The Avenue of the Dead (36 page)

‘No wonder you drank,' Davina said. ‘It must have been a tremendous strain.'

‘It was. Not at first though; it was easy at first. Eddie was so crazy in love with me, I grew to like it. Can you imagine that? I started thinking how nice it would be to have a man like him and a life like hers. But it didn't last. He didn't love me for me – he loved the face they'd made for me at Tula. He loved the phoney bits of me, the accent I copied from her, the mannerisms, the way she walked and dressed and did her hair … I never expected it to hurt, but it did.' She took a hurried swallow of whisky. ‘I knew what had happened to his first wife. He stood by and let her burn. I could feel him hating me, and I kept thinking he could do it again. And there's nowhere to run. You've got to sit it out till they tell you. I drank because otherwise I'd have lost my nerve and run out on the whole thing. You don't do that with my employers.'

‘And you'll be safe now?' Davina asked her quietly.

She sighed impatiently. ‘Yes, yes, they've promised. But it's not the life I wanted. Do you know how much money they were depositing in Switzerland for me? Half a million dollars! For the first time I was going to have all the things that people like you and
she
had from the moment you were born! Status, a background –'

‘Money doesn't give you that. Liz Carlton wasn't rich, and I live on my salary. You've got it all wrong if you think money is going to make you into someone really different.'

She wasn't really listening. ‘I was going to be an international star,' she muttered. ‘They had a big German producer in their pocket. He was going to discover me, promote me – it's just packaging, you know – they make stars like that Indian made me into somebody else. All I needed was the money behind me, and the influence to set me on my way. That's what they promised me.' She looked up at Davina. ‘That's why I did it. I wanted the spotlight to shine on me for a change. Now all I'll get is a new face and a pension for keeping my mouth shut. And live in Europe. Not much, is it, for all I went through?' A tear streaked down one cheek, leaving a smudge of mascara. ‘Sweet Jesus,' she mumbled, ‘What a lousy deal …'

Davina got up without saying anything. She tapped and the security man let her out. She walked slowly down to the main hall of the embassy and out into the bright Mexican sunshine. She felt quite sick.

The press conference was called at the Hotel Internacionál. Elizabeth had booked in there late the night before, suitably accompanied by two CIA security men. The foyer was thronged with photographers and reporters, and when Edward Fleming arrived just after midday, there was a rush to photograph him and journalists shouted questions. He looked pale and tense and his press officer fended them off with the promise that they could ask what they liked at the news conference. Fleming went up to the fifth floor. Spencer-Barr and John Kidson were waiting for him. Kidson had been driven ahead of him when the plane landed.

‘Everything's set up,' Jeremy announced. ‘How was your flight?'

‘It was OK,' Fleming answered.

‘Would you read through this?' Jeremy handed him a typed sheet of paper. ‘See if you want any alterations made.'

John Kidson watched him. He read it very quickly. ‘No changes,' he said. ‘It's fine as it is. We've got twenty minutes before we meet the press. I want to ask you something, Mr Barr.'

‘Certainly, anything I can do to help?' Jeremy said blandly.

‘When we've gone through this charade, what happens next? What happens to the woman?'

‘She takes a trip,' Jeremy answered. ‘You never have to see or hear of her again, and there'll be the announcement of a divorce some time later when all the interest has died down. We've been very lucky, Mr Fleming. That creep Benson has been getting closer. The murder victim has been buried quietly upstate; we've covered our tracks, but he's liaised with another Washington press man and the Police Department have started asking questions. This morning is going to stop the whole investigation in its tracks. You'll have nothing to worry about then.'

‘No,' Fleming said. ‘That's true. Where is she buried?' Kidson caught the look of anguish on his face. Whatever he is, he said to himself, he really loved that poor woman.

Jeremy said, ‘I'm sorry. That's classified. I should forget it, Mr Fleming. Concentrate on the press conference.'

‘I'd like some flowers put on the grave.' Edward Fleming turned for the first time to John Kidson. ‘Can you arrange that?'

‘I'm sure we can,' Kidson said. ‘I'll see to it.'

