Lovers and Liars Trilogy (16 page)

Pascal brushed this detail aside. “Of course. But McMullen lives in an apartment, yes? In one of those converted warehouses not far from the
News
office. In apartment buildings, residents tend to use the same taxi services, sometimes the porter will recommend a firm. So, I asked the porter in McMullen’s building. He gave me three cards. The second was a firm in Wapping, three blocks from McMullen’s flat. They knew him well, often drove him. It was on their records, the last time he used them. They picked him up at eight in the evening, and drove him to Victoria Station. That was on December twenty-first, last year. The day before he was due to meet Jenkins.”

There was a silence.

“The boat trains to Europe go from Victoria,” Gini said.

“Exactly what I thought. And they keep no record of passengers unless they book a sleeping compartment on the overnight trains. McMullen didn’t. I checked. On the other hand, two trains left for Dover/Calais that evening. One at five minutes to nine and one at eleven-ten. He could have been on either train.”

“Or neither. Or any other that left Victoria that night. Or he might not have left from Victoria at all. It could be a false trail.”

Pascal looked pleased at this. Gini had the impression that it would have disappointed him had their task been easier. He smiled. “Exactly. Maybe something. Maybe nothing. So, this morning we have to get into his apartment. It shouldn’t be difficult.”

“It shouldn’t?”

“No, very easy, I think. I have a plan.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll aim to get there around midday. But first we should listen to that tape. And maybe we could have some more coffee?”

Gini sighed. Along with the other aspects of Pascal’s character which she had forgotten, there was his addiction to caffeine. She stood up.

“Nothing easier. It comes in a jar. You spoon out the granules, add hot water, and
voilà.
”

“That is not coffee.” Pascal also rose. Suddenly he was very tall and very close. He looked down at her in a gentle and somewhat melancholy way. “Next time I’ll bring you coffee beans, Columbian coffee beans. I can’t cook, but I make excellent coffee.”

He moved away quickly in the direction of the kitchen at exactly the moment Gini had thought he was about to touch her, or take her hand. There was the sound of the electric kettle being filled, and a few muttered French swear words.

She felt weak, and sat down. After some time, Pascal returned with two mugs. He made a grimace.

“Nescafé. An abomination. Never mind. It will do.”

Gini placed her tape recorder on a table between them. She inserted the tape. Pascal leaned forward attentively. She pressed Play. There was a crackle, some hissing, then the voices began:

—HELLO? HELLO? AM I THROUGH TO ADELAIDE?

—NO. THIS IS SYDNEY.

—OH,
JAMES.
THANK GOD. I’M ALWAYS AFRAID SOMEONE ELSE WILL BE USING YOUR PHONE BOOTH, AND THEY’LL PICK UP.

—DON’T WORRY, DARLING. I ALWAYS GET HERE A HALF-HOUR IN ADVANCE. WHERE ARE YOU? IS IT SAFE?

—I THINK SO. I’M HAVING LUNCH WITH MY FRIEND MARY. WE’RE AT THE IVY. I SAID I WAS GOING TO THE LADIES’ ROOM. FRANK CHECKED THE DINING ROOM FIVE MINUTES AGO. HE’LL CHECK IT AGAIN IN ABOUT TEN MINUTES. HE’S BACK OUTSIDE WITH THE DRIVER NOW. I MUSTN’T BE LONG. OH, GOD, IT’S SO GOOD TO HEAR YOUR VOICE.

—DARLING, DON’T GET UPSET. DON’T CRY. YOU MUSTN’T. TRY TO BE BRAVE. MY FRIEND WILL HELP US. I KNOW HE WILL.

—I KNOW. I KNOW. JAMES, YOU’RE THE BEST FRIEND IN THE WORLD. IF IT WEREN’T FOR YOU…IF WE COULDN’T TALK. IT’S LIKE BEING IN PRISON. ALL THE TIME I FEEL WATCHED. YOU KNOW, I SAW HIM LAST NIGHT ON TELEVISION, BEING INTERVIEWED. HE WAS SO GOOD, SO CONVINCING, AND I THOUGHT—ALL THOSE PEOPLE WATCHING OUT THERE, IF ONLY THEY KNEW.

