Lovers and Liars Trilogy

  “Pascal,” she began on a pleading note. She reached out her hand to him. “I wouldn’t do this to you. I must go. I told you—it’s just a few hours. After that…”

  “Be quite clear. There is no after that,” he replied, and walked out.

  They reached the rented St. John’s Wood house at ten-thirty that morning. Pascal had not spoken to Gini once on the way there in the taxi, and he did not address her once they had arrived. He went straight upstairs, tight-lipped, walking past her as if she were invisible. In the back upstairs bedroom, another temple of pink brocade, he laid the cases on the bed and began to unpack them.

  Gini followed him upstairs. She wanted desperately to speak to him, but none of the words flooding her mind seemed right. Pascal did not look up when she entered the room. She gazed at him miserably, then moved to the window. She tried to concentrate, as he did, on the realities of this task. She could see that Pascal had chosen well. From this window the gothic villa to which Lise Hawthorne had directed them was clearly visible.

  No more than fifty feet away, across an open garden, she could see both the rear windows and the entrance to the house. The villa entrance, set to the side, consisted of a flight of five steps leading up to the pointed gothic porch. Anyone entering or leaving the house must use that route. Pascal, true to his reputation, had chosen the perfect location for spying.

  She felt Pascal move behind her. He crossed to her side and followed her gaze. He handed her a pair of binoculars.

  “The magnification with the camera lens is even better,” he said in a polite, neutral voice, as if addressing a stranger. “Look.”

  Gini looked. The porch and its approach steps were now startlingly close. She could make out the pattern on the iron balustrade. She altered the angle, acutely aware of Pascal’s closeness, and scanned the rear of the house.

  Here there were three windows, one for each of the house’s three stories. The topmost window, dormered and set into the roof, was tiny. The window below, on what must have been a bedroom floor, was larger: She could just see the outline of furniture beyond its curtains. The ground-floor window afforded the best view. It was wide, and tall, opening out onto a balcony behind, with a flight of steps to the backyard below it. The sunlight glinted on the windowpanes, but even so, she could see details beyond: a pale carpet, a large white sofa, the corner of a table, a vase of flowers.

  “Someone’s using that house anyway,” she said in the same neutral tone Pascal had used. “Or they’re intending to use it. There are flowers in that room.”

  He took the binoculars from her, focused them briefly on the window she indicated, then moved. She saw him scan the line of gardens, back to back, that ran between their own street and the cul-de-sac beyond. He lowered the binoculars and frowned.

  “Strange…” he said.

  “What’s strange?”

  “It’s too quiet, that’s what’s strange. No cars. No people.”

  “Half the houses around here are second homes, I told you, you remember? They’re left empty for months at a time. Besides, it’s Saturday. It’s still early. People sleep in.”

  “On such a beautiful day? Take a look at it, Gini. It’s like a graveyard out there.”

  Gini scanned the turning. Pascal moved back to his cameras. The cul-de-sac was indeed oddly deserted. No cars were parked on its street or in its driveways. No one was passing on foot. Gini gave a small shiver. She glanced down at her watch; she would have to leave soon.

  She turned away from the window. Pascal ignored her. With careful precision he was assembling camera and telephoto lens. Gini cleared her throat: “In daylight,” she began, and even to her own ears her voice sounded strained and false, “in daylight you’re in the perfect position. But what if he comes at night, Pascal?”

  “Well, you don’t think he’s going to put in an appearance at any point, so I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “If you insist. There’s no difficulty after dark. You see this?” He held up the camera. He looked through the viewfinder and made a minute adjustment. “We owe a lot to the military. With this, I can see in the dark. Like a cat.”

  “Why the military?”

  Pascal shrugged. His manner remained cold. “I don’t have time to explain. It’s too technical—you wouldn’t understand. Besides, you have a train to catch, remember?”

  “I’d like to understand, Pascal.”

  “As you like. Very well.”

