Lovers and Liars Trilogy (40 page)

He held out to her something small, which glinted. Gini saw it was a button, a brass button, possibly a regimental button, or one of the kind worn on blazers. It was decorated with a garland of leaves.

“Military?”

“Possibly. It’s not from either of their jackets. It belongs to someone else. The one who shot them, perhaps.” He saw the book. “What’s that?”

She told him, but the instant he realized it contained no message, he moved away from her, then bent to his camera bag.

“Go and stand in the corridor, Gini,” he said. “Don’t move. I’m sorry, but I have to do this.”

Gini did as he said. She leaned against the wall and clutched the book. She closed her eyes; the floor felt as if it moved; the heavy, decay-laden air was making her faint. Against her closed lids she saw light flash as Pascal took his photographs. She knew it had to be done, but the flashes made her want to be sick. Pascal was swift. Only minutes later he was back at her side.

“That’s it,” he said. “I have some proof. Now we leave. Gini, come on.”

Gini hung back. “Leave?” She said. “We can’t just leave them. We have to do something. We have to call the police.”

“There’s nothing we can do for them. They’re dead. Doctors, ambulances, police—they’re not going to make any difference to them.”

“We can’t leave them! Not like this. It’s horrible. It’s obscene. Someone should stay here—”

Pascal began to push her toward the archway. He said, “If we call the police, we’re involved. They’ll question us. We’ll be stuck in Venice for days—maybe weeks. How do we follow up this story, then? Don’t you want to find out who killed them, Gini? If we owe them anything, don’t we owe them that?”

“Yes, but it’s still not right—just to leave them alone here. Pascal, it’s so cruel and so sad.”

“Out,” Pascal said. He switched off the light. He began half pushing, half pulling her down the corridor. In the doorway, he stopped. “Don’t you see, Gini? Think. We come here earlier—the door’s closed and locked. We come back this evening, and it’s been opened. While we were chasing around Venice half the afternoon, someone came back. Came back and opened the door. They left it open—for us.
Now
will you come with me? Or do you want to wait here till they come back again?”

They went down the stairs. They crossed the silent courtyard and paused by the canal. Gini gave a low cry: Somewhere in the distance, a fearsome wailing began.

The sound was magnified by water. A siren had started up. The wail rose in pitch. Peering into the darkness, they glimpsed approaching lights on the water, through the mist.

“Of course. Of
course.
I’m a fool…” Pascal caught hold of her and drew her down a dark alleyway out of sight. “Call the police, Gini?” he whispered. “We don’t need to call the police, don’t you see? Someone’s
already
called them. Someone with a very accurate sense of timing too. They gave us just enough time to get into that apartment and do what we had to do. Then they gave us just enough time to get out. Look.”

The lights were drawing nearer, their brilliance made a haze by the mist. Closer, then closer; they heard shouts. Pascal held her pressed back against damp stone: She could just see the quay outside the Palazzo Ossorio, then, emerging from the mist, the white prow of a launch. Suddenly light dazzled her eyes. Pascal dragged her farther back into the shadows. She heard the slither of ropes as the police launch tied up. She heard the sound of booted feet running across the quay, then their echo on the flagstones of the courtyard. Boots rang on the stone staircase, then the sound became muffled and died away.

Pascal stood silently listening, an intent frown on his face. “Now, why should they time it that way?” he said under his breath. Then suddenly his face cleared. “Of course. Of course,” he muttered. “They don’t want us arrested or held for questioning. We’re too useful to them. I understand, Gini. I begin to understand….”

There was silence then, the only sound the wind, the drip of the rain on stone, and the slap of water against the sides of the canal.

Gini closed her eyes. She let the rain wash her face.

Pascal took her back to her room. When Gini could not stop shivering, he wrapped the eiderdown around her like a cloak. He went downstairs and persuaded the desk clerk to provide some brandy and some food: soup and bread. He brought it back to the room and locked the door. He went to close the interior shutters, but Gini said, “No, leave them open. I want to watch the moon and the sky and the water. It helps.”

Pascal turned back to look at her. Only one dim lamp was lit; it threw shadows and stripes against the ceiling. Moonlight patched the floor by the window. Gini’s eyes were shadowed and her face white. She was still trembling. Gently, he crossed to her side; then, with some firmness he made her eat. He produced the brandy, poured a small glass, and made her drink.

