“It isn’t making either of our lives any easier, is it?”
He glanced her way quickly. “You’ve told him?”
“Tommy? No.” Helen sighed. “He questioned me, naturally. He knows I’m preoccupied with something. But so far I’ve managed to convince him it’s nothing but premarital nerves.”
“He won’t like being lied to.”
“I haven’t actually lied. I do have premarital nerves. I’m still not sure.”
“About Tommy?”
“About marriage to Tommy. About marriage to anyone. About marriage full stop. All this till-death-do-us business makes me uneasy. How can I vow eternal love for one man when I can’t even maintain a month’s devotion to a single pair of earrings?” She dismissed the subject by pushing her wineglass away. “But I have come up with something to cheer us.”
She went on to explain. Her explanation was the leaven that finally acted upon St. James’s frustration. The presence of the vagrant in Cross Keys Close was the first piece of information that actually fitted in with another piece of information already in their possession.
“The squats on George Street,” St. James said meditatively after considering Helen’s information for several moments. “Deborah reminded me of them last night.”
“Of course,” Helen said. “They’d be the perfect doss-house for a vagrant, wouldn’t they?”
“They’d certainly be perfect for something,” St. James said. He drained his glass. “Let’s get on with things, then.”
Deborah was getting restless. She’d started out her day with a two-hour wait for Dennis Luxford in the reception area of The Source, occupying herself by watching the journalists come and go.
She checked with the reception desk every half hour during this time. But the answer to her question was always the same. Mr. Luxford had not yet come in. And no, he would be highly unlikely to come in a rear entrance. When she insisted that the receptionist phone Dennis Luxford’s office to make certain the editor had still not arrived, the young woman had done so with post-adolescent ill grace. “Is he in yet?” the receptionist demanded into the mouthpiece of her phone. Her nameplate said that she was called Charity, a gross misnomer to Deborah’s way of thinking.
An hour after lunchtime, Deborah left the building and went in search of sustenance. This she found in a winebar near St. Bride Street, where a plate of penne all’arrabbiata, an entire basket of garlic bread, and a glass of red wine did nothing for her breath but much for her spirits. She hauled herself and her cameras back to Farrington Street.
This time, someone else was waiting for Dennis Luxford, as Charity informed her with a “You’re back? Don’t give up easy, do you? Well, join the crowd.”
Deborah discovered that among Charity’s many gifts was hyperbole. The crowd consisted of a single man. He was sitting on the edge of one of the sofas in the reception area. Every time someone came through the revolving doors, he looked as if he intended to jump to his feet.
Deborah nodded at him pleasantly. He frowned and snapped the cuff of his shirt off his wrist to examine his watch, after which he strode to the reception desk and had a few sharp words with Charity. She was saying rather hotly, “Hey. Chill out. I don’t exactly have a reason to lie to you, do I?” when at last Dennis Luxford came through the front door.
Deborah got to her feet. Charity said, “See,” and called out, “Mr. Luxford?” The man who’d been waiting for the editor swung round from Charity’s desk.
He said, “Luxford?”
Luxford looked immediately wary at the tone, which suggested that this was no friendly visit. He shot a glance at the security guard who stood near the door. The guard began to approach.
The man said, “I’m Alexander Stone. Eve’s husband.”
Luxford examined him, then gave a minute shake of his head to the guard, telling him to retreat. He said, “This way,” and turned to the lifts, which is when he saw Deborah.
Deborah knew at once that she was wildly out of her depth. Good grief, this was Eve Bowen’s husband who’d been waiting for Luxford, Eve Bowen’s husband who—according to what they’d been told—didn’t even know that Dennis Luxford was the father of Eve Bowen’s child. And here he was, wearing an expression of such steely control that Deborah knew in an instant he’d been told the truth and was still in the process of reeling from that truth. Which meant he could do anything, say anything, cause a scene, resort to violence. He was what they called a loose cannon. And the miserable fates—not to mention her husband’s directions—had placed her in a position where she might have to deal with him.
She wanted to sink not only through the floor but directly through the earth as well. Where would she come out if she sank through the earth? China? The Himalayas? Bangladesh?
Luxford gave a curious glance to her camera bag. He said, “What’s this? Have you news?”
Stone said, “Luxford, I want a word with you.”
Luxford said over his shoulder, “You’ll get it,” and to Deborah, “Come to my office.”
Stone wasn’t about to be left in the lobby. When the lift doors slid open, he followed Deborah and Luxford inside. The security guard again made a movement indicating he’d intervene. Luxford held up a hand, said, “It’s fine, Jerry,” and punched a button for the eleventh floor.
