Lovers and Liars Trilogy (15 page)

“I’ll go.”

Gini crossed the room and went into the hall, Mary hovering behind her in the open studio doorway. She felt a second’s angry concern for her stepmother. Why had it never occurred to her that Mary could be nervous? Then she noticed that, typically, Mary’s front door was unprotected. It had a flimsy lock and an old, inefficient bolt; no chain, no peephole. Making a mental note to get that changed, she opened the door and looked out into the night.

There was an odd sound, a faint crackle, like radio static. It was raining, and the street was ill lit. She peered out into the darkness, trying to accustom her eyes to the thin light. She made out the dark gleam of a car, then a shadow moved at the foot of the steps. Light suddenly caught pale hair, the sleeve of a man’s dark overcoat, then the man swung around.

“Mary?” he said. “I thought you must be out. I brought that book you wanted. I…”

He broke off, staring at Gini. There was a brief silence, an odd, taut second in which Gini felt sure that though this visitor enacted surprise, he experienced none on seeing her. Then, as he moved toward the door and up the steps, Mary moved too, rushing forward, arms outstretched.

“John!” she said. “What a lovely surprise. This is Gini—Genevieve. You remember? Come in, come in….”

Hawthorne’s opening remark was that he would stay five minutes. He stayed ten. He had, he explained, been at meetings all evening, and had picked up his two sons from friends. His sons, he said with a wry smile, had just had their first experience of an English Christmas pantomime.

“They couldn’t make head or tail of it,” he said. “Men dressed as women, women dressed as men, dancing horses, fairies, and demons…When I picked them up, they were wildly overexcited. And now the inevitable has happened. They’re both asleep in the back of the car. No, no, they’re fine, Frank is with them, but I mustn’t stay. Lise will be waiting for us. I have to get back.”

“Well, it’s very sweet of you….” Mary was clutching her new book. “But you needn’t have bothered.”

“Nonsense. You said you couldn’t wait to read it. And these friends live right around the corner, so I thought I’d drop it off. It was no trouble at all. You have—if you’ll forgive my saying so, Mary—the most lurid taste in books.” He flicked the cover. “Murders. Serial killers on the loose. You’ll be awake half the night.”

“I know.” Mary looked guilty but unrepentant. “But I adore them. I always have. It’s very kind of you, John. Thank you very much.”

He turned back to the watching Gini with an easy smile. “How about you, Genevieve? Do you share Mary’s taste for blood and gore?”

“Not really. No.”

“Me neither. And I never seem to have the time to read anymore anyway. Not for pleasure…No, Mary, really. I mustn’t stay, much as I’d like to—and no, I won’t have a drink.”

“Just a little one?” Mary held a whiskey bottle aloft.

Hawthorne laughed. “A little one? You never poured a ‘little one’ in your life. You make the stiffest drinks I ever encountered—and I don’t dare take the risk. I really do have to get back.”

He began to move toward the door.

“Genevieve.” He took her hand briefly in a firm grip, then released it. “It’s good to see you again. One of these days, perhaps, we’ll have a chance to meet properly. Mary talks about you so much, I feel I know you already—and Lise has been longing to meet you…. What?” He swung around as Mary interjected, then smiled warmly. “This Saturday? The famous birthday gathering? Well, that would be great….”

He moved out toward the hall, Mary following him. From the studio, Gini watched them. She saw him put his arm around her stepmother’s shoulder. He made some inquiry as to Mary’s welfare, which Gini could only half catch. Mary laughed, and gave him a push.

“Of course. I’m absolutely fine,” she heard. “You fuss too much, John. It’s very good of you, but you don’t need to worry. One gets used to it—truly. I just take it one day at a time.”

They passed out of sight. In the doorway they paused, and Gini heard Hawthorne make some low-voiced remark; Mary hooted with laughter. The door opened. Gini heard Hawthorne’s feet descend the steps.

“Gini,” Mary called to her. “Gini, come and look at this. Aren’t they adorable? Look …”

Gini reached the front door just as Hawthorne climbed into the waiting black limousine. In the back, just visible next to the bulk of a large security man, were two angelic blond children, both fast asleep. Hawthorne lifted his hand; the car moved away. Gini and Mary moved back into the studio. Mary gave her a small triumphant sideways glance.

