“Is that all?” he said. “Are there more of these questions? We’re almost back at Paradise Square now. I’ll drop you there.”
“Yes, there is one,” Pascal said thoughtfully. “You and Lise Hawthorne—you may not like this question. …”
McMullen stiffened. “I’ve already told you,” he began, “Lise and I were never more than friends. If you knew Lise, you would understand. Once she was married—she believes in the marriage vows. No matter what I might have felt, anything other than friendship was ruled out, was out of the question entirely. I…”
“That wasn’t what I was asking, or implying,” Pascal answered quietly. “But you mentioned the question of bias earlier. You don’t have to be a woman’s lover to love her, after all. On that tape of your phone conversation, you address Lise in a way a man doesn’t usually address a friend.”
“I know.”
McMullen gave a sigh. He slowed the car, and turning into the deserted High Street, he drew up outside All Saints’ Church. In the city, the mist was much thicker than in the country beyond. Fog drifted, then cleared. McMullen switched off the engine. There was a silence, and Gini realized that his hands were trembling. He was gripping the wheel more tightly to hide this. His back and shoulders were rigid with tension.
“I love Lise. I have loved her for many years.” McMullen spoke suddenly, in a low voice, his face averted from them both. “The love I feel for her has grown with time, despite our separation. I’ve never told her what I feel—well, I don’t need to, of course. Lise must know. She can hear it in my voice. Read it in my eyes. I’ve only ever loved two women in my life, so, it’s not an inconsiderable thing. But there’s been no…no impropriety, ever. If Lise could divorce, if it weren’t for her religion—but she can’t. That’s out of the question. So if you’re suggesting that I’m using all this as a means of freeing Lise from her husband—anything of that nature—the answer is no. I may hate Hawthorne, but I would never invent lies about him in order to better my own chances with Lise. I have no chances, not while he’s alive. Besides”—he turned to look at Pascal—“although you don’t know me, and have no reason to believe me, I would never harm Hawthorne for personal motives. I’m not that kind of man.”
Here, suddenly, was the McMullen that both Jenkins and McMullen’s sister had described. Gini looked at him intently. It was less naivete, she thought, than a simple, impressive conviction. He spoke with quiet sincerity, and she did not for one second doubt him. Pascal was similarly convinced, she could see that. He looked at McMullen as if, for the first time, he both liked him and felt a kinship with him.
“As to what my motivations are…” McMullen was frowning now, staring into the misty street in front of him. “I’ve asked myself that question many times. I asked it twenty-five years ago, and I still ask it. For the sake of my own self-respect, if nothing else, I had to be sure why I felt it right to expose Hawthorne for what he is. The answer is that I want to protect Lise and her sons. But beyond that, I have this old-fashioned belief in truth. I don’t like to see a man in his position get away with years of lies.”
Leaning behind him as he spoke, he opened the rear door. It was evident the interview was over. McMullen waited until they were both out of the car, then wound down his window.
“I’ve almost forgotten the most important thing of all.” He gave an agitated gesture. “Your leads, if you have them. What you intend to do…”
Gini began to reply, but Pascal interrupted her fast.
“We have the leads we need,” he said. “As far as next Sunday is concerned, we know the details of Hawthorne’s assignation. We know how and where he chose the women concerned. We know the time and place of meeting. I shall take the necessary photographs.”
McMullen seemed surprised. Gini, who was astonished, kept quiet. Pascal could be impressive when he lied.
“You’re sure?” McMullen stared at him. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”
“Maybe I trusted you less earlier.” Pascal gave a shrug.
McMullen hesitated, then glanced down at the clock on his dashboard. “I have to go. I must go.” He paused. “We may be able to meet again. After Sunday…” An odd, sad expression came into his face. “When this is all over. I hope…I should like you to know how much I owe you. I must have seemed very ungrateful, rude, earlier.”
“That’s all right,” Pascal replied. “When it’s over, we can meet. If thanks are in order, you can thank us then.”
