Lovers and Liars (27 page)

i shivered.

u’re beginning to believe it, aren’t youT she said slowly. beginning to believe that story about Hawthorne … ‘ Ttainlv believe there is a story. Which may or may not be

We’ were told. I also believe that we’re being helped, and red. Both at the same time.’ He paused. ‘One thing I’m quite . We’re not the only people anxious to find James McMullen. are others on his trail.’

told her, then, about his meeting with McMullen’s sister, nversations with his friends. she said, ‘How listened intently. When he had finished,

“The beloved” - that’s what she said?’ She frowned. Pascal. Two other parcels were sent, besides the two we And I)oth those recipients are now missing.’

Appleyard also. He’s been missing for ten days.’ She d her conversation with Stevey. Pascal listened careinterjecting a question now and then. ‘And there’s more, , much more. I was trying to tell you earlier, when I home . - - ‘ She leaned forward, her face now flushed and d. ‘I know who it was who delivered those parcels. Susannah ed her this afternoon.’

tified her? HowT

rn a photograph, a photograph in a directory of fashion s. I borrowed the directories from the office this afternoon. ah picked her out easily. She is American. She works for an in New York called Models East - it’s one of the most sucfirms. I called them, there and then, from the ICD offices.

new, Pascal, just starting out. Her name’s Loma Munro.’ Vbu’re sure?’

‘Totally sure. Susannah was certain.’ ‘Did you get a number for herT

‘Yes. But it’s maddening. She’s in Italy, doing some work in Milan. I have a hotel number.’

‘Have you tried it?’

‘Yes. But she was out. So I left messages everywhere. With her booking agent in New York, at the hotel, with the magazine she was modelling for. She’ll call back, Pascal, I’m sure.’

‘AndT Pascal was smiling. ‘AndT Gini replied.

‘I can tell, there’s more.’ He gave a little shrug. ‘The way your eyes light, the colour in your cheeks. Very tough, very tenacious, this reporter I’m working with. I’m not so sure I’d like her on my trail … ‘

‘I don’t like to give up.’ Gini looked at him a little uncertainly. ‘And neither do you, Pascal.’

‘True.’ He made no further comment. ‘So what else did you find out?’

Gini hesitated. She drew out the notes Lindsay had taken down that afternoon. She glanced down at them, then frowned. ‘Something I don’t understand,’ she began. ‘It’s a lead, but I don’t understand it at all. That Chanel suit-!

‘The one this Lorna Munro wore when she delivered the parcels?’

‘Yes. I thought someone must have purchased it, but I was wrong. It was lent on approval, Pascal. It was out of the Bond Street shop for almost four days. It was collected on the afternoon of Friday December thirtyfirst and returned to the shop on the afternoon of Tuesday January fourth, after the long New Year weekend.’ He frowned. ‘That’s unusualT

‘Not necessarily. It’s something they would only do for a very good customer. What is strange - very strange indeed - is who that customer was.’ Gini leaned forward. ‘Lise Hawthorne requested the suit, Pascal!’

‘Lise HawthorneT He stared at her in astonishment. ‘You’re sure of thaff

‘As sure as I can be. The manager at Chanel knows Lise well. According to him, it was the ambassador’s wife. She telephoned on the Friday morning. He spoke to her himself.’

When they left the restaurant, Pascal was thoughtful. He took her arm, and they began to walk back to her flat. It was still raining; the

ts gleamed; as cars passed, their tyres hissed. Their footsteps d on the wet pavement. Gini could feel a little dread, inching I

ay towards her. She tried not to imagine how it would be, e in her flat, after Pascal left.

ne Pascal’s insistence, they took a roundabout route. Halfway to Gibson Square, in a deserted side-street, he paused.

lkI ur house, Gini/ he began. ‘I’ve been thinking. Who lives Vo

irs?’ Ita

y neighbour. Her name’s Mrs Henshaw. She’s one of the original Islington tenants left. Back in the Sixties and early nties, this was still a poor area.’ She gestured around them. n it was discovered. Gentrified. Most of the original occupants or were persuaded to leave.’

1B ribed, threatened, you meanT Pascal glanced at her.

h, sure. Inadequately bribed. Or found their water was cut that they had no gas or electricity. It’s not a pleasant story, at happened around here. Mrs Henshaw was luckier. They verted the basement flat, and then left her alone. But these ses are worth a lot of money now, so the landlord tried, a years back, to get her out. She’s lived in the house all her life. children wereborn there. Herhusband died there … ‘Gini’s

ce became angry. ‘I did try pointing that out to the landlord. It no ice.’

t ‘So what happened?’

