Lovers and Liars (85 page)

It was a low, steady sound, somewhere between a whine and a hiss. She tensed, fully awake now, and rose to her feet. She stared at the door. The noise was louder now, she could hear it

approach. A second before the door opened, she realized what it was. It was the noise of an electric wheelchair moving fast along the thickly carpeted corridor outside.

Then Frank Romero opened the door, and the wheelchair, and its occupant came into sight.

S. S. Hawthorne propelled himself into the centre of the room. He stopped the chair, swivelled it fast so he was facing her, and smiled at her in a way so like his son that Gini was shocked into silence. He held out his hand to her.

‘Ms Hunter? John has been held up. He has to talk to the security people. Sit down, please. While you’re waiting for John, I thought you and I might have a brief talk.’

He motioned her into a chair facing the fireplace, with its mirror above. With that low hissing whining sound, he manceuvred his chair, so he had his back to the fireplace and was facing both her and the door behind her. Gini tensed, and glanced over her shoulder. Romero, she saw, had not left the room, but was standing in front of the door, his arms folded across his chest. S. S. Hawthorne looked across at him.

‘You can bring them in now, Frank,’ he said, in a curt way. ‘I don’t want to waste time on this.’

Romero at once left the room, closing the door behind him. Gini could feel Hawthorne’s eyes on her face. She turned back to look at him. It was the first time she had seen him close up. The energy he could convey even in photographs was, at a distance of four feet, intense. It radiated from him just as it did from his son. Despite the wheelchair, despite the black rug folded neatly across his legs, despite the fact that she knew him to be paraIysed from the waist downwards since the last stroke, he emanated will. She could sense it in the room; she could see it in the way his finely formed hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair, and above all, she could see it in his face.

As a younger man, she thought, he must have been at least as handsome as his son, perhaps more so. Even now, and even in a wheelchair, he could convey physical strength. Over six foot tall, she judged, upright for all his age: his back was straight, his shoulders and arms powerful. His handsome face, patrician and cold, was dominated by the strong jut of his nose, which gave him a hawk-like predatory look, and by his eyes, much lighter in colour than his son’s, which were finely shaped, deep set, like splinters of blue ice. They were the coldest eyes she had ever seen,

Gini thought, and their gaze was unwavering. He sat there, not troubling to speak, unasharnedly giving her a hard, cold assessing stare. Literally, he looked her up and down. His eyes rested on her feet, then travelled up the length of her legs. They rested on her hips, her waist, her breasts, her neck, her hair, and her face.

He examined and assessed her in a way both sexual and oddly commercial. Gini had the sensation that he was undressing her as he looked at her, that this was his practice when looking at women, and that as he did so, he made his own valuation of what he saw, employing the same brutal dispassion with which some butcher might assess and value a side of meat.

The inspection made her acutely self-conscious. She began to wish that she were wearing different clothes - that the narrow black trousers she had on were less tight, that she was wearing a jacket over her black sweater, a jacket that could have concealed her breasts. Then her own reaction angered her. She stared back at Hawthorne in the same cold way. For some reason, this appeared to please him. He smiled.

‘At times like this,’ he said, ‘I regret my age. I regret these useless things.’ He gestured towards his legs. ‘Still, I’m interested to meet you. John had prepared me to some extent. I do begin to see .

He broke off. ‘Ah, Frank. Thank you. On that table, I think.’ Romero walked silently across the room. He was wearing, Gini saw, the same clothes as before: dark knife-edge-crease trousers, a black blazer with brass buttons. He was carrying a small tape recorder, and several boxes of tapes. He put them down on the table next to Hawthorne, and glanced towards him.

Hawthorne nodded. ‘Yes. If you’d be so good.’ He looked back at Gini. ‘I don’t share my son’s confidence in journalists, or in you, Ms Hunter. Before we go any further I’d like Frank to make some checks. Please don’t interfere.’

Romero was already moving across the room. His face was impassive. He bent down and picked up Gini’s bag; he began to open it.

Gini sprang to her feet. ‘Just what in hell do you think you’re doing?’

Hawthorne lifted his hand. ‘Ms Hunter, I’m anxious not to waste time. I never speak to reporters unless I’m certain our conversation will go unrecorded. just a little habit, I have.’