“Then?” McMullen looked at him blankly. The fog drifted between them. Then McMullen recovered. “Ah, then. When it’s over. Yes, of course. I must leave now. Good-bye…”
Without further words, he closed the window, started the engine, and pulled away. They stood, watching his car disappear into the distance. Fog obscured its taillights. The noise of its engine faded. Pascal gave a sigh, and looked at Gini.
“What a strange man,” he said. “What a very, very strange man.”
Chapter 27
PASCAL HAD PARKED HIS motorbike in Holywell Street, not far away. When they reached it, Gini said, “So, Pascal, do you want to explain?”
“Why I stopped you from pressing those endless questions you mean?” He smiled.
“Sure, that. Also why you lied to him at the end.”
“Not yet. There isn’t time. I want to give McMullen a slight lead, but not too much. Then I want to see where he goes.”
“Back to that cottage?”
“Yes.” Pascal helped her onto the bike. “But not immediately. I’m pretty certain of that.”
He climbed up in front of her, Gini gripped him around the waist. It was now very cold, and the speed at which Pascal drove made it colder still. He retraced, almost exactly, the route they had taken with McMullen. He stopped on the outskirts of Hawthorne’s village, put his arm around her, and led her down a narrow and deserted lane toward the village church.
The mist here was less dense than in the city, and there was now some intermittent light from a pale and waning moon. Pascal led her carefully across the graveyard, skirting the tombstones. He stopped at an ivy-clad wall overhung with leafless trees on the far side, mounted it, and hoisted her up.
“I thought so,” he said quietly, his mouth close to her ear. “An English manor house is usually close to the church. That’s Hawthorne’s place. You see those gates down there?”
Gini peered down into the valley below them. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she could just make out the bulk of a house, and the pale line of a driveway with tall iron gates fronting the road. She nodded.
“Very well. Now, watch.”
They sat in silence, watching, for ten minutes. A breeze rustled the bare branches of the trees, owls called to each other in the distance. Clouds scudded across the face of the moon. Behind them, the church clock struck.
It was ten, and exactly on the hour, when she saw the beam of headlights in the distance, breasting the hill beyond Hawthorne’s house. They were startlingly powerful in the dark of the countryside, cutting a passage through the blackness: two cars. They must have radioed ahead, because as they drew level with the entrance to the drive, the gates swung back. Two large Lincoln sedans passed through at speed; the gates shut. Instantly, a single low-wattage light came on at the front of the house below. Dogs barked. The two cars came to a halt.
Their lights were extinguished. Car doors opened and shut. In what light remained, and it was not a great deal, Gini saw a dark-forming cluster of men bunch around one of their party, and move fast up some steps. The light went out; the door closed.
“Hawthorne?”
“Yes. Minus his wife. Wait.”
Pascal was no longer looking at the house. He was scanning the fields on the other side of the valley. Gini also stared at these fields. She could see their gray outline, the darker line of hedges, stands of trees staining the outline of the hill, and, at the top of it, the blackness of woods.
Five minutes passed, ten. Gini shivered, and
Pascal glanced down at his watch. Fifteen minutes after the door had closed on Hawthorne, Pascal tensed. In the distance, from the darkness opposite, came a tiny flare of light.
A split second and it was gone. Gini was not even sure she had seen it: It was deceptive, gazing at a monochrome landscape, where shadows took on substance and moonlight tricked the eyes.
Pascal helped her down from the wall. Standing there in the graveyard, he said, “Did you see that?”
“I saw something. I think. I’m not sure what it was.”
“It was the flare of a match. We were lucky to see that much. McMullen is a professional. He won’t prowl around the woods up there with a flashlight He won’t advertise his presence with bare hands or a white face. He won’t stumble over branches, or step on dry wood and set the dogs down there barking. But McMullen’s nervous, as I’m sure you noticed, and he’s a smoker. So cautious, and then at the last moment, so careless. He lit a cigarette.”
Gini glanced back over her shoulder. “You mean he was up there all this time, watching?”
“Of course. He’s staking Hawthorne out. He didn’t trouble to hide that.”