At this point there was interference on the phone line, and a tiny jump in the tape. Gini pressed the pause button. She looked at Pascal. “The tape’s been edited, at least it sounds as if it has.”

Pascal nodded. “I think so too.”

“She sounds terrified.” Gini frowned.

“Like a little girl, a frightened child.” He glanced toward Gini. “Is it Lise Hawthorne? Or could it be a fake? What would you say?”

“I’m certain it’s her. I may not have spoken to her at that party of Mary’s, but I was standing close to her. I’ve seen her interviewed on television. She has a very distinctive voice—breathy, childlike. I can check if she did have lunch with Mary at The Ivy—meantime, I’m sure it’s her.”

“Jenkins is certainly convinced. He had some voice-print experts match part of this tape to a radio interview she gave last year. They were one hundred percent certain. Or so he says.”

“Let’s go on….”

“Okay. Turn the volume up.”

Gini did so. After the tiny blip on the tape came a sound between a sigh and a moan, then McMullen’s voice, speaking urgently:

—DARLING, DARLING. PLEASE DON’T. I CAN’T BEAR TO HEAR YOU CRY.

—I KNOW. I KNOW. I’M SORRY, IT’S JUST…I CAN NEVER FORGET, YOU SEE. IT’S WITH ME ALL THE TIME. I THINK ABOUT THE LAST SUNDAY, AND THEN JUST WHEN I’VE NEARLY MANAGED TO FORGET IT, WIPE IT OUT OF MY MIND, THERE’S ANOTHER SUNDAY COMING CLOSER AND CLOSER … JAMES, IT’S TORTURE, HE’S MADE MY LIFE A TORTURE. I THINK THAT’S WHY HE PLANS IT THIS WAY, TORMENT, THEN A SPACE, THEN MORE TORMENT AGAIN. I LOOK AT HIM, AND SOMETIMES I WANT TO DIE—

—DARLING, DON’T! PLEASE DON’T. LISTEN. REMEMBER WHAT I SAID—THE NEXT TIME—CAN’T YOU GO AWAY THEN? WHAT IF YOU WENT AWAY ON YOUR OWN, TO FRIENDS, FOR THE WEEKEND?

—I CAN’T. I CAN’T. DON’T ASK ME. YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND. HE’D PUNISH ME IF I DID THAT. HE’D NEVER LET ME LEAVE. I TRIED—ONCE I TRIED. IT WAS TERRIBLE. I’LL NEVER DO THAT AGAIN. CAN YOU IMAGINE WHAT IT’S LIKE—BEING WATCHED ALL THE TIME? JAMES—IF IT WEREN’T FOR YOU. AND MY CHILDREN. I SAW THAT DOCTOR LAST WEEK—YOU REMEMBER? THE ONE YOUR SISTER TOLD YOU ABOUT?

—DARLING, THAT’S GOOD. WELL DONE. YOU SEE? IT’S EASY WHEN YOU MAKE UP YOUR MIND. YOU’LL SEE. IT’S ALL FALLING INTO PLACE NOW. THEY’LL WORK—ALL OUR PLANS.

Gini stopped the tape again. She looked at Pascal. “Odd, isn’t it? What does that sequence mean?”

Pascal shook his head, frowning. “I’m not sure. There was a sense jump—something I couldn’t follow. Play that again.”

Gini rewound the tape. There was a blur, a babble of sound. She found the correct place, and they listened to the sequence again, then she pressed the pause button. Pascal was still frowning.

“Okay. McMullen’s sister recommended some doctor. Lise made an appointment to see him—McMullen congratulates her….”

“That makes sense. If he was worried about her health. She sounds close to a breakdown….”

