Lovers and Liars Trilogy (196 page)

‘She’ll know in my good time, if at all. I don’t want her involved now, and Tomas wouldn’t either. As for the cops—no way. Give me another cigarette and I’ll explain.’

Colin lit another cigarette for her; she drew on it, then sighed. ‘You know how hard it’s been for Tomas to get health insurance on this movie?’ she began. ‘Very hard. He had to have three different medicals. The doctors didn’t like the condition he was in, and they liked it a whole lot less when they found out he was facing a tight twelve-week shooting schedule in the north of England, in winter. The insurers finally signed a week ago, but they put in a back-out clause: any worsening of his condition before the start date and they withdraw cover. You know what that means? No movie is what it means. This movie has a seventy million dollar budget—you’ve seen the figures. Unless Tomas is insured, the studio stands to lose most of that if he cracks up during filming; they won’t risk that. No insurance, and they’ll pull the plug on the entire project…So, no-one finds out what happened tonight, you understand?’

‘Of course I understand. But Thalia, this can’t work. You can’t keep this sort of thing under wraps. What about the doctor tonight? The ambulance men?’

‘His doctor will keep his mouth shut. He’s paid to do that, and paid well. They’ve taken Tomas to a private clinic so fucking discreet you’d think the CIA was running it. He’s been there before. He goes in under an assumed name and he comes out under an assumed name, and if anyone there recognizes him, they get a fit of amnesia, you understand? The doctor says two or three days should do it. Then he flies back to Montana and he
stays
in Montana. I’m going to make him do that until we’re ready to film. And as far as the studio is concerned, or anyone else connected with this movie is concerned—including Mario motor mouth—Tomas is in Montana now. Change of plan: he flew out there tonight—you got that?’

‘Will that work?’

Thalia shrugged. ‘It’s worked before.’

There was a silence. Colin began to understand. He began to see why there might have been those months of uncertainty as to Tomas Court’s exact whereabouts. He began to see why, when he was location searching, it had sometimes proved so difficult to locate his director. He began to understand, now, the numerous occasions when, unable to reach Tomas Court himself, he had had to wait for Court to contact him.

‘Thalia, how ill is he?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know.’ Her face contracted. ‘I just know he’s better when he’s actually working. He’s better when he isn’t breathing in all the filth in this fucking city, and he’s better when he’s away from that ex-wife of his, as well.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he loves her too much. It’s like a sickness with him.’ Her face took on a closed expression. She rose. ‘Anyway—that isn’t my business, and it certainly isn’t yours. I’ll call her later today and tell her Tomas had to go back out to Montana. I’ll say some suit is flying out from the Coast to see him there—’

‘Thalia, you can’t do that. He’s ill; he’s in hospital—what if something happened to him?’

‘It won’t, and I can’t think of a quicker way to bring on another attack than have her weeping by his bedside. I’m telling you, he won’t want her to know. He never does—’

‘Why not, for God’s sake?’ Colin burst out. ‘Why all this secrecy? They were
married
; they have a child—’

‘He doesn’t like her to see him sick.’ Thalia made a grimace. ‘He doesn’t like her to see him weak. And you know what? He’s right. That woman can smell weakness in a man the way a shark scents blood in the ocean.’

‘That’s ridiculous. That can’t be true.’

‘It is true. I know her. Take it from me.’

Her tone was very certain. Colin looked at her, then sank his head in his hands. He could feel unease welling up inside him; his mind felt dazed and confused. Lack of sleep was beginning to tell on him, but he knew the problem lay deeper than that. He did not have the right kind of intelligence, or perhaps character, to understand the complexities here. Love was love, he said to himself, and he could not understand why it should be twisted into some power game. How could love be a sickness? Love seemed to him both direct and simple: he loved his father; he had loved his brother; he loved friends such as Rowland; he tried to imagine his relationship with Lindsay in terms of deceit or malaise or a power struggle and found it unimaginable. Just to prevent himself from making a declaration, from flinging himself at her feet as it were, required all his self-control. Love ought to be freely and openly given, he thought, looking around him at the chaos of this room. He could not wait to tell Lindsay the truth. Why did people feel the need to distort love with lies and evasions and pretences? Then it occurred to him that those who did so perhaps enjoyed greater success than he himself had done. His own record, of pursuit by women who proved to be interested only in his money, or of rejections from women who preferred colder men to Colin, was no advertisement for the virtues of baring the soul.

