Lovers and Liars Trilogy (58 page)

This area of the city, although close to the colleges, was rundown. Nearby were the pens and yards of the cattle market, and to the north, just beyond the square, the high walls of Oxford prison. It was shabby and dispiriting and almost deserted. Few cars and no pedestrians passed.

Most of the houses here were used as small offices; they were closed now and dark. The only source of light and cheer were the steamed-up windows of the Paradise Café, just across from where they stood on the far side of the square.

At three minutes to six, Pascal gave her an encouraging glance, took her arm, and drew her across to the restaurant. It was small. The menu in the window showed it served primarily Greek Cypriot food. Inside there were two waiters and groups of students. Gini shivered. She looked to the right, then to the left. No one approached. The minutes ticked by.

She could sense Pascal’s tension in every line of his body as she huddled against him for warmth. A chocolate-bar wrapper blew along the sidewalk in front of them, making a scuffling sound. The mist drifted; it felt clammy against her skin. At six-fifteen Pascal began to show the signs of impatience she had known were inevitable. He swore.

“I’ve had enough. Don’t tell me this is another damn wild-goose chase.”

“Wait, Pascal. Give it time.”

“It’s goddamn freezing here.” He turned to look through the café windows. “You think he could be inside?”

“He might be in the room at the back, I guess.” She peered through the glass. She could not see well through the steam and condensation, but all the customers looked far too young. “Come on, Pascal.” She squeezed his arm. “Think of something else. Stop counting seconds. That always makes it worse. Tell me some more of those famous facts of yours. You’ve been thinking of them all afternoon, I could tell.”

Pascal gave her an amused glance; she felt some of his tension subside. He turned back to peer through the window.

“Oh, very well. Learn to control this impatience of mine, yes? Fine. Well. I can tell you his postings—they’re interesting. Three tours of duty in Northern Ireland, two stints in Germany. A spell in the Middle East. He served in Oman….”

“Yes, I did,” said a quiet voice behind them. “In 1978. Would you both get in the car?”

Pascal swore, and Gini swung around. The man who spoke had materialized silently from behind them. As before, he was wearing a black track suit and black running shoes. This time, the hood of the track suit was down.

The car he had indicated was parked across the square, a black, mud-splattered Range Rover. Gini had noticed it, and it had been empty, as they passed.

“We can’t talk here,” McMullen said. “I haven’t much time. Would you get in the car?”

It
was
McMullen. As he spoke, he turned slightly and lamplight gleamed palely against his fair hair. For an instant, she glimpsed his features. His face was stronger and more determined than it had appeared in the photograph. She felt Pascal hesitate; she turned and walked across to the car.

She sat in the rear, Pascal in the front. McMullen negotiated Oxford’s complex one-way system at speed.

He said, as they were leaving the outskirts of the city, “It’ll take about fifteen minutes to get there. It’s not far.”

After that he did not speak, and Pascal did not prompt him. Gini guessed that, as she was, Pascal was concentrating on their route. In the dark, moving rapidly along a succession of winding unlit country roads, this was not an easy task. Gini edged toward the window. At the next junction, when McMullen was forced to slow down, she caught one quick glimpse of a sign in the headlights. She just had time to read the name of the next village. It was enough. She kept her eyes on the route. She thought:
Of course
—
Oxford, Oxfordshire. The place where John Hawthorne has his country home.
The manor house he had bought had been extensively photographed; she had checked its precise location when they’d begun this story. Unless she was very much mistaken, it was his entrance gates they had just passed, and his estate wall now beside the road to their immediate left.

Wherever McMullen intended to take them, she was certain it would not be far.

She was correct. They followed the high stone wall that bordered the Hawthorne property for two miles, turned sharply right, then left onto a steep, rutted track. The going was rough, but the Range Rover’s four-wheel drive coped with it easily. Three miles, she estimated, the track continuing to rise the whole way, and curving to the left. When McMullen stopped the car, they were in a clearing flanked by woods on three sides. In front of them was a small building, its windows unlit. To their left, and clear of the trees, the ground fell away in a deep bowl.

They climbed out of the car, and Gini moved toward the space in the trees, Pascal close behind her. McMullen stood watching them both.

