Red Crystal (28 page)

She was pleased. ‘Yes. It feels good to know what you are and where you’re going.’ She smiled. It made her face look quite different.

They talked about the problems of choosing the right path in life, and whether you should stick to it, and the importance of commitment. He was aware that some barrier had been passed. The reserve, the careful choice of words, had gone. He had the feeling that she was being direct, even trusting, for the first time.

Eventually she said, ‘You know, I was wrong about you.’

‘Yes?’

‘I thought you were one of those sheep – the blind followers of the nearest tame philosophy, the ones who
call
themselves political thinkers but actually haven’t an idea.’

‘But?’

‘You’re all right.’

‘Thanks.’

He had a sudden feeling that there was a purpose behind the appraisal, as if she had something serious in mind for him, some involvement.

It suddenly occurred to him that the involvement she might have in mind was an affair. He hoped not. He didn’t mind the idea itself – on the contrary, now she’d decided to be open and friendly, he found her extremely attractive in a dark, brittle sort of way. What worried him was his ability to deliver the goods, tonight at least. The wine had made him dizzy and tired, and he knew he was slurring his words, which was unusual for him. Something to do with all those aspirins or the head or both. Whatever, it didn’t bode well for a night of passion. He drew a deep breath. Better to get these things sorted out sooner rather than later. He said, ‘Look, I’m not feeling too well. It’s something to do with this head …’

A spark of disappointment – or was it annoyance – passed across her face; she’d got his meaning all right. But then her face cleared and she was nodding under-standingly. ‘That’s all right. I’ll get the bill and drive you home.’

He said with relief, ‘The complete liberated woman.’

‘God, you’re not a goddam reactionary, are you?’

‘No. I like independent women.’

She tapped his hand. ‘Good. Because you’ve certainly found one here.’ She laughed, suddenly gay and happy.

God, he was feeling really awful now. He glanced at his watch. Ten. With a jolt he suddenly remembered Conway.

Getting to his feet he said, ‘Completely forgot to make a call. It’s’ – he tried to think, to be consistent in his new story – ‘about some floor space at a friend’s.’

There was a phone by the kitchens. Reaching it, he had to lean hard against the wall. A cold sweat hit him. When the worst had passed he called Conway.

Conway didn’t sound glad to hear him.

Nick said, ‘Well where does Wheatfield hang out then?’

‘Wish we knew.’

Nick’s stomach did a nasty turn. ‘You bloody
lost
him?’

‘Showed no signs of having spotted us, not one. Then he did a disappearing act as neat as any I’ve seen. Into a shop and straight out an emergency exit.’

‘Bloody marvellous.’

‘You would have done better on your own, I suppose?’

Nick let it pass. ‘All right. What about “makes” on Wheatfield’s friends?’

‘Only Reardon, who’s up for assault anyway. Nothing on your bearded friend. No good snaps, I’m afraid.’

Nick put the phone down in disgust and leaned his head against the wall. To hell with Conway, to hell with Wheatfield. The only thing he cared about now was getting his head down on a nice warm pillow.

The mews house was dark. No Giorgio then.

She said, ‘You can stay here.’

He didn’t argue. His head was resting on the back of the seat, his face ashen.

She opened up the house and led him upstairs.

Before she could decide where to put him he had stumbled into the main bedroom and sunk on to the bed. She began, ‘Why don’t you get
into
bed?’

But he didn’t reply. He had the look of someone who wasn’t going to move again that night.

Gabriele regarded him critically. Even if she wanted to share a bed with a half-conscious man, which she didn’t, it would be very uncomfortable with him on top of the bed and her inside it.

She went to the linen cupboard, got out an eiderdown, and placed it over him. Then she found some sheets and took them into the spare bedroom.

T
HE LIGHTS CHANGED
and the four lanes of traffic roared away up the wide boulevard, like racing cars from a starting grid. Victoria gripped the wheel and accelerated. Driving in Paris was certainly different.

‘Here!’ Giorgio pointed sharp right, up a side street.

They were almost past it. Victoria flicked on the indicator and braked hard. There was an angry blaring of horns and a car wove violently past, the driver gesticulating rudely.

‘
Excusez
– so sorry,’ Victoria muttered, and, hoping there wasn’t something coming up behind, turned right across the traffic.

Safely into the side street, she stopped and put her hand to her chest. ‘Well, French drivers certainly have something,’ she said breathlessly. ‘If only a short fuse.’

Giorgio was already getting out. He said, ‘You wait here.’ He walked off and, half-way up the street, disappeared into a doorway.

A horn sounded: the camper was blocking the road. She drove on a little and, where the street widened, pulled up on to the kerb and turned off the engine.

She looked across the road. It was somewhere near here that Giorgio had disappeared. There was a linen shop, a boutique selling mini-skirts and jeans, an antique shop, and, in between, doors leading to the upper floors.

But what did it matter where he had gone? The important thing was, everything was going well.

The journey had gone very smoothly. She’d left London at seven that morning, caught the ten o’clock ferry and been at Orly to pick up Giorgio by three. She hadn’t got lost once. Well – just for a moment, coming into the city, when she’d misunderstood Giorgio’s directions.

She wasn’t sure where they were now – she didn’t know Paris that well – but the Seine was close by, and Giorgio had mentioned the Left Bank.

She closed her eyes for a while, then checked her face in the mirror. The black eye was fading fast and she’d managed to cover the greeny-blue shadow with makeup so that it barely noticed. Her skin was much clearer, too, and she had lost quite a bit of weight in the last few days. Definitely an improvement. It was Giorgio’s doing. When he was around she forgot all about food. She forgot about everything. She sighed deeply. That was the problem. She was in love with him. And not just a little, either. She could hardly think about anything else. His presence obsessed her; she related everything she did to him. The thought of displeasing him was agony. She vaguely realized that the relationship was unbalanced, that there was too much pain with the pleasure. But it merely made her more determined to please him, to become indispensable to him, so that he would get used to having her around, and maybe even come to care for her.