  He knelt back on his heels. As he spoke, he loaded the camera deftly with film. “Much of the most recent camera technology came about through weapons research. With infrared nightsights for instance, or a device known as an image intensifier, a soldier armed with a rifle can now pick the enemy off from a mile away. In total darkness. He can see the man clearly. He can line him up in his sights, go for a head shot. Before he fires, he could tell you whether the man needed a shave.” He shrugged. “In daylight, of course, the range increases. Then he could probably hit him from a two-mile range, certainly a mile and a half. At night, well, a range of one mile—that’s not bad.”

  “Not bad? It’s horrible.”

  “Of course. It makes killing very clinical. You’ve heard of smart bombs? Well, there are also smart guns—and smart cameras. Here.” He held the camera out to her. “You see how heavy this is? Its technology is similar to night deployment weaponry. With this I can see in darkness as well as any army sniper.” He paused. “And I can also film in the dark. This is loaded with specially treated film. At this distance from that villa, with the right aperture and shutter speed I can shoot around twenty frames in the time it takes a man to walk up those steps over there. If Hawthorne, or anyone else, walks up those steps, or into those rear rooms I’ve got him.”

  “Clearly?”

  “Of course. When the pictures are processed, you’ll be able to see every line on Hawthorne’s face. You’ll see the expression in his eyes, the pattern on his necktie. …”

  “And the blonde?”

  “The blonde too. Évidemment.”

  Pascal looked up at her as he said this. He could see the strain in her face. She was standing there awkwardly, twisting the strap of her shoulder bag. Her mouth looked a little swollen; he could now see faint bruise marks on her throat. He thought suddenly of their night at the Oxford hotel, of the phone call received then, and of that last ugly whispered message: You know where to come, Gini. And wear the black dress.

  He rose quickly to his feet and looked at her. She met his eyes miserably. With a low cry he caught her to him and began to kiss her face and her hair. She clung to him tightly; her mouth opened under his. He kissed her deeply. She was beginning to cry, so he kissed her tears, then her mouth again. He began to unfasten her coat, and the desire he felt for her then was blinding. She stumbled, and he pressed her hard against him. She gave a low moan. He laid his hand over the curve of her breast; he lifted back her hair and buried his face against her throat. He said, “Darling, please stay…”

  He felt her whole body tense at once. She tried to draw back from him, then let him kiss her once more.

  “No,” she said, and reaching up, she put her fingers against his lips. She looked at him sadly. “No, Pascal. You won’t persuade me. Not even that way.”

  There was a silence; then, with an abrupt gesture, he turned away. “So be it,” he said. He bent over his camera case, took one of the cameras from it, and began to adjust the lens. His concentration on this task was intense.

  “Why,” Gini began passionately, “why can’t you agree? It could be important, you must see that.”

  “I don’t care.” He looked up at her. “I’ve tried—I can’t try any longer. I love you and I’m concerned for you, but you won’t listen to me. I have a job to do here. I shall do it. That’s all. You could help me here, as I’ve tried to help you ever since I began work on this. But no, you don’t care about that. You’re willful and impetuous and obstinate, Gini. If you
’re going—go.”

  “Pascal…”

  “Just go, Gini.” He rose. He looked down at the camera, and then back at her. “It’s over. That’s all.”

  “I don’t believe that. You wouldn’t do that. Just now—”

  “Forget just now. And I would do it, don’t doubt that for one moment I’ve cut you out of my life once, and I survived. If I have to do it a second time, I will. So choose.”

  Gini stared at him. His face was set, and his voice was cold. She knew that Pascal never made idle claims or threats.

  “I can’t be controlled in that way. It’s wrong. You said that you loved me….”

  “Yes.” His face contracted for an instant. “And I asked you once before to make a choice. In Beirut—you remember? I stood there in that terrible hotel room, with your father, after you’d lied to me, and I’d had to find that out from him, not you. I stood there, and in front of your damn father I asked you to choose. I would have waited for you, and you knew that damn well. Two more years, that’s all—and then he wouldn’t have been able to dictate to you anymore. But no. You wouldn’t agree. Fine. You chose to end it then. I choose to end it now.”