‘I found tier a good lawyer. She has a protected tenancy. She’s fe there, for life.’

‘I see.’

1Thev walked on a little further. Pascal said, ‘So, this elderly Orighlour, living alone upstairs, is she there at the moment? I’ve Wrcl nothing, seen no-one.’

‘No, she’s gone to stay with one of her daughters.’ ‘But you have a keyT

‘Yes, I do. Sometimes, you know, I do her shopping for her, Oop in and see her. It’s easier that way.’

,“‘Fine.’ Pascal glanced over his shoulder and quickened their Pace. ‘Give it to me, will you, when we get home? I’d just like

10 make a few checks.’

iWhen they reached her flat, she silently handed Pascal the key.

14e left the room, and she heard him outside, mounting the steps O Mrs Henshaw’s door. A creak of floorboards above her head, en absolute silence. She turned to the television set and watched

of the news bulletin. Anti-US demonstrations were spreading

throughout the Middle East; at King’s Cross the IRA bomb had detonated near a news-stand, spraying the concourse with shrapnel and broken glass. Forty-five people had been injured. Two a woman and a four-year-old child - had been killed.

In comparison, her own fears seemed selfish and feeble. She switched off the set, angry with herself. She waited. There was silence from upstairs. She made herself walk into her bedroom, and she tried to pretend to herself that it was still, as always, her own familiar room. There were clean sheets on her bed, a clean nightdress was on her pillow. Pascal had disposed of the other nightdress. She told herself not to be foolish: it was gone.

She could still sense the presence though of the man who had been here. He had been through all her things, touched her clothes: he still tainted the air.

She backed out of the room, and across the small dividing hallway. She heard movement in the living-room behind her, and swung around.

It was Pascal. She stared at him. He was placing a blanket on her sofa, and some cushions in a pile at one end. Napoleon, who had taken to him, was rubbing against his legs. Once the blanket was in place, Napoleon jumped up onto it, kneaded, circled, and lay down. Pascal had not realized she was watching him. He smiled at her cat, reached forward, and replaced him on the ground.

‘Mais non . he said, firmly. ‘No, Napoleon. That’s not the idea at all.’

‘Pascal/ Gini said, walking forward. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘Doing? I was checking upstairs. I found nothing and now .

He gave her a sidelong glance in which there was a certain amusement he tried to disguise. ‘Now I am making up a bed evidemment.’

‘Oh I see.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s kind of you, Pascal - but really, I’ll sleep in my own room. I have to go back there sooner or later. I’d better start now.’

‘This bed is not for you. It’s for me. You see? It fits me perfectly.’

He lay down on the sofa by way of demonstration. The sofa, a relatively short one, was not made to accommodate a prone man of six feet four.

‘Pascal,’ Gini said, trying to repress her laughter, ‘it does not fit you. You don’t look comfortable at all.’

‘You’re wrong.’ He rose. ‘I can sleep anywhere. On this. On the

r. It makes no difference to me. And don’t argue. I’m staying e. I won’t leave you alone.’

ly ou don’t have to do this. I’m fine now. Sooner or later, I’m to have to cope with this, and-‘

ng ‘No.’ Pasca I had moved, and was now beside her. His expression as absolutelv serious, and his voice, so amused a moment before, d gone colL

‘No,’ lie said again, and for the first time since Gini had met him Igain she felt the full force of his will. ‘No/ he continued. ‘You not cope with this. You will not be alone. While we work on

Z story, I stay here. Those are my terms. Either that, or I call Okins right now, and get this story killed.’

Gini stared at him. The transformation in him startled her. He Wke in a new hard tone: there was no negotiation possible. another aspect of Pascal she had forgotten, she thought, or sup—

ssed, and as she gazed at him, other memories returned, she rard the old whispers in her mind.

‘Would you do thatT

‘Yes. I’d certainly make Jenkins pull you off the story. It wouldn’t difficult. Ile needs me, and he needs my pictures. He’d do Oxactly what I told him to do.’

‘You mean you’d continue to work on it? Without me?’ ‘After this?’ He gestured around the room. ‘Of course.’