“Well,” she said. “You, Gini, made a hit.”

“I did?”

“You most certainly did. Are your ears burning?”

“No, why? What did he say?”

“Never mind, but it was complimentary.”

“I can’t think why. I hardly opened my mouth.”

“Then it can’t be what you said that impressed him,” Mary replied smartly with an arch look. She moved across the room, picked up her new book, then put it down. “So, anyway, you promise you’ll come on Saturday? Just say you will. And then I’m going to shoo you out. I need my sleep.”

“Rubbish. You just can’t wait to read that book….”

“All right.” Mary smiled. “I admit it—but just promise me you’ll come.”

“Sure. I’d love to. There’s just one thing….”

“Yes?”

“Would you mind if I brought someone with me? Just a friend from France—he’s staying in London at the moment, and…”

At this, Mary rapidly lost interest in her new book, and Gini’s heart sank. She knew what was coming next.

“A friend?” Mary, who was a very bad actress, attempted a casual tone. “Is he anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so, no. His name is Pascal Lamartine.”

“Have you known him long?”

Gini considered. She averted her gaze. She could say she had known Pascal twelve years; she could say she had known Pascal for those three weeks in Beirut. Both statements were true. She said, “No. Not really. He’s working for the
News
right now, that’s all—”

“Single?”

“Mary, give me a break, will you? Yes. Sort of. He’s divorced.”

Mary considered this. Her concentration, Gini saw, was now intense. “A journalist, darling? An editor, perhaps?”

“A photographer. He used to be a war photographer—a very good one. Now he’s a—well, I guess paparazzo would be the right term.”

She seized on this description with a sense of relief. She might still find it hard to think of Pascal in that way, but the term had its uses. It would surely put Mary off.

To her despair, she realized it had quite the opposite effect. Mary gave a squeak of delight. A matchmaking look came upon her features; it was a look Gini had learned to dread.

“A
paparazzo!”
she said. “No! How absolutely splendid. I’ve
always
wanted to meet one of those. Such daredevils—roaring around on motorbikes, wearing dark glasses at midnight, what was that film?”

“
La Dolce Vita,
Mary. Fellini. And it was motor scooters, not motorbikes….”

“Same difference! I remember it terribly well. Is he like that, your Pascal?”

“He drives a car, as far as I know,” Gini said patiently. “And he’s not ‘my’ Pascal.”

She said this with extreme firmness. Mary took no notice at all. She made a noise indicating derision, and continued her cross-examination. She was still babbling about Fellini and cameras and exciting young men on motorbikes some fifteen minutes later, when Gini finally managed her escape.

“Motorbikes,” she called after Gini, down the steps. “I’m perfectly
certain
it was motorbikes. I shall ask him on Saturday, your Pascal….”

P
ASCAL TELEPHONED AT EIGHT
the next morning. Gini, who had been awake since six, was careful. Sitting a foot from the receiver, she picked it up on the fifth ring. Pascal made no comment on this, but said, “It’s me. I’ve hired a motorbike. I’ll pick you up at ten.”

“You’ve done what?”

“I’ve rented a motorbike. It’s black, German. A BMW. Very fast.”

“Pascal, I have a car. You saw my car yesterday.”

“Precisely. I saw your car. That’s why I rented the bike.”

“Is there something wrong with my car?”

“There are many things wrong with your car. It is old. It is slow. It is painted bright yellow. Once seen, never forgotten, your car. It won’t do at all.” He paused. “Besides, we may need to split up—and if we don’t, you can ride pillion. I’ll bring a spare helmet, yes?”

“Pascal—”

“At ten. I have somewhere else to go first, then I’m with you.
Au revoir.
”

Gini replaced the receiver and sat staring into space. After some consideration, she removed the skirt she had put on and replaced it with jeans.

“My stepmother, Mary, has second sight, did you know that, Napoleon?” she remarked. She picked him up and kissed him between his ears. Napoleon resisted such intimacies. He struggled, kneaded her lap, settled himself, and then purred.

She had thought she remembered Pascal so well—yet she had forgotten one of his most marked characteristics: his energy. Pascal in pursuit of a story was totally single-minded. He worked hard and he worked fast: He forgot about sleep or such minor inconveniences as eating. He left those working with him gasping for air.

