Lovers and Liars (22 page)

Gini glanced at her watch. ‘Better say four. If you get there before me, you can let yourself in, unless you feel like burgling me, of course-2

Pascal gave her a cool glance. ‘it wouldn’t be exactly difficult. I’ve looked at your windows and doors. You know how long it would take me to break in? Five seconds flat.’

‘Well, you won’t need to,’ Gini said sweetly, ‘because there’s a spare key. I keep it there for my upstairs neighbour. Sometimes she pops down to feed Napoleon. It’s under the third flowerpot from the left.’

‘And I suppose it was there all last nightT

‘Yes, it was. I forgot. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. You can’t open a door with a key when the person inside has shot the bolt.’

‘Impossible,’ Pascal said.

He paused, about to put on his helmet. He looked into her face. He lifted his hand. With one finger, gently, he wiped the rain from her cheeks.

‘Impossible/ he said. ‘Headstrong. Obstinate. I thought that the very first day I met you. Twelve years later, and what do I discover? You’re unchanged, Gini. And I was right.’

He put on the helmet. Gini confronted a black glass visor, an invisible face. He lifted his hand in a half-wave, then kicked the

oer pedal. The engine fired; he wheeled and roared off down

6street.

Sini waited until he was out of sight. She watched him round comer, and for a moment his absence was intense in the iOt. Gini stood there for a while in the rain, waiting for the jjation of loss to abate. When she was sure she had it uncontrol, she took the tube to Baker Street. From there, she kloed north to Regent’s Park, entering it at its south-western iloer, through Hanover Gate.

Ote park was ringed by an outer circle road. She stood there, Odng to right and left. To her right was a terrace of serene and Jutiful Nash houses; to her immediate left were the buildings O,‘w London Central Mosque. Beyond its pale stone, and the

gleam of its dome, the road curved. On the opposite side road, actually within the park itself, was Winfield House, London residence of the US Ambassador. It was no more

ki,seventy yards to her left, shrouded from the road by a thick k of shrubbery: John Hawthorne’s home.

‘bossing the street, she entered the park. She wanted to take a oer look at that residence, but she approached it discreetly, by a kdtous route. She wound her way through Regent’s Park first, Osing the boating lake and making for the bandstand where, in

ili bands sometimes played. The rain fell heavily; er, m tary

ark was almost deserted; only a few stalwarts walked their The gaily painted bandstand, and the Guards’ band playing had been an IRA target once, years before. Several men lAied here. She walked on.

[he approached the ambassador’s residence from the rear, where large gardens bellied out into the park. From here too, the house

19almost invisible. She could glimpse only its roofs and chimneys bugh the trees and evergreen shrubs which had been planted Ide its tall spiked perimeter fence.

lhe circled the gardens, then returned to the road. She walked hg the pavement directly in front of the house. There were D entrances, she saw, one barred off with reinforced gates, an kance which looked unused. The other, to the north of the w itself, was flanked by a low lodge-type building. Aerials Med from its roof; security cameras were trained onto gates I driveway; a window of greenish bullet-proof glass confronted rone seeking admission to the house.

!he was beginning to feel conspicuous. There were the watching *ras, and there were also security men. She glimpsed them

to the side of the entrance lodge, in the driveway. They were wearing dark suits, and dark mackintoshes. There were two no, three - leaning up against a black limousine, ostentatiously ignoring her as she passed.

At her desk in the Features department, walled in by word processors, and by the babble of other people’s work, she telephoned. Mary first.

Her stepmother seemed surprised to hear from her again; she was rushing out to see friends, but she did have time to confirm that, yes, The Ivy was certainly a restaurant she’d recommend.

‘Oh yes, darling,’ she said, ‘do take your friends there. I’m sure they’d love it. Try those little tomato tart things they do. Scrumptious.’

J know it’s always full in the evenings Gini pushed a little harder. ‘What’s it like for lunchT

‘Oh I love it, I often go there before matin6es. It’s always full of actors, writers - lots of chums … ‘

There was a pause. Gini said nothing. Sometimes it was better not to prompt. ‘When was I last there at lunch-timeT Mary went on. ‘Let me think … I know! I took Lise there, that’s right. It was just before Christmas. I remember, because she was going down to the country the following week. She’d never been there, for some reason, and she adored it - so it has her recommendation too. I knew it would be her kind of place. Not John’s perhaps, but - what, darling? Your other line? Fine. I’ll see you and your Pascal tomorrow night.’