Gini looked away. She heard in her head all the old gossip, all e old rumOUrs, in the press bar in Beirut. How Lamartine would to anything, anything to get a story. How he was conscience-less, I driven man. How he was a loner, not a true member of the Mck. Stay away from Lamartine - that was the consensus, even kmong those journalists who liked him. Lamartine never shared fis leads, never gossiped, allowed nothing and no-one to stand h his way.

She looked at him uncertainly. ‘If you did that,’ she began dowly, ‘I’d fight back. I can talk to Jenkins, too.’

‘But I’d win.’

He made the statement in a flat uncompromising way. Gini Lnew it was correct. She hesitated, then shrugged.

‘Very wel L Then I’d rather you stayed, obviously. I’m not giving

1P on this now.’

She broke off. It was not a very gracious acquiescence in the ircurnstances, and she realized she had hurt him. His mouth ightened.

‘Fine,’ he said, and turned away.

‘No, wait, Pascal/ she said quickly. ‘I was afraid to be alone, after this. I’d feel safer with you here - I can admit that … ‘

Pascal turned. He gave her a long considering look. It was appraising, and without warmth.

‘If you thought I’d leave you tonight/ he said finally, in a quiet voice, ‘you can’t know me at all.’

188

6CAL LAY in the darkness, on the sofa. The street outside hs silent. An hour passed, then another hour; he could not pe

p Jits thoughts went round and round the same treadmill. He kd to force them back to work, to the Hawthorne story, but they PAsed to remain there. They returned to the past, to the present;

1py made him watch, with the sickening despair of sleeplessness, Jp mess he had made of his life.

,*-t two he fell into a thin, jagged and insubstantial sleep. He “.ed of his English lawyer, to whom he had spoken briefly &t morning, and then of his French lawyer, who was dressed .L1. the black gown he wore in court. Their identities converged, merged: insubstantial black forces pursued him. They followed #t to Lebanon, then to Africa; he saw a street he knew well in loputo, Mozambique. All around him, people lay dead. Those still Ang reached out to him with thin hands from dark doorways. i9ot me, cried a shape from one of those doorways, but when Oscal raised his camera and focused, this man too fell dead.

0 walked along the street, bending over the bodies. The smell blood was intense. He knelt beside a small child, wearing a irffliar dress. She was lying face-down, and when he tried to M her over, he saw the child was Marianne.

He woke sweating, sure he had shouted out. The flat was silent. Napoleon lay curled next to his feet. Pascal knew these dreams, they were his old familiars; when he slept, he was always close to deaths. He knew there was no cure for them except activity. He knew that if he tried to sleep again, they would return. They were pitiless; they always came back.

He switched on the lamp, and waited. He watched the room, and reality, reassert. He loathed and feared this free-fall of the mind in sleep; the way in which the past could rewrite itself, change shape. Sometimes dreams made nightmares of past events, as they had done tonight. At other times - and this he also feared

- they took the actual sadnesses, and made them sweet.

They let him, sometimes, glimpse the might-have-beens of life. This Pascal hated most of all. At least, tonight, he had been spared that trickery. He rose, and began to pace the room. He made coffee, drank it, lit a cigarette. Work, sometimes, could divert him, and he tried that next. Quietly, fearing to disturb Gini, he played and then replayed McMullen’s tape. He considered the interview with McMullen’s sister. He read and reread the Hawthorne clippings. Opening the model agency directory Gini had showed him, he examined Lorna Munro’s face.

Finally, with the persistence of exhaustion, he returned to that slip of paper found in a picture frame on McMullen’s desk. He examined and re-examined the numbers and their pattern on the page. For a while he was sustained by a wild conviction that if he could just see them this way, turn them that way, he would decode their message, reveal their sense. An hour passed. A car swished by in the street. He tossed the paper aside, and admitted the truth: he could discern no pattern in these numbers, and no pattern in this story. If there was a way through, it was there in the interstices, some tiny pointer he had missed.

He returned to the sofa, and lit another cigarette. He lay back staring at the ceiling. He watched the smoke curl. After a while, as he had half-hoped, half-feared, the details of the Hawthorne story began to slip away. Cross-fade: he watched his own past shadow his mind, focus and take shape. A film twelve years old: there it was, frame by frame - a press bar in a five-star hotel, a box of a room by a harbour, a once-beautiful city. Lebanon, Beirut.