‘Put that bag down, right now.’

Gini made a grab for the bag. Romero gave her a contemptuous look, and elbowed her aside. He felt inside the bag, retrieved a

couple of objects, examined them, then put them back. He crossed the room, and picked up Gini’s torn overcoat from the chair where she had laid it. He began to go through its pockets. Gini felt herself go white with anger. She took a step forward. Both men ignored her.

S. S. Hawthorne said calmly: ‘The photographs, Frank?’ ‘They’re here, Mr Hawthorne.’

‘Good. I expected they would be.’ He turned back to Gini. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Hunter. But these pictures are not your property.’ Romero had taken the envelope of photographs from the pocket

of her overcoat. He put the coat down, and laid the envelope on a table on the far side of the room. Gini bent, picked up her bag, crossed to the chair, and picked up her coat.

‘Fine,’ she said, tight-lipped. ‘I’ll leave right now—

‘No’ ‘ Hawthorne said, still in the same even voice. ‘I wouldn’t advise that. I know you’re hot-headed - let me see, what was the exact phrase? Wilful, impetuous and obstinate, I think. But now might be the moment to curb those instincts, charming though they no doubt are in the right circumstances. Frank?’

Gini stopped dead. The three words he had just used to describe her had been used to her by Pascal the previous morning, in the back bedroom of the St John’s Wood house. She felt her skin grow cold. Romero had turned to her. He met her eyes impassively.

‘If you’d just lift your arms, ma’am . he said. ‘Go to hell.’

‘Ms Hunter, do as he says.’ Hawthorne sounded bored. ‘If you do, it will take him a few seconds to ensure you have no recording devices concealed on your person. If you turn this into a drama, it will take three times as long, and be a great deal more unpleasant. just stand still and co-operate, if you’d be so good. What I have to say to you concerns my son. It concerns you and the photographer you have been working with. How long is it exactly since you last spoke to Mr LamartineT He glanced at his watch. ‘Ah yes. Around fifteen hours ago. A great deal can happen in fifteen hours, Ms Hunter. If I were you) I’d keep still, and co-operate, don’t you think?’

Gini stared at him. He might sound bored, even impatient, but he made no attempt to disguise the implicit threat. She hesitated, looked at Romero, and lifted her arms. Romero ran his hands down her body. He searched her as quickly and as impersonally as a police operative might have done. Gini averted her face. He had a shaving-cut on his cheek. She could smell his hair oil and

his aftershave, and the touch of his hands made her feel sick. ‘Thank you, Ms Hunter. Sit down. Frank?’

Romero had moved across to the tape recorder. Gini remained standing. Hawthorne gave a shrug.

‘Ms Hunter, I have told you already. I do not want to waste time. This will be quicker if you sit down, listen, and avoid the temptation to interrupt.’

He glanced over his shoulder with a look of enquiry. Romero nodded, and picked up one of the tapes. Hawthorne smiled. ‘Now, Ms Hunter. You see those tapes over there? That is just

some of the tapes made these past twelve days. There are others. I felt we could save time if Frank prepared for us a composite, a selection of highlights, if you like.’

Romero inserted the tape he had in his hand. He pressed Play. Gini stared at the machine. The recording quality was excellent. She listened to the sound of her own voice. Her first reaction, even then, was to walk out, then she met Hawthorne’s cold blue-ice gaze, and she knew that any such attempt would be unwise. She listened, although it pained her and angered her to listen. She thought: I had better have some indication of just what he has heard, and what he has not.

The tape had been skilfully edited, in chronological order. She and Pascal had been recorded in the car-park outside the News offices, immediately after leaving the briefing with Nicholas Jenkins. They had been recorded in her flat, of course. There was one little section, after the breakin there, when she and Pascal first went into her bedroom, and he showed her what had been done with her Beirut mementoes, and what had been done to her nightdress. Hawthorne raised his hand. Romero paused the tape.