Gini hung up. This she had expected, but it was as well to check. Appleyard next.

She flicked the cards on her Rolodex. Appleyard. There were two numbers, she remembered, two lines to his Gramercy Park apartment. She tried the first. She let it ring for a long time. just as she was about to disconnect, the receiver was lifted.

The answering voice was wary. It was male, and sounded young. ‘YesT it said. ‘Who is itT

‘Hi. This is Gini Hunter. I’m calling from the News. Is Johnny inT

There was a pause, a scrabbling sound. Then the voice said, ‘Could you spell that, ma’am? The News? Which News is that? I’m just writing that down .

Gini could hear the broad accent now. Midwest, she thought. She spelled her name, and explained she was calling from London.

the boy to take this down took an age. He sounded so tically anxious to be efficient that Gini was patient.

ss Johnny’s out, then?’ she said finally. ‘Do you work for Do you know when he’ll be back?’

, no. I don’t work for him. Not exactly. I mean, I get to take ges, that kind of thing. I’m Stevey. Stevey with a “y”. I’m s room-mate, his friend. I guess we haven’t spoken before, been living here a real long time.’

course: it came back to her then, some malicious reference s had made to Johnny Appleyard’s current toy boy, entered on Jenkins’s last New York visit: A face like a young Nureyev, my dears. Semi-literate, and oh-so-anxious to please. He

n entire evening telling me about pig-breeding - sorry, breeding Tedious? It was fucking tedious. Johnny picked him up at Penn yes’, straight off the train. Couldn’t resist his bum, apparently.

Johnny give me a break. He’s straight out of a Steinbeck novel. ill got straw in his hair.

hesitated. She said: ‘Stevey? Of course. That’s right, I r now. The last time I saw Johnny, on his last London someone mentioned your narne.’

ey didT The boy seemed pleased by this. ‘That would be the Johnny made last fall, I guess … I nearly came along on that I

ou did, SteveyT

re. I was real excited. I’ve never been overseas. We had it nned out, but I guess - well, it’s pretty expensive. Johnny ed his mind … ‘

eed, Gini thought, given Appleyard’s rumoured behaviour ps to London, a devoted farm-boy might have cramped his -S

6t*, th e felt a shaft of pity for the boy.

kt ell me, Stevey, when do you expect Johnny back? I need

0him urgently.’

Well, that’s kind of difficult to say . He hesitated, and his be took a dip. ‘You see - I don’t know where he is right now. He took off real suddenly - and since then, he hasn’t phoned.’

Oh I see.’ Gini could hear unhappiness and anxiety in Stevey’s Ice. Gently, she said, ‘He just took off, Stevey? You mean he’s On gone - what? A couple of daysT

Wre than that, ma’am. He left December twenty-seventh. I expecting him back that evening. He’s been gone now ten, Ven days … ‘

Ehni wrote down the date; she tensed. It seemed an unusually

long time. An absence of a few nights might be understandable enough, given Appleyard’s predilections, but ten days? ‘That’s quite a while, Stevey,’ she said, keeping her voice casual. ‘I guess you must be getting pretty anxious. Maybe some story came up.

‘I don’t reckon so, ma’am/ he said cautiously. ‘He’d have told me, he always does. And then, he’d have phoned. He always phones to collect his messages. Even when he’s out of town.’

‘You mean you’ve no idea where he is, Stevey? I really do need to get hold of him. You’ve no idea at all?’

There was a long silence. Eventually the boy said, in a reluctant way, ‘Well, he did send me a fax. But that was five days ago. And it was a weird kind of fax, too.’

‘Weird in what way, SteveyT

‘He didn’t tell me where he was - just said he’d be in touch. It was typed and Johnny always writes his faxes by hand. Also, he spelled my name wrong. He put “ie” on the end, not “ey”. Johnny would never do that.’

Gini frowned, and made a note of these details. She said quickly, ‘Well, I expect there’s an explanation, Stevey. Maybe he was in a hurry, and got some secretary to send the fax .

‘Maybe. I guess so.’

‘Do you know where the fax was sent from, Stevey?’

‘No. There was just a whole lot of numbers along the top. When I read it, with my name wrong and all, I figured someone else sent it. Maybe someone Johnny was with, you know … ‘

Gini could hear the misery in his voice clearly now. Stevey feared he had been ditched - and that was always possible, of course. A new lover was one explanation for ten days’ absence - but it was not the only explanation. ‘I imagine some new story’s come up/ she said carefully. ‘I’ll bet that’s it, Stevey. You’ll see. Something big - some exclusive, and he had to follow it up, drop everything, rush off. You know how it is.’

