Lovers and Liars (64 page)

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I didn’t think he was cruel. I think he could kill, and I presume you’re right, given his army record, that he has killed. But not torture an animal, for instance He wouldn’t have done that to Napoleon, I’m sure.’

Pascal hesitated. ‘I thought of that too/ he said. ‘I looked, Gini. No scratches on his hands. No scratches on his face or neck.’

‘I know. I looked too.’ Gini glanced away. ‘Napoleon would have struggled. I hope he managed to inflict a little damage. I’d like to think he did.’

Pascal crossed to her then, and took her in his arms. He persuaded her that she should sleep, that they should both get some sleep. And so they did. But their sleep was not uninterrupted.

At four in the morning, the telephone rang. The telephone was on Gini’s side of the bed. She reached sleepily for it, located it, and picked it up. Pascal heard her give a low cry. He was instantly awake. He took the receiver from her. He recognized it at once

- that slow, scratchy, muffled voice. He put his hand over the mouthpiece, and looked at Gini. She was huddled, white-faced, against the pillows.

‘How can he know where we are? We didn’t use our names, Pascal. We didn’t make any booking.’

Pascal turned away. He listened for a second or two. The man was describing what he wanted Gini to do to him, once she had put on the black gloves.

‘All the way in,’ he said. ‘Swallow it. Now.’

Pascal was about to speak or to hang up, his mind had frozen and he could not decide which to do, when the man’s tone suddenly altered.

‘Remember our appointment Sunday/ he said. ‘You know where to come. Be there, Gini. Come after dark. Oh, and be sure to wear that black dress … ‘

There was a click, then the dialling tone. Pascal stared across the shadows of the room, and fear for Gini rose up in him, he felt it clench around his heart. He replaced the receiver, and took her in his arms. Her body was stiff with tension and fear.

‘What did he say? Pascal, what did he sayT

‘Darling, nothing, very little.’ He began to stroke her hair. ‘The same as beforeT

‘Yes. And then he hung up. Darling, don’t think about it. I’m here … ‘ And then, because he knew it always calmed her, he switched to his own language, all those soothing phrases

hat he had used to her years before in Beirut - soyez-calme, tu pis que je Vaime, reste tranquille.

‘ This gentle incantation worked for her: her breathing became

9gular and quiet as she became calmer and then slept. They did Ot work for Pascal. He lay awake, staring into the dark.

XXV111

AT ELEVEN forty-five on Friday, Gini was sitting in the downstairs bar at the Groucho Club. At twelve, the first customers began arriving: a cluster of advertising people; one or two journalists she knew; an actor who was currently king of advertising voice-overs … but not the man she was here to see. Jeremy Prior-Kent, McMullen’s close friend at school and at Oxford, was not a punctual man.

She ordered a mineral water, opened her newspa .per, and flicked quickly through its pages. It led on the current round of IRA bombings; continuing royal scandals occupied pages three and four; on page five was a photograph of the US Ambassador’s wife. Lise Hawthorne had visited Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital the previous day. She was currently chair of its fund-raising comn-dttee. There was a photograph of her looking radiant and concerned, with a group of young leukaemia victims.

Gini folded up the paper. A group of new arrivals had entered the bar, but none approached her table. It was now a quarter past twelve. Prior-Kent was already fifteen minutes late. She glanced down at the photograph of Lise once more, the woman McMullen had described as a latter-day saint. That morning, after returning from Oxford, she and Pascal had spent hours on the telephone at the Hampstead house, trying to check out the few details McMullen had let slip.

ey had established that his claim to a connection with Lise thorne’s distant cousins, the Grenvilles, was true, but they been unable to discover any more about the illness McMullen mentioned, which had led to his stay with them in 1972. That ss’ coming after his abrupt and unexplained departure from rd interested her: why had McMullen thrown up his studies ickly? What had been the exact nature of that illness, and long had it lasted? This, she hoped, was a question Prior-Kent t be able to answer - if he ever showed.

glanced down at her watch. Pascal was due back here to t her at around one-fifteen. While she was here, he was uing his checks into McMullen’s firearms licence, and his army career. He would pick up the keys to the St John’s

house before meeting her, and intended to move in there up his cameras the next morning. Gini felt a familiar sense stration. Sunday was now very close, and although she had

said this to Pascal, she was not optimistic that he would obtain pictures they hoped for. Was it really likely that Hawthorne turn up at the Gothic house, that he would conveniently there on the doorstep with the latest hired blonde? No,

eemed to her it was extremely unlikely - in which case they uld be back to square one, still attempting to prove or disve this story by other means.