‘My apologies/ Hawthorne said. ‘Someone exceeding their duties, I’m afraid. But these things will happen, won’t they, Frank?’ The two men’s eyes intersected. Hawthorne nodded. Romero

pressed the controls, and the recording continued. Gini listened to herself and to Pascal in Stiltskins, the restaurant where they had gone to meet Appleyard; in her flat again, the night before they left for Venice, and in Venice itself. She heard herself say: I cannot trust my own eyes, and Pascal reply, I trust your eyes …

Hawthorne gave a sigh. ‘Trite,’ he said. ‘Fast-forward a little, Frank. You know the section, I think.’ He turned to Gini with a smile. ‘I’m sure you appreciate, Ms Hunter, that this kind of work has a tedium of its own. Any person supervising surveillance of this kind has to find a way of dealing with that tedium. They will

always have their favourite sections of tape. This is one of Frank’s favourite sections. Am I right, Frank?’

Romero glanced across at Gini, then away. He suppressed a smile.

‘The technical quality here is good, sir, sure. That’s always … gratifying.’

He fast-forwarded the tape, then pressed Play. Gini gripped the back of the chair in front of her. She listened to the most private, the most dear of sounds: her reunion with Pascal in that Venice hotel. She heard him speak words intended only for her own ears; she heard her own answer, a sigh, the sounds of two people moving closer together. She leaned forward.

‘Switch that off/ she said, and the authority in her own voice surprised her, except that she knew it came from a sense of the most profound indignation, and disgust. Romero stopped the recording at once. Gini looked from Romero to Hawthorne, who had begun to smile again. He stopped smiling when he saw the expression on her face.

‘Do you really think … T Gini began in a low tight voice. ‘You really think I’ll be beaten down, intimidated in some way by thisT She gestured contemptuously at the tapes. ‘Keep your tapes. Listen to them as much as you like. I couldn’t care less. As far as you are concerned, they’re in a foreign language. You’re despicable - both of you. No matter how long you listen, or how hard you listen, you’ll never even get close. There’s no way men like you could understand that.’

She began to move away to the door. Hawthorne gave another faint sigh.

‘I did warn you, Ms Hunter,’ he said. ‘These histrionics may be good for your self-esteem, but they merely waste time. Perhaps I should make one thing very clear. If you want to see Mr Lamartine again - and judging from his performance on tape, and your own, I’m sure you will - then you will sit down, listen, and not interrupt. The final section, Frank, and then you can leave us.’

Romero pressed the controls once again, fast-forwarded, then straightened up with a slight smile. Gini stood very still. She was now listening to herself and to John Hawthorne. It was the conversation he had had with her that Friday night. It picked up at the point where he had been describing his affairs. It included the moment when her telephone rang, and it ended with those things he had said to her before he began to touch her. Gini listened, stonyfaced. Romero flicked a switch, and there was silence. He

looked across, towards the wheelchair, and Hawthorne nodded. Romero left the room at once.

‘Now, Ms Hunter.’ Hawthorne turned his wheelchair with a slight whine, a slight hiss. ‘I will explain everything to you, and then we will agree you and 1, as to what happens next. But before I explain, just one word about my son … ‘ He glanced away from her, his face becoming set. ‘That last section of recording you listened to? I should like you to understand. My son will have suspected I had your apartment wired - indeed he mentions that possibility, though not me by name - earlier on that tape. It would not have surprised him. As I expect you know, as many people know, I have always made it my policy to know exactly what my son is doing, when, where and with whom. I have protected my investment in him from his time at Yale onward in that way. So, the conversation my son had with you in your apartment on Friday, while being very much, and quite sincerely, directed at you, Ms Hunter, was also directed at myself. He was sending a message to me, Ms Hunter, as well as communicating one more directly to you. His message to me was one of defiance. My son knows perfectly well that had it been left to me, both you and that photographer would now be dead. I do not play around, Ms Hunter, with matters of importance, as I imagine you know by now.’

Gini stared at him. ‘Four people have died as a result of this investigation/ she said. ‘Are you telling me you’re responsible for thatT

Hawthorne gave her a cold impatient glance. ‘I am responsible for the first three of those deaths, yes. I instructed that they should be carried out. The fourth, no. Whoever actually died on that railwayline in Oxford, the death had nothing to do with me. For that, we can hold this McMullen responsible. As you suggested to my son earlier tonight on the telephone, Mr McMullen, who is rather more intelligent than I had anticipated, staged his own death. I do not know whom he killed in his place, nor does it greatly concern me. My son, and his future welfare, however, do.’