  Gini gave a cry. “Pascal, that’s not fair. You know that’s desperately unfair. I was fifteen years old. I was scared and ashamed. My father had been arguing for hours and hours before you came. You’d hit him, Pascal….”

  “I don’t care anymore, do you understand?” he said. “I don’t want to go back over that. I don’t want to hear arguments or excuses. Your father influenced you then. He’s influencing you now—and so, God help us, is Hawthorne. Don’t you have a mind of your own?”

  “Yes. I do.” Gini became very still. “I do have a mind of my own, Pascal. And I don’t agree with you.”

  “Then you’ve chosen already.” He gave a shrug. “Fine. Go.”

  Gini walked across to the door.

  “My things are still at that house in Hampstead….”

  “Here’s a key.” He tossed one across. It landed on the floor beside her. Gini bent and picked it up.

  “Collect them anytime. I won’t be there.”

  “Why are you doing this? Why are you so hard?”

  “Why?” His eyes flashed. “Because you very nearly destroyed me once, that’s why. It’s not going to happen a second time—” He broke off, then continued more quietly. “This doesn’t work, Gini, you can see that. We’d just end up destroying each other. Who knows? Maybe it’s better this way. Neater, quicker, less painful all around.”

  He said this in a flat and final way. Then he bent to his camera cases and began to assemble another set of lenses. He did not look up again. Gini stood there for a few more minutes, then she turned and quietly left the house.

  Chapter 33

  “TIME OF DEATH?” THE sergeant from the Thames Valley police was young, short, and plump. He had a punitive haircut. They were in the canteen at the Oxford division’s headquarters, just outside Headington. The sergeant was eating sausage, eggs, potatoes, and beans—a cholesterol overdose. He cut up his sausage and chewed contemplatively. Gini tried to force herself to concentrate: The story she’d spun about researching an article on modern police methods had seemed effective. The sergeant was being cooperative but to her neither the policeman nor the canteen seemed very real.

  “Around six yesterday morning,” he went on. “We reckon he was hit by one of the early commuter trains. We’ll know more definitely when we get the results of the autopsy. You could call back later, talk to the detective inspector. He’s over at the mortuary now.”

  The sergeant had a slow Gloucestershire accent and a stolid demeanor. His round blue eyes fixed themselves on Gini’s face. He mopped up egg yolk and continued to chew. “It can’t have been easy to make identification, then,” Gini said.

  The sergeant shrugged. “He was carrying the usual ID. His Range Rover was parked by the bridge. He had its keys in his pocket. He was wearing a signet ring with one of those crest things on it. His father wears one just the same.”

  “Did his father identify the body?”

  “What was left of it. Yes. Not a pleasant job.”

  “I’m sure. Was it suicide?”

  “That’s for the coroner to say.”

  The sergeant munched the last of the French fries. He looked at Gini and gave a sigh. “Put it this way—where he died, the track’s straight. You’d see an oncoming train from a mile away—more. Not too many people drive out into the middle of nowhere and decide to lie down on live rails.” He paused. “On the other hand, he’d been drinking. The body reeked of booze. I’d say he was way over the limit to drive. There was an empty whisky flask in his coat pocket, and an empty Scotch bottle in the car. Plus, the night before, he’d been dining at the college. Plenty of wine and port. He was well and truly oiled….”

  “The night before? At the college? Would that be Christ Church?”

  “That’s right.” He opened a notebook and flicked through its pages. “I checked his movements myself. Well, it wasn’t difficult. His tutor heard the reports on the local radio station. He called us straight away—”

  “His tutor?”

  “Former tutor, I should say. Party by the name of Dr. Anthony Knowles.”

  The sergeant’s expression became dour: Gini had the impression that he and Knowles hadn’t exactly hit it off.

  “I’ve heard of Knowles….”