‘I guess so. Now I think about it, he did say … You could be right … I

The attempt at cheerfulness seemed to have worked. Stevey now sounded less miserable.

‘Next thing you know, he’ll be walking in the door/ Gini went on, in an encouraging voice. ‘Meantime, Stevey, if I can’t speak to Johnny, you might be able to help. You’ve been at home all this week?’

‘I sure have.’

s Johnny sent a parcel? It would have arrived Wednesday g, by courier. Sent from England. A neat-looking package, paper, string, sealed with red waxT

package? Yes, he did. Wednesday - yes, Wednesday, that’s I took delivery … ‘ He broke off. ‘How d’you know about Was it you who sent it? Why? That wasn’t a funny thing to way! It was sick. 1-!

old on a second, Stevey.’ His voice had risen angrily. ‘I didn’t that parcel and I don’t know who did. But I was sent one ctly the same, special delivery. And mine wasn’t amusing

wasn’tT he said, in an uncertain way.

hesitated; sometimes, to acquire information, you had to e some yourself. ‘Stevey. They sent me a pair of handcuffs, ssage. I live alone. I wasn’t laughing either, when I opened That’ s why I’m calling Johnny now, because I’ve had a big with the courier company, and they said he was sent a parcel . . ‘ She paused, but the boy made no response. ‘I wanted nd out what they sent Johnny. Whether he had any idea ho was playing games … ‘ She paused again. Still silence. ey,’ she said, gently again, ‘I really want to find out who this, and why. Tell me something. Johnny’s package, did you it for him, by any chanceT

other long silence, then the boy finally replied. ‘I did open he began, in a hesitant way. ‘I guess - well, I was anxious t Johrmv. And on the form with it - it said “Birthday Gift”. ny’s birihday isn’t in January, it’s in July. So I looked at it, I looked at it - and Johnny still didn’t call. I left it a whole day. n I opened it. I thought it might explain where Johnny was.’ tevey … ‘ Gini paused. This would have to be coaxed out him, she could tell. ‘Will you tell me what the parcel coned? It could help me .

can’t do that, ma’am.,

‘Well, was there a message with it, Stevey?’ o. No card. No message. I looked.’

‘Was it handcuffs - the same as mine, or something elseT ‘Something else.’

Ot’Something similar, Stevey? Something with unpleasant impli—

041ons, mavbe? Something that might have made Johnny upsetT

01 don’t know. It might have made Johnny mad - he might Ove laughed. I . He hesitated. ‘It’s kind of embarrassing, Wam-‘

‘Stevey, stop calling me ma’am. It’s Gini, all right? And I can prorrdse you, I won’t be embarrassed. I’m a reporter. I don’t embarrass easily. Please, Stevey. I really need to know. I want to nail them - the people who did this.’

‘OK - Gini. If you put it like that … ‘ He paused, and then lowered his voice; Gini could almost hear the blush.

‘It was underwear. Ladies underwear. You know - with frills, black lace. Panties, ma’am. The kind they advertise in the little ads in the back of magazines. Or you can send off for them, out of a catalogue, because they wouldn’t sell them, not in any decent store-!

It was years since Gini had encountered Midwest prudery. She was amused, and touched. That any boy exposed to Johnny Appleyard’s world could remain this naive and unsullied was remarkable. Quickly, she cut him off.

‘It’s OK, Stevey. I’m getting the picture. Do you have sisters, SteveyT

‘I do ma’am.’

‘And these weren’t the kind of underwear your sisters would wear, rightT

‘My sistersT His voice rose in indignation. ‘No way, mafam. These were whorehouse stuff, fancy, slit all the way up the front, and … ‘ He broke off. There was a ringing noise in the background, then a pause, then Stevey came back on line. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s someone at the door. I’ll have to go now.’

‘Fine. One last thing, Stevey. I still need to talk to Johnny, urgently. When you next see him or speak to him, will you ask him to contact me? This is my home phone number, and my fax … ‘

It took a painfully long time for these numbers to be taken down. Gini could hear a doorbell continuing to peal in the distance.

‘I’ll be right there/ Stevey shouted. He read the numbers back. ‘That’s great/ Gini said. ‘Thank you, Stevey, for all your help.’ ‘You’re welcome, ma - Gini,’ he said, and hung up.