They were alone in the lift. Luxford said to Deborah, “Well?”
She wondered how it would play: I need a sample of your printing so that my husband can assure himself you’re not the kidnapper. That should be sufficient to make Alexander Stone go for the other man’s throat. He was emanating enough antipathy to suggest discretion was in order.
She said, “Simon asked me to stop by. There’s just a small detail that he wants to rule out.”
Stone seemed to realise that her presence had a connection to his stepdaughter’s disappearance. He said brusquely, “What do you know? What have you uncovered? Why the hell haven’t we heard from you about what’s going on?”
Deborah, flustered, said, “Simon spoke to your wife yesterday afternoon. She hasn’t told…?” Well, obviously she hasn’t told him, you twit, Deborah lectured herself. She said, hoping she sounded like the voice of confidence, “Actually, he made a complete report to her of how things stand at her office. I mean, he went to her office. The report wasn’t about her office.” Wonderful, she thought. Perfectly professional. She used her teeth to pull in on her upper lip. Anything to keep it from flapping.
At the fifth floor, the lift doors opened and two men and a woman climbed aboard, so Deborah was saved from sinking deeper into verbal quicksand. They were having a conversation about politics, the woman saying quietly, “According to a reliable source,” at which the men chuckled knowingly, which prompted her to say, “No. Listen. He was at a dinner in Downing Street. And the PM actually told someone during drinks that the public doesn’t care who’s stuffing whom where, just so long as taxes don’t rise. Now, it was all sotto voce, but if Mitch can just get confirmation, we can—”
“Pam,” Luxford said. The woman looked his way. “Later.” She glanced from Luxford to his companions. She gave a small grimace of apology for her indiscretion. When the lift doors opened on the eleventh floor, she vanished into the newsroom.
Luxford led Deborah and Alexander Stone to his office, at the far side of the newsroom to the left of the lifts. A group with notebooks and papers in their hands were milling about near his secretary’s desk, and as Luxford approached, a dumpy-looking man in a safari jacket came forward and said, “Den? What’s—” He shot a glance at Deborah and Stone, but particularly at Deborah’s camera bag, which he seemed to take as an omen of something. “I was about to run the news meeting without you.”
“Push it back an hour,” Luxford said.
“Den, is that wise? Can we afford another delay? Last night’s was bad enough, but—”
Luxford directed Deborah and Stone into his office. He spun on his heel. “I’ve something to deal with, Rodney,” he said.
“We’ll have the meeting in an hour. If the print run’s delayed, the world will not end. Clear?”
“That’s another day of paying overtime,” Rodney noted.
“Yes. Another day.” Luxford shut the door. “Now,” he said to Deborah.
Stone intervened. “Listen to me, you bastard,” he said quietly, and planted himself in Luxford’s path to his desk. He was, Deborah saw, about four inches taller than The Source editor, but both men appeared equally fit. And Luxford didn’t look like the type to quail when faced with an attempt at intimidation.
“Mr. Luxford,” she said bravely. “Actually, it’s only a formality, but what I need is—”
“What have you done with her?” Stone demanded. “What have you done with Charlie?”
Luxford didn’t so much as flinch. “Evelyn’s conclusion is wrong. Obviously, I wasn’t able to convince her of that. But perhaps I can convince you. Sit down.”
“Don’t you bloody tell me—”
“Fine. Then stand. But get out of my way, because I’m not accustomed to speaking into someone’s nostrils and I don’t intend to become accustomed to that now.”
Stone didn’t back off. The two men were virtually eyeball to eyeball. A muscle worked in Stone’s jaw. Luxford tensed in response. But his voice remained calm.
“Mr. Stone, hear me. I don’t have Charlotte.”
“Don’t try to tell me that someone like you would bother to draw the line at abducting a ten-year-old.”
“Then I won’t,” he said. “But I will say this. You don’t know the first thing about what ’someone like me’ is like, and unfortunately I’ve no time to shed any light on the subject for you.”
Stone made a rough gesture at the wall next to the conference table. A line of framed front pages hung there. They represented some of The Source’s more lurid stories, spanning everything from a ménage à trois enjoyed by three putatively wholesome stars of a postwar television drama called—much to the newspaper’s amusement—No Home But This to a delighted expose of cellular phone calls placed by the Princess of Wales.
Stone said, “I don’t need any more light shed. Your pathetic excuse for journalism is light enough.”
“Fine.” Luxford looked at his watch. “That should add to the brevity of our conversation. Why are you here? Can we get to the point, because I’ve work to do and Mrs. St. James to talk to.”
