Lovers and Liars Trilogy (114 page)

She could feel fear, and a sense of hopelessness, just inches away. Such feelings were better not indulged, she knew, and they were selfish, inappropriate now. How death changes things, she thought. She had just seen Charlotte fighting a sudden awareness of the fragility of life, of the bulwarks of family and marriage; now she felt that too. Activity, she told herself—that was the cure. She could be useful, at least, even if excluded. She would make Max and Rowland some sandwiches, walk the dogs. Keep the home fires burning, she said to herself wryly, and walked through to the hall.

“Max…” she began, then stopped. Max’s study door was ajar. He and Rowland were talking. She could hear their conversation only too well.

“Forget it, Max,” Rowland was saying in a cold, angry voice. “I told you. Try John Lane again. Use Huxley.”

“Look—I can’t damn well get them. No reply from Lane. Huxley’s calling back at four. He’s in bloody
Norfolk.
That’s no use. I need someone here right now.”

“Then let’s think of someone else. And let’s make it a man, for God’s sake. I’ve had enough of female histrionics. First Lindsay, now her.”

“Think about this, Rowland. You’re overreacting. Why? She’s gone for a walk. Maybe that’ll give her time to think.”

“Does she think? I see no evidence. Neither of them
thinks,
Max. They just lose their tempers, flounce out, turn every issue into some damn personal conflict. They’re a pain in the ass.”

“All right. All right. I could try Nick, I suppose.”

“Call him now. If you can’t get him, I’ll go up to that damn barn myself. The police won’t keep those travelers there forever. We’re wasting time.”

“You call Landis. Use the other line. Get an update—they could have word on the car she left in. Then call the news desk again. Oh, and tell Landis we need a picture of Mina, a recent one.”

There was silence, then sounds of dialing. Miserable and angry, Lindsay turned away.

She returned to the kitchen and began to make sandwiches. Fifteen minutes later she heard the sound of rapid footsteps, then Gini entered, kicking off her muddy boots by the door.

Lindsay stared at her in astonishment. Gini looked transformed. The cold air had brought color to her face, but beyond that it was as if a different woman had just entered. There was new light in her eyes, new determination in her face. She moved in her old way, every line of her body indicating energy and purpose. Lindsay, dumbfounded, stared at her, unable to break her gaze. The transformation was sudden, and for a second it made her unaccountably uneasy: she had forgotten just how lovely a face Gini had; she had forgotten how her vitality could light a room.

“Where’s Max?” Gini began without preamble.

“In there. With Rowland.” Lindsay hesitated. “Running you down, Gini, if you want to know the truth. Listen—”

“I don’t give a damn, okay? I need to talk to him. I’ve been up to that barn. I went to see the travelers.”

“That’s where you’ve been?”

“Of course. What’s more, they talked to me. I took them some cigarettes, some scotch. That helped.”

“You bribed them?”

“Lindsay, it’s
currency,
that’s all. Very useful currency. I used it in Sarajevo all the time. Plus grass. The most useful currency of all. Max!”

She broke off. As she called his name, Max and Rowland had entered, still in argument. It was apparent to all four people in the kitchen that the word “bitch,” just uttered by Rowland, did not refer to Max’s dogs. Both men, seeing Gini, fell silent. She ignored their expressions and the comment just overheard.

“Max,” she began. “I’ve been up to that barn, and I’ve talked to the travelers. Mina Landis
was
there last night, and she did leave with a man. She left shortly before midnight in a stolen car. A brand-new five series BMW. Silver. The man driving it is called Star—”

“A silver BMW?” Roland glanced at Max. “I know about that car. Go on.”

“No one knows where this Star comes from, or where he hangs out. No one knows where they were headed—I gather it could be anywhere. Star gets around. This last week he was in Amsterdam—or so he claimed.”

“Amsterdam?” Rowland said sharply.

“Yes. And he came back well supplied. Grass. Amphetamines. Beta-blockers. And something new called White Doves. They must have been something special, because they were triple the price of all his other stock. And he was very sparing with them. He had only a few.”

She stopped, sensing the new and sudden tension in the room.

“Have I said something? Am I missing something here?”

“Never mind that for the moment,” Max said quickly. “What else? Did you get a description?”

“Of Star? Sure. Age—early to mid-twenties. Tall—around six feet two or three. Clean shaven. Black hair, worn long, down to his shoulders. Blue-black eyes, strong features—they say exceptionally good-looking, at least the women do. Dresses like one of the travelers. Old tweed coat, black clothes, always wears a red scarf. Could be British or American or European. No one knows.”