At ten the motorbike roared to a halt outside her apartment. At one minute past ten, Pascal was in her living room, two helmets under his arm. He was wearing black jeans, a black sweater, a black leather jacket, and no sunglasses. Thanks, Fellini, Gini thought. As he closed the door, papers fluttered, the air whirled.

“Very well,” he began, striding to the center of the room, which immediately felt too small. “I have found out two things. One last night, one this morning.”

“Have some coffee,” said Gini, passing him a pottery mug. “And sit down. You’re too tall for this room. You’re making me nervous. I’ve made some progress as well.”

“You have?”

Pascal took the coffee and drank half of it without appearing to notice that it was in his hand. He put the mug down on the mantelpiece, sat down on the sofa, and stretched out his very long legs. “May I smoke?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. So, tell me.”

Gini explained. She recounted her visit to Mary and the meeting with Hawthorne. Pascal listened intently. When she had finished, he frowned.

“I don’t understand. He seemed surprised to see you there, but you felt he was acting? Why?”

“I don’t know. It was just an instinct I had. Something to do with his timing, the way he spoke. He did a kind of double take….”

“So? If he was expecting Mary to open the door, he would do—”

“No. You’re wrong. First of all, it was too well done, just like an actor. Second, although he performed well enough, the timing was off. He must have been able to see me perfectly. I was standing in full light in an open doorway. He must have seen it wasn’t Mary right away, but he continued acting surprised. Why do that?”

Pascal shrugged. “You probably imagined it. What are you saying, that he already knew you were there? He was expecting to see you?”

“Something like that. And I wasn’t imagining it.”

“Could he have known you were there?”

“I don’t see how. I’d called Mary only an hour before. The meeting wasn’t prearranged.”

“Do you see her every Wednesday?”

“No. We see each other often, but not on regular days.” Gini hesitated. She felt a sense of disappointment. Pascal was clearly not impressed by this story, and indeed, now that she recounted it, she felt it was lame. What was she describing after all? An odd coincidence, an instinctual reaction of her own—nothing more.

“Let’s forget it,” she said. “It’s probably not important—you’re right. But it’s good that we’ll get to meet them, isn’t it?”

“On Saturday? If we’re careful. Sure. Hawthorne mustn’t suspect any interest in him on our part. If he does, we’re blown.”

Gini said nothing. She felt a brief resentment that Pascal should dismiss so easily what she’d done, but this quickly passed. Pascal took a small package from his jacket pocket and opened it. Gini gave an exclamation of excitement

“That’s the tape McMullen recorded?”

“Yes. Jenkins sent it over to the hotel this morning by messenger.” Pascal smiled. “It virtually came under armed guard. We can play it in a moment. But first, let me tell you what I’ve found out.”

He placed the tape on the coffee table in front of him, and leaned forward, intent now. “James McMullen. Our source. Where is he? Why did he disappear? I checked back with Jenkins yesterday. The last time Jenkins saw McMullen was when he handed over that tape. That was two weeks before Christmas. They were due to meet the following week, but McMullen never showed. It seems to me that’s our first lead. We have to find McMullen. And that may not be so easy. Jenkins is right—he isn’t at his apartment, for a start….”

“You’re sure? How do you know that?”

“Because I went there first thing this morning. I spoke to the porter, and also to a cleaning woman. Both of them last saw him sometime before Christmas, they couldn’t say for certain when.”

“I see.”

“I guessed that would be the case, so last night I called a friend of mine who works at Heathrow. He checked the flight records for me for the past three weeks. No McMullen, not at Heathrow, Gatwick, Stansted, or the new City airport. So, either McMullen left the country by boat or train, or—”

“Your friend checked the flight records?” Gini stared at him. “
All
the flight records?”

“But of course.” Pascal showed signs of slight impatience. “They’re computerized. If you have a name, you can run a computer search. It doesn’t take very long.”

“What a useful friend to have,” Gini said dryly.

Pascal smiled. “I have a lot of useful friends. In fact—it doesn’t help very much. He could fly from a provincial airport, use a friend’s passport, even obtain a visitors’ passport in another name. Over Christmas, when there are so many passengers, they don’t check very closely. So, then I tried the taxi firms—the minicabs, those.”

“The minicab firms?” Gini gave him a look of disbelief. “There are about three thousand in central London alone.”