Later that afternoon, they were meeting the woman Suzy from escort agency and it was possible that she, or even Prior-Kent, uld provide some sudden breakthrough, but if neither of them

uced strong leads then she and Pascal were still thwarted: all s work, and still no absolute proof. She looked up as a new up of people entered the bar, but none was Jeremy Prior-Kent.

was another group of journalists, whose faces she knew. One of rn was Lindsay. Her friend saw her at exactly the same moment, quickly crossed to her side.

‘Hi, Gini. D’you want to join us? We’re just going in for nch.’

J can’t I’m afraid. I’m meeting someone. How was Martinique?’ Lindsay made a face. ‘Idyllic. Fraught. I got back yesterday all hell is breaking loose at the News. Have you heardT

‘No, I haven’t been in the office for a couple of days.’

‘Well, you should go.’ Lindsay grinned. ‘High drama. It’s getting e some Jacobean play - heads rolling, murder and mayhem on the fifteenth floor-2

‘Murder?’

‘Not literally, just a sort of night of the long knives. You mean you really haven’t heardT

‘Not a word. What’s happenedT

‘Well, first, Daiches was fired. By Jenkins himself.’ ‘No! Daiches? I can’t believe it.’

‘Well apparently they had some huge bust-up. Practically came to blows. Nicholas accused him of going behind his back to Melrose. According to Charlotte there’s some big story Jenkins had been nursing along. Melrose told him to kill it, and Jenkins pretended to play ball. Then he went on with it, behind Melrose’s back. And dear Daiches, like the loyal lieutenant he is, thought Melrose ought to be informed.’

Lindsay’s smile was a perfect blend of joy and malice. ‘Unfortunately, Nicholas had ordered up all these files or something, so Daiches could prove what he said was true. Anyway, the upshot was that Daiches was fired, and stayed fired for about three hours, then Melrose turned up, and stormed into Jenkins’s office-2 ‘This was whenT

‘Yesterday. Raised voices behind firmly closed doors. Shortly after Melrose finally left, Daiches was back in his office. Reinstated. The company Cassius. All smiles.’

‘And JenkinsT

‘I don’t know.’ Lindsay grinned. ‘We’re all just going in to discuss it now over lunch - but the word is, Jenkins could be out of the building by the end of this afternoon. We’re opening a book on it. You want to place a bet? We’re giving odds on whether Jenkins will be fired, and who will succeed him.’

‘What’re the odds on Daiches?’

‘Fifteen to one originally - now down to nine to one and shortening all the time.’

‘Oh great. If Daiches gets the job, I’m unemployed.’

‘Me too. We can resign together. Sign on together at the Job Centre. On the other hand,’ Lindsay gave her a dry glance, ‘we could start putting out feelers elsewhere. I’m going to start hitting the phones after lunch. You should do the same.’

‘I can’t. Not today. No time.’ She gave a shrug. ‘Still, maybe this is good news in disguise. It concentrates the mind wonderfully. There’s no way Im staying at the News to work for Daiches.’

‘Me neither.’ Lindsay turned round to wave at her friends. ‘I must go, Gini. See you soon. Oh, by the way/ she looked at Gini closely, ‘did it resolve itself - that Pascal Lamartine businessT

‘In a way. Yes.’

I thought so.’ Lindsay smiled, this time with genuine warmth. shows, you know. just a kind of light, in the eyes … See you,

“She turned away, and disappeared with her friends to the

urant upstairs. Gini sat there quietly considering this news. pose Jenkins were fired? She began to run down a list in her d of other newspapers or magazines she could approach with story, should she need to do so. She was halfway through . g this list when at twelve-thirty, some thirty minutes late, door opened, and a man came into the bar. A tall man, a . .ar man, not a man you would forget: he was thin, with dish hair tied back in a pony-tail. As before, he was wearing mboyant mustard-yellow Armani suit. She saw him scan the

bles, then begin to move across to her. So McMullen’s old friend d not, it seemed, spent the last three days scouting for film tions in Cornwall. He had been otherwise engaged, directing ex education video, over-seeing an escort agency, making sure .e dealt with eighty-six telephone sex lines.