There was a silence. Rowland, who had been watching Gini closely as she spoke, glanced toward Max; Max nodded.

“In that case,” Rowland began, “we have a lead—a strong lead. Max, you call Landis. I’ll call the police. Then I’ll head off for Cheltenham. A man called Mitchell reported that BMW as stolen this morning. The police were interviewing him. With luck, he’ll still be there.”

He turned toward Max’s study, and then, as if it were an afterthought, glanced back at Gini.

“You want to come?”

“Yes. Why not,” Gini replied. In the corner, unnoticed, forgotten, Lindsay sighed and turned away.

Mitchell had been continuing to help the police with their inquiries all day. At least, that was the police term for a sullen silence interspersed with bursts of uninformative vituperation. This shadowboxing had just come to an end. Mitchell had been released for the moment, but he knew what he was facing: a night in a cheap hotel until the credit card company got its act together and provided replacement plastic; weeks of continuing hassle from the cops. This prospect made him very jumpy. There was still some chemical fry-up going on in his brain. He left the station in a truculent state, whereupon these two journalists descended upon him. At that, his mood lifted. The blond-haired woman reporter was attractive; the man with her paid for a whiskey, and it gave Mitchell’s battered ego a boost to be approached by the press.

Mitchell downed the first whiskey fast. When the second was in front of him, and just as he was about to reach for it, the male journalist, McGuire, he’d said his name was, placed one large hand on top of the glass.

Mitchell gave them a look, trying to get the measure of them. McGuire was tall and strongly built; he needed a shave. He had the coldest green eyes Mitchell had ever seen, and he looked like trouble. The American woman, Gini Hunter, on the other hand, was a bit thin, but pretty. She had an astonishingly sexy mouth, and sweet, trusting gray eyes. Definitely the more sympathetic of the two, a pushover, Mitchell thought; he decided to ignore the man, address her. “Come on, give me a break,” he said. “I feel like hell. I’ve told you all I know.”

The hand on the whiskey glass did not move. Gini sighed.

“Oh, damn. And I was so sure you’d be able to help us. Ah, well. Rowland, let him have that whiskey. He’s doing his best.”

“You think so? Well, I don’t buy his story at all. It’s lies from start to finish. Just a variation on the crap he fed the police earlier. Definitely not worth another whiskey. And this is a double too.”

“Oh, come on, Rowland.” She gave Mitchell a complicit look, as if apologizing for her partner’s approach. “You’re not lying to us, are you?” she said. “I don’t blame you for being cautious. I would be too, in your situation. But after all, even if you were buying, I’m sure it wasn’t anything too heinous. Was it grass? Speed, maybe?”

“For Christ’s sake, Gini,” the man said in a rough tone. “When will you learn? He’s a goddamn
pusher.
That’s what the police think. They told me just now.”

Mitchell stared at him in alarm. This was news to him, unwelcome news. He felt himself starting to sweat. He gazed around the bar, trying to wipe the chemical haze from his brain.

“Listen,” he said, turning back to Gini. “Let’s get one thing clear. Maybe I
was
buying—I might admit that. But not selling—no way. And I know nothing about that dead girl. I never fucking well laid eyes on her. That’s God’s own truth, okay?”

The obscenity was a mistake. The second it slipped out, McGuire’s face hardened. He turned to the woman beside him. “The hell with this. I’ve got better things to do.”

He rose, and, taking the whiskey with him, began to move away.

“Wait, Rowland.” Gini gave Mitchell a sympathetic look. “Don’t take any notice of him,” she said, lowering her voice slightly. “I believe you. I know you wouldn’t lie, not about something as serious as this. That poor girl’s dead, after all.”

Mitchell, whom nobody had believed all day, felt an overwhelming flood of gratitude. He felt a sudden lurching need to confide in this woman.

“Listen,” he began, leaning forward, “I’ll tell you this—the dead girl, he’ll be behind it, and she’s not the first he’s harmed. There was a French girl last winter—he slit her face open with a razor. There was another girl after that, a Dutch girl, rich parents, good school. Anneke, her name was. She went with him for a bit. He… passed her around, if you get my meaning. She was supposed to be his girlfriend, but that’s what he did. Well, I asked him about her, I asked him yesterday, and she’s dead. I’m telling you, he’s a fucking maniac. Look—look here…”

He leaned forward into the light.