He rose to his feet and tried to focus his mind on the realities of this room. It looked as if a fight had taken place in it, as if Tomas Court had surprised an intruder, yet the damage here, it seemed to him, was greater than any fight could explain. A fight might account for the broken chairs, smashed china and glass, but surely not for this blizzard of torn papers covering the floor, and not for a leather sofa, oozing rubberized stuffing, a sofa that someone seemed to have tried to disembowel.

He passed his hands across his face and turned back to Thalia.

‘I still don’t understand. What can have happened? When Tomas called you, did he explain?’

‘No. He could scarcely speak. He just asked me to come over. When I got here, the door was wide open and Tomas was on the floor, like I said. There was no-one else here—’

‘But who would do this? Has anything been stolen?’

‘There was nothing to steal.’

‘Is it just this room?’

‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘He’d been in the bedroom too. I—I closed the door. You’ll have to deal with that. I’m not going in there.’

Her tone was flat. Colin bent and picked up at random some of the papers torn and scattered at his feet. He leaned towards the light on the table and began to examine them. The first was a copy of the
New York Times
Arts section, dated a few days previously; it was folded back at an interview with Natasha Lawrence he had already seen, an anodyne piece written by someone called Genevieve Hunter, whom Lindsay had mentioned she knew. The photograph of Natasha Lawrence had been smeared with some whitish substance. The quote referring to her future home in the Hollywood hills had been circled in green ink; the words LIAR BITCH CUNT had been written next to it in capitals.

He began to feel sick. He dropped the newspaper and examined the other fragments of paper one by one. Some he recognized as the various revised shooting schedules that had been littering the table the previous day. There were several others which concerned the Conrad building, some torn from books, others, to judge from their paper and wording, from architectural journals. Finally, there were scraps of what appeared to be letters, handwritten, again in capitals, and again in green ink. He peered at the words, which seemed to concern Natasha Lawrence and bodyguards; then he came across the first reference to animals. He crimsoned and let the scraps of paper fall.

Thalia, who had been watching him in silence, gave a gesture towards the sea of fragments covering the floor. Colin saw there were more communications in green ink, hundreds of them, perhaps more, all of them ripped and shredded and trampled upon.

‘You’ve heard about Joseph King?’ Thalia said, her face expressionless.

‘Yes. Mario told me.’

‘You heard he might have died, last June—killed himself maybe?’

‘No, I didn’t know that.’

‘That was what people hoped. Those are his letters. Five years’ worth of letters—’

‘But he can’t be dead,’ Colin picked up the newspaper, then held it out to her. ‘Green ink, the same writing. This paper is dated four days ago.’

‘I know. I saw it before you arrived. In fact…’ Thalia paused, ‘it’s partly why I called you. I got afraid. I think he’s been here tonight. I think Tomas caught him in the act of going through these letters. I think he’s been listening to the tapes of his phone calls as well…’

‘Those tapes in the bedroom? Those are
his
?’ Colin stared at her. ‘I saw them yesterday—the door was open. Thalia, why would Tomas keep them? I don’t understand.’

‘He likes listening to them. Don’t ask me why. I wouldn’t dare ask him and I prefer not to know. But those tapes were playing when I arrived and they’re probably still playing now. I wasn’t going to go into that room and I won’t now.’ She gave herself a little shake. ‘So you’re going to have to do it. You’re going to switch the fucking thing off, then we’re taking all the tapes and we’re going to box them up along with the rest of this filth. Then I’m taking it all away and I’m getting it burned, which is something I should have done a long time ago…’

‘Thalia, we can’t do that; we don’t have the right. This is Tomas’s property, in the first place—and in the second, it’s evidence. We have to call the police.’