“He was waiting for Hawthorne to arrive? That’s why he kept checking his watch? But how would he know Hawthorne’s movements, when to expect him?”
“It’s an interesting question. And I think I know the answer.”
Pascal took her arm. They walked back down the lane to the bike. The village was silent, and many of the houses dark.
They stopped, and Gini said quietly, “Pascal, explain. Why did you interrupt my questions about Lorna Munro’s clothes?”
“Why?” Pascal gave an impatient gesture. “Because he was lying to us, that’s why. Maybe not before, maybe not after, but he was lying then.”
“What little he said wasn’t convincing, I’ll give you that.”
“It was ridiculous. The dates didn’t fit. It could not possibly have been as simple as he claimed. But I didn’t want McMullen to know we questioned it. Much better to lull him, I think.”
“Lull him?” Gini glanced at him sharply. “And is that why you lied to him at the end? To lull him? ‘We know how he chose the women concerned.’ I wish it were that simple. Pascal, why did you do that?”
Pascal took a while to reply. He stood, frowning, looking along the winding village street “Instinct. Self-preservation,” he said eventually with a shrug. “Mainly because I wanted to see how he’d react”
“He reacted with surprise and relief,” Gini said. “Intense relief. That was genuine. He wasn’t acting, I’m sure.”
“Exactly. I agree. Yet it was odd….” Pascal stood for a moment longer, as if trying to puzzle something out. Then he turned back to her. He took her hands. “You’re freezing,” he said. “Come on. It’s too late and too cold to go back to London tonight. We’ll find somewhere to stay in Oxford. Get something to eat. Then we’ll talk.”
“All right.” Gini moved to the motorbike, then stopped. “Why odd, Pascal, just tell me that?”
“Because that lie I told him about our leads ought to have been the most important thing we told him tonight. If it were true, it would mean Lise’s ordeal was almost over, that McMullen had achieved everything he hoped. So important—and yet he didn’t ask a single question. What were our sources? How did we discover the address of the meeting place? All those were pretty key questions, wouldn’t you think?”
“Sure.” Gini frowned. “I noticed that. I also noticed he never asked the most obvious question of all; whether we had seen Lise Hawthorne. He never asked that.”
“Because he knew the answer,” Pascal said. “I’m sure of it. He knew we had talked to Lise. He knew she had given us the address of that house. He knew when you would be in Regent’s Park yesterday. He knew Hawthorne was expected here tonight—and I suspect that when he left us, went outside, it was to use that mobile phone he has in his car. Hawthorne’s estimated time of arrival was given to him then. …Come on, Gini—how did he know all these things?”
“He is in touch with Lise? Still? Despite denying it?”
“I’m certain he is. Somehow. And that’s why he started lying when you asked him about the clothes as well. Because Lise was involved in the sending of those parcels, even if she was here at the time. She helped him organize it—so why won’t he admit that?”
“Because he’s protecting her?”
“Possibly.” Pascal gave her a quick glance. “But just bear in mind, Gini, that there could be less innocent reasons as well.”
“Let’s start with that house he took us to,” Pascal said. “You tell me about the living room, then I’ll tell you about the kitchen.” He checked his watch. “No, wait a second. We might just catch the end of the news.”
He switched on the television in the corner of the hotel room. It was the late-night bulletin; there were a few minor items of news, then the final headline recap. An IRA bomb had detonated in Piccadilly Circus, killing two; EEC ministers had been meeting in Brussels; the Labour party was calling for a reduction in interest rates; there were allegations that Arab-financed hit squads were operating in London. The weather forecast began; Pascal switched the set off.
“London’s turning into the terrorist capital of the world,” he said. “You want some more coffee, Gini?” She shook her head. Pascal poured himself another cup. Under a false name, they had taken a room at the Randolph Hotel. It was anonymous, comfortable, quiet. Pascal sat down in the armchair opposite her and stretched out his long legs. He drank his black coffee in one gulp and lit a cigarette.
