nothing at all.

it was a code of some kind, or a reference, there was no time to pher it now. Quickly she folded the piece of paper, and put it in pocket. She pushed the glass, picture and frame back together,

d closed it up. She turned, about to tell Pascal what she had nd, when from the bedroom beyond came a low exclamation d Pascal called to her. ‘Gini, Gini, quickly. Look at this.’

G Gini gave a small involuntary shiver. It unsettled her, it felt py and illicit, doing this.

I he crossed to the bedroom. It was unmistakably a man’s room, s

stere, well-ordered. One wall was flanked with cupboards. Their ned doors revealed row upon row of conservative jackets, ,n ervative suits.

s

Pascal stood in the centre of the room, by the large double bed. Next to him was a chest of drawers. Several of its drawers had been opened. Gini gestured towards them.

‘Did you do thisT

‘What - open the closets and drawers? Yes. WhyT

‘Because the desk is totally empty. It’s been cleared. I was trying to figure out who did that. McMullen - or the person who set off the alarm, earlier in the week?’

‘Someone’s been through the desk?’

‘That’s right. Plus every single other drawer in the place. There’s not one single scrap of paper - except this.’

She held out the piece of paper she had found. Pascal examined it closely.

‘It means nothing to me.’

‘Nor me. But it was inside the frame of Lise Hawthorne’s photograph on his desk.’

‘Keep it. We’ll look at it later.’ Pascal lowered his voice, and caught her by the arm. ‘Now I’ll show you what I found. Something very curious indeed. Look at this.’ He gestured towards one of the drawers. Gini looked inside it, frowning.

‘Shirts,’ she said. ‘I see shirts. Umpteen identical white shirts all very neat, back from a laundry, still in their cellophane sleeves. So whatT

‘So this McMullen - he’s a well-organized, a methodical man, yes? He keeps white shirts in this drawer, blue shirts in the next. Here, in this top drawer on the right, handkerchiefs - also just back from the laundry. And here, in this top drawer on the left

- what would you expect to find thereT

‘Oh God, I don’t know. Gini glanced over her shoulder. Outside it was still raining heavily. The light was grey and thick. The silence was unnerving.

‘Look, Pascal - let’s go. I don’t like this. We shouldn’t be here, searching through someone’s personal belongings. It doesn’t feel right.’

Pascal ignored her. His face was now pale and intent. ‘Just tell me what you’d expect to find in this top drawer.’

‘Oh, very well. Underwear. Socks, maybe. Something like that.’ ‘Exactly.’ Pascal gave a small fight triumphant smile. ‘You were right the second time. Socks. That’s what you might expect to find

- and so, when you did, you might not investigate too closely. If you were in a hurry, you’d move on, look somewhere else …

‘You mean you think this apartment was searchedT

‘I’m not sure. I think McMullen expected it to be searched, so cleared it out - with military precision - before he left. Only, it happens, he left something behind. Look.’

Pascal opened the top left-hand drawer. Inside it, as Gini had dicted, were pile upon pile of socks: dark grey socks, black s, socks that matched the conservative suits and the image was building of a conservative ex-army man.

Pascal reached into the drawer, and took something from it, scrap of black material. He held it out to her; Gini stared at blankly. It was a glove, a woman’s glove, made to be worn the evening, for it was long and would reach from elbow to ertips. It was made of the finest black kid.

‘So it’s a glove/ she began. ‘A woman’s glove. Some girlfriend ably left it behind. Maybe it’s Lise’s glove, and he kept it, ntimental reasons, and … ‘ She broke off, as the memory back to her. The girl is provided with a costume, with long leather gloves … She is never permitted to touch Hawthorne, t with a gloved hand …