“There’s no moon yet,” Gini said slowly. “But I’m sure the view is spectacular from here. You must overlook John Hawthorne’s land. Can you see his house, as well?”

“I can see the south terrace, with binoculars. Yes.” McMullen spoke evenly. He unlocked a door behind them, waited until they were all inside and the door was closed behind them, then switched on the light.

They were standing in a small, sparsely furnished living room. It seemed to be the only ground-floor room, except for a lean-to kitchen at the back. An estate cottage once, Gini guessed, built to house a gamekeeper or forestry staff from one of the properties bordering Hawthorne’s. There was a stone floor, a bare table, a few sticks of cheap furniture, a pile of newspapers in the corner. The windows were boarded up, and it was bitterly cold. McMullen crossed the room and lit a paraffin heater.

“I’m sorry—it’s spartan,” he said. “I like living that way.”

“You’re living here now?” Gini said quickly.

McMullen sat back on his haunches. His face took on a guarded expression. He adjusted the flame of the heater.

“I stay here occasionally. From time to time.”

“Your London apartment isn’t spartan,” Pascal said, watching him closely. “Quite the opposite.”

McMullen gave a dour smile; he straightened. “No. But then, I’m very rarely there.” He paused. “When exactly did you obtain entry there?”

“A week ago.”

McMullen gave a small, quick nod, as if this satisfied him in some way. “And Venice? You must have gone there.”

“Last Sunday.”

The question was put evenly; Pascal gave it an even reply. He volunteered nothing further. McMullen noted this, Gini saw, and appeared to approve. There was a brief silence. She watched the two men assessing each other, feeling their way.

“I intended originally to meet you in Venice.” McMullen spoke suddenly. “That plan had to be changed. The reports of Appleyard’s death there were in the papers yesterday. They don’t make it clear when he died.”

He kept his eyes on Pascal, who replied, still evenly, “Judging from the state of his body when we saw it, around ten days before.”

“I see.” There was a pause. “And the other man with him?”

“He had died more recently. One or two days before.”

“Fine.” McMullen showed not a trace of emotion. He continued to ignore Gini, as if she were not even in the room.

“Fine?” she said now, sharply. “It wasn’t fine! It was unnecessarily cruel.”

“So I understand from the reports.” McMullen spoke crisply. He turned to look at her for the first time. It was a brief, cool inspection. He at once turned back to Pascal.

“I’ll say this once to get the obvious question out of the way. I did not kill them. I met Appleyard only once, in October last year. I never even heard of his friend. If Appleyard had done as I told him, and stayed out of all this, he would still be alive. He meddled, and as a result of that, he died.”

“That seems harsh,” Gini said quickly, stung by his tone.

“Very possibly. There’s no point in pretending I feel any great sympathy. I disliked the man.”

“You
used
him,” Gini said in a quieter tone. “You also used Lorna Munro. Did you know she was dead too?”

There was a brief silence. McMullen looked from her to Pascal.

“Is that true?”

“Yes, it is.” Pascal paused. “She was killed within a few minutes of speaking to me. In Paris. She was knocked down by a Mercedes.”

“Deliberately?”

“Oh, yes. I witnessed it.”

For the first time, McMullen betrayed some emotion. There was a momentary concern in his face, then his mouth tightened.

“Yes, well. I regret that. Obviously I regret it. However, perhaps it proves to you what is at stake here, and exactly what I have been up against. Hawthorne tried to have me killed in December. It was then of course”—his voice became dry—“it was then it became urgent to disappear.”

“You know Hawthorne was behind the attempt?” Pascal said levelly. “What method did he use?”

McMullen gave him a cool, assessing glance. “The man he employed was that henchman of his and his father’s. Frank Romero. I think we can deduce he was acting on instructions, don’t you? And the method was an obvious one, given I was in London then. It was at the Bank tube station, in the rush hour. Romero attempted to push me under an oncoming train.” He stopped. Neither Pascal nor Gini spoke. McMullen gave a small shrug. “I’ve had training. He failed. Since then…I’ve had to be careful. Otherwise I would have found more direct ways of contacting you. And I would have done so before now.”