Reaching her table, he gave her a long appraising look, then a ad smile. ‘You must be Genevieve Hunter, yesT he said. ‘We et at last. Sorry I’m late. So tell me - what have I done? Why sudden interest from the NewsT

ini’s first impression of the man was that he was - or intended be - disarming. He seemed very relaxed; he ordered himself a xican beer, which he drank in a modish way, from the bottle

a twist of lime. He lit a cigarette, chatted away about nothing particular, complained in a rueful way that he’d been at a party e night before, and was nursing the mother of all hangovers. He

st have been in his forties, but looked younger. He had a soft, ckled, almost girlish face. His manner was mildly flirtatious, but had alert greenish-blue eyes, and she suspected that beneath all badinage, he was no fool.

That impression was rapidly confirmed the second she menned James McMullen’s name. Kent was not ingenuous, as his employees Hazel and Bernie had been; she was scarcely into her

eamble before he stopped her with a little lift of the hand. ‘Hey, slow down just a second. Let me get this straight. That’s vhy it was so urgent to see me? You want to ask about James? I

1”y?, Gini had anticipated this. ‘Can this be confidentialT she asked. ‘Sure. Sure. What fun. Go on.’

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‘Well, I can only give you an outline. James McMullen had been helping me with a story I’m working on, and-‘

‘What story would that be exactly?’

‘It’s an investigation. I’d prefer not to go into the details .

‘Oh dear.’ He gave a small smile. ‘I think you’re going to have to. After all, James is a friend.’

‘Very well. It’s a story on British mercenary organizations. There are a number of them in existence. Their fortunes fluctuate. They’ve been especially active recently in Yugoslavia.’

‘Sure. I’ve read that in the papers … ‘

‘Most of those recruiting Organizations are run by ex-army personnel. It’s a secretive world, and it’s not easy to get leads. James McMullen was one of my best sources. Then he disappeared, just before Christmas.’

‘James did? Well, well, well.’ He gave her an appraising look. ‘Go on.’

‘I want to find him again. Fast. His former regiment is no help at all. I’ve tried his sister and a number of friends - no luck. I thought you might know where I could track him down.’

‘Is that all?’ He smiled. ‘And I thought it was me you were interested in. What a shame.’ He took another swallow of beer. ‘Can’t help, I’m afraid. I haven’t seen James in ages - not since last summer. James does take off, you know, for months at a time. He’s done it before.’

‘But you did see him last summer?f

‘Sometime then. July, August - I can’t remember. He rang up out of the blue. We had dinner together, a rather drunken dinner - on my side anyway. James doesn’t drink much, as you may know. We went back to that apartment of his, down by the river - you’ve been thereT

‘Yes, I have. It’s a great apartment.’

‘Isn’t it just? Anyway, we went back there, talked for a while, I toddled off, late, around three in the morning, and I haven’t seen him since.’

‘Were you surprised to hear from him? Like that - out of the blueT

He shrugged. ‘Not really. James and I aren’t that close any more. We see each other from time to time. Catch up on the news, what we’ve both been up to work-wise, woman-wise, that sort of thing.’

There was a pause. Gini considered the date of this meeting, which must have taken place around the time McMullen had been

.ng in Oxfordshire with the Hawthornes. She would have liked date it more precisely, to know whether it took place before or r McMullen had heard the story of her marriage from Lise.

‘So tell me,’ she went on, ‘when you had that meeting, did ull.en seem changed in any way? Did he discuss with you major event that had happened to him recently?’

Kent considered, then shrugged. ‘A major event? Nothing I can ember. But then James doesn’t really go in for confessionals I’s not his style. He’d thrown up that dreary banking job his ther had foisted on him, but that was much earlier that year.’

gave her another of those rueful engaging smiles. ‘I probably most of the talking. Banged on about the films I was making, t kind of thing. Two drinks and I become a monomaniac.’

He glanced away towards the bar. Catching the eye of the ice-over king, he gave a little gesture of greeting. He took ther long swallow of the Mexican beer. Gini hesitated. Priornt was not the type of man she would expect to be behind escort agency, or sex education videos, and she could forethis interview dwindling away into amiable anecdotes that