  “Who hasn’t?” He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “Twenty minutes after I saw him, we had his friend the chief constable on the phone. Telling me to get a move on. Don’t quote me….”

  “I won’t quote you.”

  “But they want this one sewn up nice and neat. I have to watch my p’s and q’s.”

  Gini considered this. It surely could not be true. McMullen might have died on the rail line early Friday morning, but he could not have been dining in Christ Church the night before. That night was the night she and Pascal had talked to him; he had dropped them off in Oxford around nine-fifteen, then returned to his hideout above Hawthorne’s estate. So Knowles had lied to the police. Interesting, too, that Knowles should claim he heard the news item on the local radio station. She herself had tuned in to that station in the rental car she’d picked up at the Oxford station. It played an unremitting blast of rock music—she wouldn’t have expected that to be Knowles’s taste at all.

  She pushed her hair back tiredly from her face. She knew she was neither thinking nor operating very well. She could hear Pascal’s voice at the back of her mind all the time. The pain of their parting was a physical ache. She could have located it exactly, have put her hand across her heart and said: The pain is there.

  “You want a cup of coffee, love?” The sergeant leaned forward. “You don’t look too well, you know.”

  “No, no thank you. I’m fine.” She leaned forward. “So tell me, if McMullen dined at the college on Thursday night, what happened then?”

  “According to Dr. Knowles, the dinner broke up late. He and McMullen went back to his rooms. They broke open a bottle of 1912 port or what have you and talked. Knowles pushed off to bed around three in the morning. When he woke at eleven, McMullen had gone. Some life, eh? I wouldn’t mind being one of those dons.”

  “You mean he expected McMullen to be in college the next morning?”

  “Oh, yes. This McMullen had been going through a difficult patch, apparently. He’d been staying there as Knowles’s guest for some while.”

  “Really? At the college? For how long?”

  The sergeant consulted his notebook. “Four days. In one of the college guest rooms. Same staircase as Dr. Knowles. He arrived there last Monday, and was due to leave Friday evening. Supposed to be going on from there to his parents’. They live in Shropshire. Near the border with Wales. But he’d obviously been planning something. They got a letter from him Friday morning. His father showed it to me. McMullen told them he couldn’t go on.”

  “Did he give a reason?”
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  “General depression. No job. No woman. That kind of thing.” The sergeant shrugged.

  Gini frowned. So Knowles had lied to the police—and an attempt had been made to suggest suicide as plausible. Yet why should McMullen want to kill himself now? Could the man she and Pascal had been speaking to that Thursday night have then deliberately killed himself only ten hours later? She did not believe that for an instant, not at all. She felt a sudden quickening excitement. She had been right, she thought: This death was not what it seemed. And if the police had accepted the idea that McMullen had been staying in Christ Church, they presumably knew nothing of the cottage in the woods. She leaned forward again.

  “So I guess McMullen must have left all his belongings at Christ Church?”

  “Not much.” The sergeant shrugged again. “One suitcase. Change of clothes.”

  “You have a list of the belongings you found on his body? I’m interested, you know, in how you piece together someone’s ID. It might help my story….”

  “A list. Yes.” The sergeant sighed. “Lists. Paperwork. Bumf. It never bloody well stops, pardon my French. Used to be forms in triplicate. It’s all computers now. I can let you have a copy, I suppose. No reason why not. Come down to the DI’s office now.”

  In the office, the sergeant heaved his weight into a revolving chair, rummaged through some paperwork, and eventually found the printout he was looking for. He handed it across. “This article you’re doing”—he looked up at her—“modern police methods, that’s it?”

  “Right.”

  “Why pick this case? It’s routine, love. We could set you up with a nice little homicide.” He smiled. “Or drugs. The drug scene in Oxford is very active now. Only the other week—”

  Gini interrupted him quickly. “No, no. My editor wants a routine case. That’s the whole point. So readers can understand daily policework. I wonder. I have a map here. Can you show me where it was exactly that he died?”