“Sure, sure. But the sense jump is after that. Why should her seeing that doctor make McMullen say everything’s falling into place? Just what are their plans?”

“I don’t know. Us, I imagine. Going to Jenkins, approaching the press. I have to admit, I don’t see where the doctor fits in….”

“Maybe he doesn’t. It just sounds that way. People who know one another well tend to speak in a kind of shorthand. Never mind for now. Let’s go on.”

They listened to the remainder of the tape in silence. When it was over, Gini looked at Pascal. “Well. I don’t know what you think, but it seems to confirm the story McMullen told Jenkins.”

“The Sunday references?”

“Sure. Beyond that, I’m certain it’s Lise Hawthorne, and I’m certain she’s terrified.”

“I agree. Either that, or she’s a very good actress.”

“It doesn’t sound like acting to me, Pascal.”

“Nor to me.”

“In which case…” Gini felt a pulse of excitement. “In which case, it just might be true….”

“I know. I know. I can’t believe it either. No wonder Nicholas Jenkins reacted the way he did. If we make this story stand up—can you imagine the reaction? Here? In America?”

“Only too well.”

“Still…” Pascal lifted his hand. “We mustn’t jump to conclusions. We have to take this one step at a time. There’s things on that tape I don’t understand. It’s elliptic. Odd. Play that section at the end again, where she and McMullen plan to meet.”

“Wait. Before we do that, take a look at this.” Gini rummaged among the photocopied press clippings on her desk. She produced one, a small item from the
Daily Mail
’s gossip column. “You see? The details in the tape’s last section check out. Lise
does
see an osteopath in Harley Street pretty regularly. Some back problem. She took a bad fall, apparently, years ago, out hunting. It still causes her pain.”

Pascal scanned the clipping, then looked up.

“Okay. That checks out. Apparently. Play that end section again. Then we should go.”

Gini fast-forwarded the tape. The whole conversation lasted six minutes; most of it consisted of McMullen calming Lise down. The section concerning the osteopath came immediately before the conversation’s abrupt end:

—I HAVE THAT HOSPITAL CHARITY COMMITTEE IN THE MORNING. THAT’S NO GOOD. BUT NEXT WEEK, TUESDAY…HE’S IN BRUSSELS ALL DAY. I HAVE TO GO FOR MY BACK TREATMENT IN THE AFTERNOON. AT THREE. I ALWAYS DRIVE MYSELF THERE.

—DARLING, THE ONE WE USED BEFORE? YES—BUT WHAT ABOUT FRANK?

—IT’S ALL RIGHT. IT’S HIS DAY OFF. HIS REPLACEMENT—I’LL GET RID OF HIM. SEND HIM ON A SHOPPING ERRAND.

—DARLING, REALLY? A SHOPPING ERRAND? WHAT FOR? NEW CLOTHES?

—HE CAN’T REFUSE. NOT IF I INSIST. MAYBE I’LL SEND HIM SOMEWHERE WITH THE BOYS. IF YOU WAIT IN THAT MEWS …

—YOU MUSTN’T TAKE RISKS. NOT NOW.

—IT’S ALL RIGHT. IT’S SAFE. I CAN SLIP OUT THE BACK WAY. I’LL LEAVE MY CAR PARKED IN HARLEY STREET. IF THEY CHECK, THEY’LL SEE IT. THEY’LL ASSUME I’M STILL INSIDE. JAMES, PLEASE—IT’S ALMOST CHRISTMAS. IT’LL BE CHRISTMAS SOON. HE’LL MAKE ME GO TO THE COUNTRY FOR CHRISTMAS. WE WON’T HAVE ANOTHER CHANCE FOR WEEKS.

—IT’S ALL RIGHT, DON’T GET UPSET, I’LL BE THERE. YOU KNOW I’D CROSS THE WORLD TO SPEND FIVE MINUTES AT YOUR SIDE.

