“Of course. I’m absolutely fine,” she heard. “You fuss too much, John. It’s very good of you, but you don’t need to worry. One gets used to it—truly. I just take it one day at a time.”
They passed out of sight. In the doorway they paused, and Gini heard Hawthorne make some low-voiced remark; Mary hooted with laughter. The door opened. Gini heard Hawthorne’s feet descend the steps.
“Gini,” Mary called to her. “Gini, come and look at this. Aren’t they adorable? Look …”
Gini reached the front door just as Hawthorne climbed into the waiting black limousine. In the back, just visible next to the bulk of a large security man, were two angelic blond children, both fast asleep. Hawthorne lifted his hand; the car moved away. Gini and Mary moved back into the studio. Mary gave her a small triumphant sideways glance.
“Well,” she said. “You, Gini, made a hit.”
“I did?”
“You most certainly did. Are your ears burning?”
“No, why? What did he say?”
“Never mind, but it was complimentary.”
“I can’t think why. I hardly opened my mouth.”
“Then it can’t be what you said that impressed him,” Mary replied smartly with an arch look. She moved across the room, picked up her new book, then put it down. “So, anyway, you promise you’ll come on Saturday? Just say you will. And then I’m going to shoo you out. I need my sleep.”
“Rubbish. You just can’t wait to read that book….”
“All right.” Mary smiled. “I admit it—but just promise me you’ll come.”
“Sure. I’d love to. There’s just one thing….”
“Yes?”
“Would you mind if I brought someone with me? Just a friend from France—he’s staying in London at the moment, and…”
At this, Mary rapidly lost interest in her new book, and Gini’s heart sank. She knew what was coming next.
“A friend?” Mary, who was a very bad actress, attempted a casual tone. “Is he anyone I know?”
“I don’t think so, no. His name is Pascal Lamartine.”
“Have you known him long?”
Gini considered. She averted her gaze. She could say she had known Pascal twelve years; she could say she had known Pascal for those three weeks in Beirut. Both statements were true. She said, “No. Not really. He’s working for the News right now, that’s all—”
“Single?”
“Mary, give me a break, will you? Yes. Sort of. He’s divorced.”
Mary considered this. Her concentration, Gini saw, was now intense. “A journalist, darling? An editor, perhaps?”
“A photographer. He used to be a war photographer—a very good one. Now he’s a—well, I guess paparazzo would be the right term.”
She seized on this description with a sense of relief. She might still find it hard to think of Pascal in that way, but the term had its uses. It would surely put Mary off.
To her despair, she realized it had quite the opposite effect. Mary gave a squeak of delight. A matchmaking look came upon her features; it was a look Gini had learned to dread.
“A paparazzo!” she said. “No! How absolutely splendid. I’ve always wanted to meet one of those. Such daredevils—roaring around on motorbikes, wearing dark glasses at midnight, what was that film?”
“La Dolce Vita, Mary. Fellini. And it was motor scooters, not motorbikes….”
“Same difference! I remember it terribly well. Is he like that, your Pascal?”
“He drives a car, as far as I know,” Gini said patiently. “And he’s not ‘my’ Pascal.”
She said this with extreme firmness. Mary took no notice at all. She made a noise indicating derision, and continued her cross-examination. She was still babbling about Fellini and cameras and exciting young men on motorbikes some fifteen minutes later, when Gini finally managed her escape.
“Motorbikes,” she called after Gini, down the steps. “I’m perfectly certain it was motorbikes. I shall ask him on Saturday, your Pascal….”
Chapter 9
PASCAL TELEPHONED AT EIGHT the next morning. Gini, who had been awake since six, was careful. Sitting a foot from the receiver, she picked it up on the fifth ring. Pascal made no comment on this, but said, “It’s me. I’ve hired a motorbike. I’ll pick you up at ten.”
“You’ve done what?”
“I’ve rented a motorbike. It’s black, German. A BMW. Very fast.”
“Pascal, I have a car. You saw my car yesterday.”
“Precisely. I saw your car. That’s why I rented the bike.”
“Is there something wrong with my car?”
“There are many things wrong with your car. It is old. It is slow. It is painted bright yellow. Once seen, never forgotten, your car. It won’t do at all.” He paused. “Besides, we may need to split up—and if we don’t, you can ride pillion. I’ll bring a spare helmet, yes?”
“Pascal—”
“At ten. I have somewhere else to go first, then I’m with you. Au revoir.”
Gini replaced the receiver and sat staring into space. After some consideration, she removed the skirt she had put on and replaced it with jeans.
“My stepmother, Mary, has second sight, did you know that, Napoleon?” she remarked. She picked him up and kissed him between his ears. Napoleon resisted such intimacies. He struggled, kneaded her lap, settled himself, and then purred.