Gini said, “Pascal, do you ever let up? Don’t you ever feel you’d like a rest?”
“On a story?” He seemed surprised. “Certainly not. We have too many things still to do. We must talk to that Suzy woman from the escort agency. We must talk to McMullen’s friend, Prior-Kent. Besides,” he smiled, “I’m like Hawthorne perhaps. You remember what that New York Times journalist said to you? Three hours’ sleep a night. I can manage on that too, for a while. On certain occasions, nothing to do with work as such, I can make do without sleep altogether—for nights at a time. …”
“I’ve noticed that. Just recently…”
“Darling, come over here. Sit beside me.” He held his hand out to her.
Gini smiled. “You’re sure? It might not be such a good idea….”
“No. You’re right. You’re right.” He dropped his hand. “We should think first. Work first, I know that. It’s just—sometimes I can’t wait for this story to be over. When it is, finally…” He hesitated. “Gini, would you come away with me then? Come somewhere with me where we could be alone together, somewhere quiet, somewhere where we can forget all these things?”
“You know I will. And do you know where I’d like to go?”
“Name it and we’re there. India? South America? A Caribbean island? The middle of some wonderful desert? That would be good. We could just pitch our tent in the middle of the sand dunes and stay there all day and all night. We’d have camels, obviously. Oh, and a well nearby. Maybe a few palm trees. And at night we’d come out of our tent, and look up, and there would be millions upon millions of stars. You see the best stars above the desert….”
“No. None of those places. Despite the stars. I want you to take me where you always promised to take me. To Provence, to your Provence.”
They looked at each other, and Pascal’s face became gentle. “Then that,” he said, “is exactly what we’ll do. I’ll show you my old house, and the farm nearby, and the little church. We’ll drink red wine in the cafés, and then we’ll dance all night in the square….”
“In winter?”
“Winter, summer, spring, autumn. I don’t care. …” He held out his hand to her once more. Gini hesitated, then rose.
“Ten minutes…”
“Fifteen,” he replied. “I just want to hold you. Fifteen, I swear.”
An hour later, Pascal rose. He poured himself more coffee, and took it across to the windo
w. He drew the curtain aside.
“I hope this fog lifts,” he said. “We need to get back to London first thing in the morning.”
“We will. Meanwhile, work. Where were we? I seem to have lost track there. …”
Pascal smiled. He crossed the room and sat down at some distance from her. He lit a cigarette. “McMullen’s house,” he said. “That’s where we’d gotten to. The living room. What did you find there?” Gini told him. Pascal listened intently.
“Did you have time to check the newspapers?”
“Yes. They date back to July of last year. That chimes with what he said. He’s been collecting them, and noting the reports on Hawthorne since Lise first told him her story. Which makes me wonder, among other things, when and why he moved into that house.”
“He’s watching Hawthorne, obviously,” Pascal said thoughtfully. “Sometimes here, sometimes in London. He claims he was in Venice. I wonder where else he went?”
“Wherever it was, I think Anthony Knowles must have known. Maybe he helped him disappear.”
“The rucksack…was it laced closed?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“You wouldn’t have had time to look at it anyway. And McMullen was listening all the time we were in the kitchen.”
“Was there anything significant there?”
“Only two things. There was a stick of camouflage cream by the sink—he would have put that on his face and hands when he was up there in the woods tonight. But it was half used, which suggests that nighttime surveillance of Hawthorne’s property is something he’s done before.” He paused. “Then there were some shelves by the back door. Canned foods, some plates and cups. Plus a small container of gun oil.”
“Gun oil?”
“It’s used to lubricate the barrels of guns after cleaning them.”
“You think he had guns—a gun—there?”
“Yes. I do.” Pascal was frowning. “Think, Gini. We haven’t paid enough attention to something very obvious here. One of those friends I talked to, you remember? He mentioned joining a shooting party with McMullen last August. And what was one of the things Dr. Knowles mentioned to you on the telephone, when he was detailing McMullen’s intellectual and sporting prowess? Cricket, rowing—what else?”