‘This stuff is killing Tomas.’ She turned away. ‘I’ve watched it poison him and I’m not watching it any more. And we
don’t
call the police. We do that and this whole story’s splashed across the tabloids tomorrow. There’ll be reporters and photographers crawling all over this. They’ll have tracked Tomas down to that clinic by tonight. Some ass-hole cop will be slipping those tapes to some contact of his, and before you know it, this shit will be all over the front pages, and the
National Enquirer
will be taking their marriage apart…’

‘Thalia—I said call the police, not Reuters.’

‘Same thing in this city.’

‘Thalia, no newspaper would print this stuff.’ Colin gestured towards the sea of papers. ‘They
couldn
’
t
print it—and they wouldn’t. Why would they? King isn’t sane, that’s obvious. Who would print this kind of sick allegation?’

‘You’ve been reading the wrong newspapers.’ Thalia gave him a derisive look. ‘And don’t make the mistake of thinking King’s just some crazy fantasist; he isn’t. He likes to mix a little fact in with his fictions. You think this would have obsessed Tomas the way it has if it was all sick lies from start to finish? No way. King’s
better
than that, and a whole lot smarter. It’s because Tomas knew King was telling the truth about
his
activities, that he thought he just might be telling the truth about Natasha as well.’

Colin felt that sick unease begin to rise in his stomach again. He picked up a scrap of one of the letters, then quickly let it fall.

‘He couldn’t have believed this—
surely
he couldn’t have believed this…’ he began.

Thalia gave him a tired look. ‘I think he believed some of it, some of the time. Maybe he even
wanted
to believe it. I’m not arguing with you about this; I’m getting rid of this stuff, the tapes
and
the letters, so you’ve got a straight choice: either you help me or you go.’

She sat down at the table as she said this, as if suddenly exhausted, and ran her hands through her frizz of grey hair. Colin hesitated. His instinct was still to call the police, to believe that they could bring order, justice and due punishment to whatever crime, or crimes, had been committed here. He looked at the blood splashed on the floor and the sea of incriminatory paper.

‘Let me check the bedroom,’ he said. ‘I’ll switch that tape off, then I’ll decide.’

He crossed to the far end of the loft, opened the door in that bare, brutal brick wall, and moved into the corridor, feeling for the light switch. The ugly neon flickered into life; he could hear a low; level, Midwestern voice, speaking with a pedantic insistence, as soon as he opened the door.

He paused in the bedroom doorway, feeling suddenly afraid, watching the small red warning light come on above the bed. The room was tidy and apparently untouched. That brownish bed cover was uncrumpled; the pillows bore the faint impress of a head, but might have been that way before.

Although the havoc of the outer room was not repeated here, he could sense disturbance in the air. It emanated from the tape recorder and the quiet murmuring voice, and it made him feel he was breathing in contagion; he could sense it as soon as he entered, some toxicity breeding here.

He moved across to the surgical table and the large, outdated machine. He began to fumble in the half light with the machine’s unfamiliar switches and dials. ‘Hot, hot and moist,’ said a voice, very loudly, right in his ear; he started back, realizing that by mistake he had turned up the volume control.

He backed away to the door, trying to close his mind to this spillage of words. He found the light switch and depressed it, but no light came on. He returned to the machine and bent over it, his hands now unsteady, trying to make sense of its battery of controls. He began pressing switches at random, but the twin spools continued to rotate and the voice continued speaking. ‘Naked in bed,’ Colin heard. He turned another dial and the voice sank to a whisper, a whisper he found more insidious and more discomfiting. ‘Absolute lust, shall I tell you what she did next?’ whispered the voice, and to his horror Colin found he wanted to know.

He slammed his palm against a whole row of switches, then, when that produced no effect, began a frantic search for the mains’ plug. The machine’s cables snaked away from the surgical table and disappeared under the bed. The electric point seemed to be at the head of the bed, under the
Dead Heat
altarpiece. He began to push and pull at the bed in order to reach behind it, but the bed, monstrously large, monstrously heavy, mounted on some box-like plinth, refused to move.

Abandoning this, he straightened, stared at the machine and found himself mesmerized. ‘
Such dexterity…were satisfied…the supervisor grossly…swallow them up
.’ Colin watched the tape wind from the right spool to the left. The room seemed to be growing hotter and hotter; he could feel himself being lured down some whispering corridor of words, around this corner and into room after hidden room.