—WE CAN HAVE MORE THAN FIVE MINUTES. IF WE’RE CAREFUL…

—OH, DARLING. YOU HAVE THE WICKEDEST LAUGH. IT’S SO GOOD TO HEAR YOU LAUGH.

—IT MAKES ME HAPPY JUST TO KNOW I’LL SEE YOU, THAT’S ALL. IF YOU WAIT IN THE MEWS, THE WAY YOU DID BEFORE—I’LL WEAR A HEADSCARF. WE CAN GO TO THAT…OH, I’M SORRY. SOMEONE WANTS TO USE THE PHONE. WELL, IF THAT’S AGREEABLE TO THE REST OF THE COMMITTEE? OF COURSE. VERY GOOD. I’LL SEE YOU AT THE NEXT MEETING, THEN. EXCELLENT. GOOD-BYE.

Gini switched off the tape. Pascal rose and picked up the two motorcycle helmets. He made no comment as they left the apartment, but seemed abstracted, puzzled, as if there were something on that tape he did not understand.

“It’s odd.” He came to a halt by a huge gleaming black motorbike. He turned to look at Gini, his gaze intent. “Are they lovers, Lise Hawthorne and McMullen? What would you say?”

“I don’t know. I was trying to decide the same thing.” Gini glanced away, trying not to remember certain telephone calls of her own.

“Case unproven,” she said at last. “I think that’s all you can say. It’s certainly not a normal lovers’ conversation—but then, given the circumstances…”

Pascal stood still, frowning into the middle distance. “Of course. They are being careful…. Yet he calls her ‘darling,’ not once or twice, but again and again.”

“And she speaks only of friendship. She calls him her friend.”

“Exactly. He’s in love with her, I would say.” Pascal glanced at Gini.

“And his love isn’t returned?”

“Not to the same degree.”

This seemed to worry him. He considered it a moment more, then shrugged it aside with a sudden impatience.

“Still. Never mind that now.” He held out a large, shiny helmet with a black visor. “Put this on, hold tight. Lean when I lean, the same way as me. It’s eleven-fifteen now. We should be inside McMullen’s flat around noon.”

“Oh, yes? And you’ve worked out how we do that?”

“Of course.” He gave her a reproachful look. “We burgle it. It should be easy. The whole building’s alarmed.”

M
CMULLEN’S APARTMENT BUILDING WAS
a nineteenth-century spice warehouse directly fronting the Thames. It was huge and fortresslike, and had been expensively and painstakingly converted at the height of the Thatcher boom, about seven years before.

Pascal parked his bike several blocks away, and led Gini through winding cobbled streets lined with Range Rovers, Jaguars, and expensive German cars. He guided her away from the street approach to the building—a large courtyard modishly decorated with clipped box in tubs, and with treillage. “Not the main entrance, not yet.”

Taking her hand, he ducked down the side of the building, where a narrow stone walkway, overshadowed by the twelve-story warehouses on either side of it, led to steps and to the Thames.

It was still low tide. As Gini stepped out onto sandy mud and shingle, she gasped. Here was a new London, a London she worked near yet had never seen. Before her curved the gray expanse of the river. To her left was the glittering white pinnacle of Canary Wharf; to her right, upriver, was the bridge and the crouching stone castellations of the Tower. A police launch passed, and a barge. Pascal ignored them. He was staring up at McMullen’s apartment building, ranked with large arched windows.

“That’s McMullen’s.” He gestured. “There, in the middle, on the top floor.”

Gini looked up. The drop from the apartment was vertiginous: a wall of brick sixty feet high, with a sheer fall to a landing wharf and the water below. Up the face of the building snaked a black iron fire escape. Pascal turned to her, and smiled.

“Right. Now do exactly what I told you. Talk to the porter. He doubles as a security man. Distract his attention for five minutes. I’m sure you can do that.” His smile broadened. “Normally I work alone. I find it has its uses, working with such a beautiful blonde.”