Charlie found Davina at the hospital. Lomax was still unconscious in the intensive care unit. ‘There's nothing you can do by sitting here,' Charlie said. ‘You look a wreck, Davy. Come on, let me take you to lunch somewhere. John's gone to this press conference thing and we can spend the afternoon together. I'll come back with you later and see how he is.'

‘Charlie, I don't think he's going to live.' Davina put her arms round her sister and burst into long, bitter weeping. Charlie embraced her and let her cry. Davina never cried, even as a child – everything was bottled in, and sympathy was not invited when things went wrong. They had met her at the airport after Ivan's death. Charlie had expected tears, but there was an emptiness in her sister which was worse than giving way to grief. Now at least the emptiness was gone. She said gently, ‘You do love him, don't you?' And heard the sobbing, ‘Yes, of course I do …'

Charlie stepped back from her. ‘Here,' she said. ‘Here's a handkerchief. Mop yourself up, darling. I think I'd like a word with the doctor. I won't be long.' And leaving a wake of expensive scent behind her, she swept out in search of the sister in charge of the unit.

‘You haven't let her see him?' she exclaimed, when the senior physician had been tracked down and badgered into talking to her. ‘Why not?'

He didn't know whether to be angry or admiring. ‘He is unconscious. He is on a drip and a monitoring machine for the heart. It would do no good for her to see him like that. And he wouldn't benefit, I assure you.'

‘I'm not sure,' Charlie said. ‘Sometimes when a person is unconscious outwardly, they still sense if someone they love is near. I know I did, the only time in my life when I was under anaesthetic. My father was holding my hand and I knew it. I didn't actually come round until a couple of hours afterwards. Please, doctor, won't you try it? What can you lose?'

He said, ‘What was the matter with you – an operation?'

She gave him a warm, mischievous smile. ‘Appendix,' she said. ‘I was nine. But I promise you, it helped me get better.'

As soon as he smiled back she knew she had won. ‘Very well,' he said. ‘We will let her see him. I'll send a nurse for her. Perhaps you would take a cup of coffee in my office?'

‘Thank you,' Charlie said. ‘I'd be delighted.'

It was imagination of course. She'd been sitting for so long in the room that she was aware of the tiniest sounds, from the faint ping of the monitor measuring his heart-beat to the sudden creak when she moved a little in the chair. She didn't touch him. He was festooned in tubes and drips, connected to machines that recorded his struggle to survive. His face had shrunk and he looked small under the plain hospital cover. The noise that frightened her most was the ugly rasp of his breathing.

And then she heard it. It sounded like a whisper; the rhythm of each labouring breath was interrupted. ‘Oh God,' she said out loud, ‘I know what that means – he's going to die.' She came right up to the side of the bed, and the nurse sitting on duty in the side ward saw her move and hurried in. ‘Has he changed? Excuse me, you should go out now, I must check.'

‘He spoke,' Davina said. ‘I'm sure I heard something … Oh, he's dying now, isn't he. Oh Colin, Colin …'

The nurse put an arm round her shoulder and said kindly, ‘It is better you go. Please.'

‘Davina.' They both whipped round to the bed. For some seconds his eyes opened.

‘He is conscious,' the nurse whispered. ‘That is very good. Very good indeed. He knows you are here.'

‘Yes,' Davina said. ‘He does.'

‘I think you will go now,' the nurse insisted. ‘I will send for the doctor. You should be happy – it is a good sign.'

She walked back to the waiting-room. Mechanically, she glanced at her watch and was amazed to see that it was almost four o'clock. Her sister was in the waiting-room, reading an American edition of
Vogue
.

‘Davy? How is he?'

Davina came and sat beside her. She felt suddenly limp and weak. ‘I think he's better,' she said. ‘He knew me. He spoke. The nurse said it was a very good sign.'

Charlie squeezed her arm. ‘Seeing you did the trick,' she said. ‘I told the doctor it would! Do you know, he gave me a delicious lunch while you were in there? Wasn't that kind?'

Davina managed a very weary smile. ‘If you went to Mars, Charlie,' she said, ‘you'd find a little green man to take you out. Let's go now – I think I might sleep for a couple of hours. And thank you.'