He stopped abruptly. He gave them both another of those blue measuring looks.

“I’m sorry. We should stop fencing around. I realize now I’ve overlooked something very obvious. You’re journalists, and I’m not used to dealing with journalists. I’m assuming that when I tell you the truth, you’ll believe me. I should know better. It’s a mistake I’ve made before.”

He hesitated then for the first time, and Gini realized that beneath his crisp questions and curt replies, McMullen was as tense as strung wire. He gave a sigh, and glanced around the grim, cold room.

“I’d set great store by this meeting,” he continued, his tone now much less calm. “When I finally was able to meet you—what I should say, and do. I hadn’t expected suspicion, or hostility. My mistake. Christ…” He turned away with a sudden violent gesture. “Christ! I should have known.”

The alteration in his demeanor had been very rapid: one minute, calm control; the next, strong emotion, which Gini could see he was fighting to subdue. She and Pascal exchanged looks. She made a quick covert calming gesture of the hand, and Pascal nodded.

“Look,” he said to McMullen in a more neutral tone. “You must understand. The allegations you’ve made are very serious. If they became public, they’d destroy a man’s whole life and career. We’re not hostile to you, we’re trying to find out the truth, that’s all.” He paused. “Listen, it’s very cold in here. Gini’s freezing, and so am I. Could we have some tea, something warm to drink? Then we could sit down and go through this carefully from beginning to end.”

McMullen looked at Pascal, then nodded. “Very well.” He glanced down at his watch. “But we must be quick. I don’t have a great deal of time.”

He made his way out to the kitchen at the back. After a brief exchange of glances, Pascal followed him out there, and leaned in the doorway, blocking McMullen’s view back into this room. Gini, who had known Pascal wanted to case the place as soon as he mentioned tea, began to move swiftly around the room. It told her a little, but not as much as she had hoped. The pile of newspapers dated back six months: some were local, some national. Flicking quickly through them, she saw that several were open at reports of John Hawthorne’s public activities, meetings and parties he had attended, or speeches he gave. The previous August, Hawthorne’s Oxfordshire gardens had been opened to the public to benefit a hospital charity: The page reporting this event, with photographs of the gardens, had been cut out from that week’s issue of the
Oxford Mail.

In the corner of the room, near the door to the kitchen, was a green rucksack that might have been army issue. It was laced tightly closed. Near the empty fireplace, on a shelf, was a half-full bottle of whisky and glasses. There was an ashtray with some unfiltered cigarette stubs in it. Next to that were two yellowing paperback novels, one by Frederick Forsyth, the other by Graham Greene. Nothing else: no pictures, no carpets, just furniture that looked as if it might have been abandoned with the house. The hiss of the heater, and the heavy oily smell of burning paraffin. Spartan, indeed.

There was one other door in the room. This she opened silently, easing up the latch, any noise she made drowned by the hiss of the gas stove in the kitchen beyond. It led, as she had expected, to a narrow flight of uncarpeted stairs. One room on the ground floor, and one above, presumably where McMullen slept.

She edged back to the warmth of the paraffin heater. How odd that McMullen should have chosen to bring them here, she thought. This was a place for a stakeout. But if McMullen actually
was
staking out Hawthorne, this was surely the last thing he would want them to know.

When Pascal and McMullen returned, McMullen’s manner seemed to have thawed. He looked more at ease now, as if he had warmed to Pascal, if not to her. She watched him as he adjusted the heater, then moved to a chair. He was several inches shorter than Pascal, with a slight but strong build. From his economy of movement, and his posture, she would have guessed at an army connection even had she not known his background. His training was evident in the way he spoke as well, and as he began speaking now, that impression deepened. He gave no sign of the brief emotion he had showed earlier. He began as if this were a military briefing that needed to be conducted with economy and speed.

He drew out a packet of strong, unfiltered cigarettes and lit one. He leaned forward.

“I’ll make a suggestion. As I said, I’m not used to talking to journalists. If you agree, I’ll tell you my side of this story, and we’ll keep the questions until the end. It will save time. Then if you have questions, I’ll do my best to answer them. Do you agree?”

The question was addressed to Pascal, who nodded.