She thought: It’s all right for beautiful women. They can pick and choose. But for people like her – well, one had to grab at whatever one could. Better to feel alive for a short time than to drift along waiting –
imagining
– for ever.

It was getting dark. She looked at her watch. He’d been gone nearly an hour.

A movement caught her eye.

At last. There he was. Coming from beside the antique shop. Striding across the street.

He jumped in and said immediately, ‘We must go to one more place.’ He motioned her to drive off.

As she negotiated the streets she noticed that he was agitated and restless. She kept quiet.

They turned into a wide tree-lined street. At some lights Victoria managed to read a sign: Boulevard St Germain. Then they were into another network of narrow streets. Using gestures and the occasional word Giorgio directed her to the next address. Again, he left her waiting in the van. This time she watched to see where he went. It was a doorway beside a newsagent’s. She examined the windows above. Nothing to indicate what went on there. But she’d noticed the street name: Rue St Médard.

It was six now. She wondered what sort of an evening they would have. A meal on the Left Bank, a stroll along a boulevard, a coffee in a pavement café? Yes, she’d wear that long black midi-length skirt and pull her hair back in a knot and look smart.

Five minutes later he was back. ‘Okay, we go and find a hotel now. Then we eat.’

She smiled and started the van.

‘But I have not much time,’ he added. ‘I have a meeting later.’

Count to five. ‘When?’

‘At nine. It will last until late.’

‘I thought we’d have the evening together at least.’ She could hear the peevishness in her voice and hated it.

He gave her a sharp look. ‘I have to do my business,’ he replied. ‘That is why we are here.’

With an effort, she said quietly, ‘Of course.’ And, doing her best to drive smoothly, negotiated the camper into the thick of the rush-hour traffic.

As the van moved away, its registration number was noted.

The DST man was sitting in a car a few doors away from the newsagent’s. He sat in this spot quite often, sometimes several days running, at other times not for several weeks, watching the doorway to the right of the bookshop, noting who came and left. It was rather a farce really. The people at Aide et Solidarité knew he was there, and he knew that they knew.

But the purpose of the surveillance was merely to let them know that they
were
being watched. A reminder that they and the numerous other political organizations encamped in Paris were tolerated but not condoned.

The number of the van would be logged in the central records and that would be that.

It was getting on. He’d been there four hours. Quite long enough to ensure that his presence had been noted. Starting the engine, he drove quickly away.

Nick had seen worse places than 43 Tulip Street. It was on the border of Kensal Green and North Kensington, off the Harrow Road. The house was shabby on the outside, but reasonably neat and well kept on the inside, with ethnic rugs thrown over the ancient furniture and posters on the white-painted walls.

‘There’s a mattress somewhere,’ the girl said. She looked half-heartedly round the living-room and then gave up. She drew heavily on her cigarette. ‘Or there’s the settee …’

‘Don’t worry. Anything’ll be great.’

Her name was Bet – short for Elizabeth presumably, though he hadn’t asked. She appeared to be one of the permanent residents of the house, which, as far as he could tell, was occupied by six people. She was about twenty-five, he guessed, and fashionably dressed in a trendy off-beat way.

She asked abruptly, ‘Where’s Max living, d’you know?’

It was exactly what he’d been hoping to find out himself. ‘Not sure,’ he replied. ‘He split.’

She nodded, unsurprised.

‘You’ve got no gear?’ she asked.

‘No. Travelling light.’

‘Going to stay long?’

‘Dunno.’

‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘A friend of Max’s … But it might be difficult after a week. I mean, staying without contributing.’

‘I understand.’

They strolled into the hall. She said, ‘I’m going to the pub to meet some friends. Want to come?’

What he really wanted was to go home to bed. He’d slept until eight that morning, when Gabriella had woken him and offered him a hasty breakfast, but he had got up dog-tired and stayed that way all day. He decided the sleep would have to wait a while longer. The Bet connection might be tenuous, but it was all he had.

He said, ‘Yeah, that’d be great.’

The Red Lion was crowded. Bet’s friends, five of them, were at the bar. Two of them were teachers, Nick gathered, and one worked for a big charity. The remaining two were not forthcoming about their occupations.

He was disappointed. Neither the names nor the faces were familiar. If they were on file, it must be as ordinary members of relatively harmless organizations. Not likely to be bosom pals of Wheatfield.

Nevertheless he asked casually, ‘I’m trying to get hold of Max. Know where he might be?’

One of them answered, ‘He’s got a new place, but nobody knows where. You might find him at the Duchess of Teck. Up in Camden Town. He used to go there a lot …’

Nick wondered if he could face going straight away, tonight. It was a good half-hour away and he was still feeling pretty rough. He put off the decision by having another beer.

Fifteen minutes later two girls joined the group. He recognized neither. Then he realized there was a third arrival, standing at his shoulder just outside the circle. A man.

Nick’s interest quickened.

This one he knew.

It took him half a minute to place him, working backwards from the face to the organization, then to the occasion and the year, and finally to the name.

London School of Economics. SSL. Linden House Hotel affair, 1968. Wally Bishop.

Definitely a friend of Wheatfield.

He left it for twenty minutes, then, just as he was wondering how to introduce the subject, Bet did it for him.

She said to Bishop, ‘Nick wants to find Max.’

Bishop nodded, a flicker of defensiveness in his eyes. ‘He’s around …’