She had thought she remembered Pascal so well—yet she had forgotten one of his most marked characteristics: his energy. Pascal in pursuit of a story was totally single-minded. He worked hard and he worked fast: He forgot about sleep or such minor inconveniences as eating. He left those working with him gasping for air.
At ten the motorbike roared to a halt outside her apartment. At one minute past ten, Pascal was in her living room, two helmets under his arm. He was wearing black jeans, a black sweater, a black leather jacket, and no sunglasses. Thanks, Fellini, Gini thought. As he closed the door, papers fluttered, the air whirled.
“Very well,” he began, striding to the center of the room, which immediately felt too small. “I have found out two things. One last night, one this morning.”
“Have some coffee,” said Gini, passing him a pottery mug. “And sit down. You’re too tall for this room. You’re making me nervous. I’ve made some progress as well.”
“You have?”
Pascal took the coffee and drank half of it without appearing to notice that it was in his hand. He put the mug down on the mantelpiece, sat down on the sofa, and stretched out his very long legs. “May I smoke?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. So, tell me.”
Gini explained. She recounted her visit to Mary and the meeting with Hawthorne. Pascal listened intently. When she had finished, he frowned.
“I don’t understand. He seemed surprised to see you there, but you felt he was acting? Why?”
“I don’t know. It was just an instinct I had. Something to do with his timing, the way he spoke. He did a kind of double take….”
“So? If he was expecting Mary to open the door, he would do—”
“No. You’re wrong. First of all, it was too well done, just like an actor. Second, although he performed well enough, the timing was off. He must have been able to see me perfectly. I was standing in full light in an open doorway. He must have seen it wasn’t Mary right away, but he continued acting surprised. Why do that?”
Pascal shrugged. “You probably imagined it. What are you saying, that he already knew you were there? He was expecting to see you?”
“Something like that. And I wasn’t imagining it.”
“Could he have known you were there?”
“I don’t see how. I’d called Mary only an hour before. The meeting wasn’t prearranged.”
“Do you see her every Wednesday?”
“No. We see each other often, but not on regular days.” Gini hesitated. She felt a sense of disappointment. Pascal was clearly not impressed by th
is story, and indeed, now that she recounted it, she felt it was lame. What was she describing after all? An odd coincidence, an instinctual reaction of her own—nothing more.
“Let’s forget it,” she said. “It’s probably not important—you’re right. But it’s good that we’ll get to meet them, isn’t it?”
“On Saturday? If we’re careful. Sure. Hawthorne mustn’t suspect any interest in him on our part. If he does, we’re blown.”
Gini said nothing. She felt a brief resentment that Pascal should dismiss so easily what she’d done, but this quickly passed. Pascal took a small package from his jacket pocket and opened it. Gini gave an exclamation of excitement
“That’s the tape McMullen recorded?”
“Yes. Jenkins sent it over to the hotel this morning by messenger.” Pascal smiled. “It virtually came under armed guard. We can play it in a moment. But first, let me tell you what I’ve found out.”
He placed the tape on the coffee table in front of him, and leaned forward, intent now. “James McMullen. Our source. Where is he? Why did he disappear? I checked back with Jenkins yesterday. The last time Jenkins saw McMullen was when he handed over that tape. That was two weeks before Christmas. They were due to meet the following week, but McMullen never showed. It seems to me that’s our first lead. We have to find McMullen. And that may not be so easy. Jenkins is right—he isn’t at his apartment, for a start….”
“You’re sure? How do you know that?”
“Because I went there first thing this morning. I spoke to the porter, and also to a cleaning woman. Both of them last saw him sometime before Christmas, they couldn’t say for certain when.”
“I see.”
“I guessed that would be the case, so last night I called a friend of mine who works at Heathrow. He checked the flight records for me for the past three weeks. No McMullen, not at Heathrow, Gatwick, Stansted, or the new City airport. So, either McMullen left the country by boat or train, or—”
“Your friend checked the flight records?” Gini stared at him. “All the flight records?”
“But of course.” Pascal showed signs of slight impatience. “They’re computerized. If you have a name, you can run a computer search. It doesn’t take very long.”
“What a useful friend to have,” Gini said dryly.
Pascal smiled. “I have a lot of useful friends. In fact—it doesn’t help very much. He could fly from a provincial airport, use a friend’s passport, even obtain a visitors’ passport in another name. Over Christmas, when there are so many passengers, they don’t check very closely. So, then I tried the taxi firms—the minicabs, those.”
“The minicab firms?” Gini gave him a look of disbelief. “There are about three thousand in central London alone.”
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 … J
AMES, 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.”