“Look what he did to my nose. Yesterday. He fucking
bit
me! Suddenly, for no reason at all. Now I’ll have to get a blood test. I’ve probably got AIDS. I’m probably dying… I don’t mind telling you, I can’t take much more of this. I’ve had no sleep. He gave me this stuff yesterday, forty quid it cost, said it was new, a White Dove he called it—well, Christ knows what it was. It really blew my mind. You see my hands? They’re still shaking. All the lights in here, they keep moving up and down.”

McGuire had returned to the table, and had sat down, but Mitchell, launched now, scarcely noticed. He kept looking at the woman, who was listening intently with an expression of shock and concern.

“Rowland, please let him have that drink,” she said in an indignant tone. “You can see he isn’t feeling well. I
told
you he’d help us.”

With a shrug, the man passed the whiskey across. Gini gave Mitchell some potato chips and a sandwich. Mitchell, who was ravenously hungry, wolfed them down. The two reporters then had a brief conversation in lowered voices. The woman appeared to be proposing something; the man seemed to resist her ideas. Eventually, with a shrug, she turned back to Mitchell.

“Listen,” she said. “Rowland thinks I shouldn’t tell you this. I think he’s wrong. The thing is—the man you’re describing, I think I know who he is. I think he could be the very man I’m trying to nail.”

“Leave it out, Gini,” said her companion, but she ignored him. Mitchell, listening closely now, began to preen.

“Seriously?” he said. “In that case, I certainly could help you. I mean, like, why not, yes? I don’t owe him any favors. You get him locked up, we’ll all cheer.”

Gini looked impressed, then suddenly doubtful. “You’re sure?” she said. “I don’t want to put you in any danger.”

“You think I’m afraid of this guy? No way.” Mitchell preened a bit more. “I mean, you protect your sources, right?”

“Of course. Total anonymity.” She had produced a tape recorder out of nowhere. Mitchell, now mesmerized by her eyes, barely noticed when she flicked its switch to record.

“Tell me,” she said, hanging on Mitchell’s every word, “this supplier of yours—he was your supplier, right?—do people call him Star?”

Mitchell nodded. Leaning forward, he started talking, in detail, and very fast.

An hour later, as it grew dark, Gini waited in Max’s borrowed Land Rover. Rowland was inside the police station, talking to the same detective from that morning. Gini watched shoppers laden with packages going home. She watched Mitchell leave the pub and weave his way along the road. Fifteen minutes passed, then Rowland returned.

“They still haven’t located the BMW,” he said, climbing into the driver’s seat. He switched on the ignition and revved the engine. “I passed on what Mitchell told us—for what it’s worth.” He hesitated, then glanced toward her. “You were good with Mitchell, very good indeed.”

She shrugged. “We did a good routine. Not original, but tried and true. And we were lucky with the timing. I just wish he could have told us more. This Star’s real name, for example.” She gave a half-smile. “An address. That might have helped. Something concrete.”

“I can follow up on the Dutch girl. Anneke. Her father’s a diamond merchant. I got the details from the police just now.” Rowland’s tone was flat. He was staring through the windshield at the parking lot.

“What else?” Gini glanced at him. “There’s something more.”

“They completed the postmortem. An hour ago. Cassandra’s death was drug-related. They won’t know exactly what she took until they complete the toxicology reports.”

“How long?”

“They say three days minimum. It could be much more.”

He released the brake and let in the gears without further comment. They reversed out of the parking lot and into a complicated maze of streets. The shops were closing, and the traffic was heavy. Neither spoke; finally, they cleared the outskirts of the city and turned off on quieter country roads. For a while Rowland concentrated on their route, with which he was not familiar; these winding roads had to be taken with some caution in the dark. Before him, the tarmac dipped and curved. They had entered a section of beech woods; trees arched overhead, creating a tunnel. Rowland slowed. When they reached a straighter, more open section, he glanced once more toward Gini, who—unusually for a woman, he thought—had remained silent all this while.

Her face was obscured from him by darkness. The Land Rover was drafty, and it was cold. She was sitting huddled in her coat, her bare hands clasped in her lap; around her throat was a shamrock-green woolen scarf. Above it Rowland could just glimpse the pale curve of the nape of her neck. Her hair, longer at the front and the sides, was cropped very short at the back. It was an odd, ragged haircut, like that of a very young boy, and for some reason it touched him. It gave her an air of vulnerability he had not noticed before; it looked as if she had cut it herself—and with a pair of blunt scissors too.