“That’s better.” He crouched down in front of her, took her hands in his, and chafed them. He looked anxiously into her face. “Much better. You’re still cold, but there’s some color in your cheeks.”

He hesitated, then drew her closer. “This changes everything,” he began in a quiet voice. “You must understand that, Gini. Before it was ugly, threatening—all right. But now—” His voice hardened. “Now it’s murder. Someone killed those two in cold blood. And we were intended to find them. I’m certain of that.”

He paused, holding her gaze. “Gini, I was right—someone
is
beside us, every step of the way. We’re being
used.
Maybe they think we’ll lead them to McMullen eventually. Well,
enough.
I won’t let you continue to work on this. Tomorrow I’m going to talk to Jenkins, and I’m going to tell him just that.”

Gini lowered her eyes; she said nothing. It was better to let this pass, and besides, she could not think about tomorrow, or Jenkins, or a newspaper office. They had no reality: She could not see beyond the room they had just left.

“Who killed them, Pascal?” she asked. “Who would do that in such a terrible way? Appleyard was just a gossip-column tipster, Stevey had nothing to do with this. What could anyone gain from their deaths?”

“Silence,” Pascal said. He released her hands, rose, and began to pace the room.

“I think someone wanted to assure their silence—it’s as obvious and simple as that. Appleyard must have known something. Presumably they thought there was a risk he’d told Stevey. So it was safer if both of them were dead. …”

“But why like
that
?” Gini bent her head and covered her face. “If they intended to kill Stevey, why lure him here to do it? Did they have to bring him here, make him sit next to the dead body of someone he loved? Did they have to paint his face? It’s so cruel. It’s monstrous, Pascal!”

“Cruelty is central to this case,” he said. He crossed back to her and took her hands again. “Gini, you
know
that, you’ve seen it. Humiliation, subjugation. Sex—and now death. Whoever is behind this enjoys inflicting pain. Did you doubt that when you saw what they’d done to your apartment? When you listened to that man on that tape? Did you doubt it tonight?”

“No,” Gini replied. “I didn’t doubt it, of course not. But when you actually see the evidence. To make that poor boy undress, to fold up his clothes like that. To
deface
him!”

“They made him look like a woman. Or like a parody of a woman.” Pascal’s voice had gone ice cold. He looked at her closely. “Someone here hates homosexuals, hates women, and hates sex too—at the same time as desiring it. Gini, you know the answer. Who does that suggest?”

“Hawthorne?”

“I would say so, yes.”

She began to answer him, to argue, but Pascal cut her off.

“All right, all right,” he said impatiently. “I
know
all that. Nothing proven, just allegations, sure. But just take a look at the logistics, Gini, if nothing else.” He rose and began to pace again. “Someone is well informed, yes? He knew we’d be working on this story before we did. He knew when your apartment would be empty, and how to enter it easily. He knew we were coming to Venice, and made sure we could get into that apartment when it suited him. We
are
being watched and followed and listened to, Gini. There’s no doubt in my mind about that. Now, just who can organize that kind of operation? Who could employ an executioner so he never needed to set foot in Venice himself? Come on, Gini, who’s the one person who could possibly
gain
from all this?”

Gini straightened. She took another sip of brandy and tried to think. She still felt as cold as ice.

“Hawthorne,” she said eventually. Then: “But not
only
Hawthorne. We still don’t know enough about McMullen. McMullen might have something to gain too. If he
is
obsessed with Lise, if he wanted to destroy her husband’s future career, their marriage. It could be McMullen, Pascal. You said yourself—a military-style execution, two neat shots in the back of the head.”

“I accept that.” Pascal crossed and sat down next to her. “Obviously, I’ve thought of that too. But if you’re weighing the two possible candidates, you have to admit, Hawthorne has advantages McMullen can’t possibly have. Would it be as easy for McMullen to organize surveillance? No, it would not. All right, McMullen could conceivably have a personal motivation for blackening Hawthorne’s name. But can you really believe he’d take it as far as murder? I certainly can’t. Concoct a sexual slander, smear the man, sure—but actually kill two people? No. I can’t believe that.” He paused. “Whereas Hawthorne—Hawthorne has a great deal at stake. Look what he stands to lose. His marriage, his sons, his reputation, his career—his whole future.” He broke off, and she could see there was something more, something he was reluctant to say to her.