Charlie laughed. ‘I won't make snap judgements about you in a hurry! I swore you weren't in love with him. Nice idiot you've made me look!' She stopped a taxi and they drove back to the British Embassy. But when they got inside, there was no question of Davina or anybody else taking a siesta.

Edward and Elizabeth Fleming made their joint statement and answered questions from invited members of the international press. The statement was short and dignified. Elizabeth Fleming answered all questions mildly and modestly. She blamed herself for the crisis. She felt her individuality had been swamped. She'd had to give up decorating her friends' houses, which was her hobby, and she spent long periods alone while her husband worked late or travelled. Nobody was near enough to get the whisky smell from her breath; she came across very well, and the tenor of the questions asked of Fleming was correspondingly hostile. He seemed dull and abstracted, his answers were mechanical, and once when his wife touched his sleeve he pulled his arm away. The session lasted just over twenty-five minutes. The Flemings went up in the lift to the fourth floor, accompanied by Spencer-Barr who had lurked in the background during the interview.

‘Mrs Fleming,' he said. ‘You stay in your rooms here; nobody will be allowed to bother you. Mr Fleming, you can catch a plane back to New York and the shuttle will get you home by eight o'clock tonight, if that suits you.'

‘I'd like to speak to my wife alone,' Fleming said. ‘Just give us five minutes, will you? I want to ask her something private.'

‘We'll go inside,' Jeremy said. The security guard opened the door and the three of them walked into a clinically furnished bedroom suite.

‘Jesus,' she said, ‘I could do with a drink.' She bumped into a table in her haste to reach the bottle of whisky. Fleming looked at Jeremy.

‘I'll wait in the other room,' Jeremy said. ‘But make it five minutes, will you, please?'

Fleming didn't sit down or acknowledge her offer to fix a drink for him too. He stared at her and his eyes were dark voids in his face. ‘Tell me something. How much did she suffer?'

She took a swig, and faced him, one hand on her hip. ‘Is that all you've got to say to me? I was your wife, you know.' The drink was lighting a fire in her eyes, making them as bright as his were dead. ‘You married
me
, not her – you slept with
me.
'

‘Tell me the truth,' he said slowly. ‘Do one decent thing in your life and tell me. Did she suffer?'

‘I was in love with you for a while,' she said. ‘Not that you knew it; you didn't know anything about how
I
felt, the real me. All you could see was
her
. I was a
real
woman – she was just a spoiled little prick teaser. You really want to know if she suffered?' She took steps towards him until they were close. ‘I'll tell you.
She did
. She wasn't doped all the time, you know – there was a female gorilla in that place. Her name was Rose.' She gave a sudden hoot of laughter. ‘She beat the hell out of her if she didn't behave …'

The bedroom door was left ajar. Jeremy had been listening and he had already pushed it open to stop her when Fleming took the gun out of his pocket and fired. He shot her twice in the chest at point-blank range. As Spencer-Barr came bursting in, he put the barrel between his own eyes. Jeremy stood rooted.

‘Don't!' he shouted at him. ‘Don't!'

Fleming said loudly, ‘You kill a snake by crushing its head.' Then he pulled the trigger.

When Humphrey Grant arrived back at Heathrow Sir James White's car was waiting for him. Lady White was at the wheel. She greeted Humphrey affectionately. She was the only woman he could bear touching him. She had been a surrogate mother when he was young, and most of his holidays from university had been spent at their house.

‘James is so looking forward to seeing you,' she said. ‘He's been overworking since you've been away. He looks quite tired. You'll have to talk to him, Humphrey – he won't listen to me, you know.'

‘He doesn't listen to anyone,' Humphrey Grant said. But he was glad to see the familiar pink-washed Georgian house, with its frame of white roses in the sunshine.

After lunch he settled into James White's study and gave him a long and detailed report of everything that happened. The Brigadier lit a Turkish cigarette. He smiled. ‘A very satisfactory ending, my dear chap. All the ends neatly tied. A scandal, certainly, but not the kind of scandal Borisov had set up for us. Distracted by the break-up of his marriage, the Assistant Under-Secretary of State killed his wife and committed suicide. I gather poor old Kidson is blaming himself.'