“What is it, Pascal?” She looked at him closely. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“Several things,” he said after a moment. “McMullen’s disappearance, for one. I think McMullen knew he was in danger, Gini—and that brings us back to the same question. A simple one. Who might have discovered McMullen’s plans? Who could have known about his conversations with Lise, the fact that he’d gone to a newspaper? Who can easily employ surveillance? Who can intercept mail, or listen to phone calls, even phone calls made to an apparently safe phone booth? Who can draw on that kind of
expertise,
Gini? Hawthorne can. Now, McMullen also has some expertise—he’s an ex-Para, after all. So he got out fast, he covered his tracks. And I now think he was successful. McMullen isn’t dead.”

“You’ve changed your mind? Why?”

“I told you, Gini. Because we’re being used, you and I. They’re still looking for McMullen, and we might lead them to him. While that possibility remains, we’re
useful.
The minute we stop being useful…” He paused. “That’s when they dispense with us. The same way we saw tonight. We lead them to McMullen—and we’re dead.”

“You can’t mean that, Pascal.”

“This morning—no. This evening—yes.” He turned to her in a sudden angry way, and took her hands in his. “Gini, it’s easy. It doesn’t have to be a shot in the back of the head. It can be subtler than that—a road accident, a fall from an underground train, a little contretemps with an elevator shaft.”

“It can’t be true. It
can’t
be true.” Gini gave a little cry and rose to her feet. She walked over to the window and looked out. Cloud and intermittent moonshine: The water of the canal below was a sheet of silver one moment, black the next.

“I was talking to Hawthorne.” She swung around with a pleading look. “I was talking to him only yesterday. All the time he was speaking, I was watching his eyes, his face. There would have been some sign, some indication.”

Pascal gave an impatient gesture. “You think evil is that obvious? You’re wrong, Gini. It isn’t. I’ve met many evil men, I’ve photographed them. Ex-Nazis, Mafiosi, tin-pot generals in Africa, Arab despots, different races, different ages, different men—and they all had one thing in common. Every one of them had killed without compunction and would do so again. And not in one case—not in a single one, Gini—did it show on the face.”

“But that’s
different
,” Gini burst out. “Hawthorne isn’t some general, some dictator. He’s an American politician.”

“Oh, sure, sure.” Pascal’s voice had become sharp. “And you met him in a nice drawing room, with nice, civilized people all around, having nice, civilized after-dinner drinks. But just think a little, Gini. Think about some of your American politicians, or their English counterparts for that matter, or Italian, or French.”

“I am thinking about them—and it’s totally different. All right, they can make a ruthless decision, in wartime, say. They can authorize a bombing raid, they can authorize appalling things, they can lift a finger and a village gets wiped out before lunch. I know that, of course I know that. But that’s a
political
decision. It’s not a personal one. It’s not killing someone, or harming someone, to save their own skin.”

“And you’re sure, are you, that no American politician could ever do that?” He looked at her quietly, then with a shrug, turned away. “Are they all so pure? Take a look at some of your more recent presidents, Gini, and those close to them. Then tell me you’re so certain about that.”

There was a silence. Eventually Gini said, “Very well, I accept that. And the same could be said of politicians, of powerful men, the world over. In Europe, in Africa, in South America, in the Far East…”

Pascal sighed. “Of course. The braking systems in a democratic country may work more effectively than in others. But the point is, back a certain kind of politician into a corner, so he has everything to lose by doing nothing, and everything to gain if he acts—and he will lie and cheat and blackmail, and yes, even in some circumstances kill. And the one thing you can be certain of is that none of that,
none
of that, will be apparent in his face.”

There was a long silence after that. Pascal sat quietly thinking, smoking a cigarette. Gini stood by the window and watched the water move below. She thought about this story, and about aspects of it which, initially, had worried her. She had not been altogether sure, embarking upon it, that it was right to investigate a man’s private, sexual activities. Could some boundary not be drawn between a man’s private behavior and his public life? How much did it matter if a politician who had, in many respects, a fine record, proved to be a liar, even a womanizer when away from his work? Did the one not outbalance the other? Could a distinction not be drawn?