Deborah, who had placed her camera case on a beige sofa that stood against the wall, seized the opportunity Luxford passed her way. She said, “Yes. Right. What I’m going to need is—”
“Types like you hide.” Stone took an aggressive step closer to Luxford. “Behind their jobs, their secretaries, their public school voices. But I want you out in the open. Understand?”
“I’ve already told Evelyn that I’m willing to come out in the open. If she hasn’t seen fit to make that clear to you, I don’t know what I can do about the fact.”
“You keep Eve out of this.”
One of Luxford’s eyebrows rose, barely a fraction’s movement. He said, “Excuse me, Mr. Stone,” and sidestepped the other man to go to his desk.
Deborah said hopefully, “Mr. Luxford, if I can—”
Stone caught Luxford’s arm. “Where’s Charlie?” he demanded.
Luxford’s eyes fixed on Stone’s rigid face. He said quietly, “Stand away from me. I recommend you don’t do something you’ll regret. I haven’t taken Charlotte, and I have no idea where Charlotte is. As I explained to Evelyn yesterday afternoon, I have no reason to want our mutual past played out in the press. I have a wife and son who know nothing about Charlotte’s existence, and believe me, I’d like to keep it that way despite what you and your wife might think. If you and Evelyn communicated on a more regular basis, perhaps you’d know—”
Stone increased his grip on Luxford’s arm and jerked it roughly. Deborah saw the editor’s eyes narrow in response. “This isn’t about Eve. Don’t bring Eve into this.”
“She’s already into this, isn’t she? It’s her child we’re talking about.”
“And yours.” Stone said the two words like an execration. He dropped his grip on Luxford’s arm. The editor stepped past him and went to his desk. “What sort of man fathers a child and walks away from the fact, Luxford? What sort of man won’t take responsibility for his past?”
Luxford punched a button on the monitor of a computer and scooped up a handful of messages. He riffled through these, set them aside, and did the same to a stack of unopened letters. He picked up a padded mailing envelope that lay beneath the letters and looked up to speak. “And it’s the past you’re more concerned about, isn’t it?” he asked. “This isn’t about the present at all.”
“Why, you fucking—”
“Yes. Fucking. That’s it. Tell me, Mr. Stone, what is it you’re truly concerned about this afternoon? Is it Charlotte’s disappearance or the fact I fucked her mother?”
Stone lunged. Deborah did likewise, astonishing herself with the speed of her decision to act. Stone made it to the desk. His hands shot out to grip Luxford. Deborah caught his left arm and yanked him away.
Stone spun to her, clearly having forgotten she was there. His fist was clenched. His arm was cocked. He swung, and Deborah tried to leap out of the way, but she wasn’t quick enough. He caught her sharply on the side of the head. With one hard blow he sent her to the floor.
Above the ringing in her ears, Deborah heard cursing. Then Luxford’s voice barked, “Get a security guard up here. Now. Now.”
She saw feet, the bottom of trouser legs. She heard Stone saying, “Oh Jesus. Fuck. Fuck.”
She felt a hand on her back and another on her arm. She said, “No. It’s all right. Really. I’m quite…It’s nothing…”
The office door opened. Another male voice said, “Den? Den? Gosh, is there anything—”
“Get the hell out!”
The door closed.
Deborah lifted herself to a sitting position. She saw that Stone was the one assisting her. His face had gone to the colour of bread dough. He said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…Jesus. What’s happening?”
“Move aside,” Luxford said. “God damn it. I said move aside.” He raised Deborah to her feet, led her to the sofa, and squatted before her to have a look at her face. He answered Stone’s question. “What’s happening is assault.”
Deborah raised a hand to fend off the words. “No. No. Please. I was…I got in the way. He clearly didn’t know…”
“He doesn’t know sod all,” Luxford snapped. “Here. Let me look at you. Have you hit your head?” His fingers went into her hair and moved with gentle, quick confidence across her skull. “Hurt anywhere?”
She shook her head. She was more shaken than hurt, although she assumed she would probably ache later. She was also embarrassed. She hated to be a cynosure—fading happily into the woodwork was more in her line—and her unthinking response to Stone’s sudden leap had landed her directly where she didn’t want to be. She used the moment to say what she had to say, feeling that Alexander Stone wouldn’t be likely to fly off the handle a second time in five minutes. “Actually, I’ve come for a sample of your printing,” she told The Source editor. “It’s just a formality, but Simon wants to…You see, if he can just have a look at it.”
Luxford nodded sharply. He didn’t seem the least offended. He said, “Of course. I should have thought to give him a sample the other night. You’re sure you’re all right?”
She nodded and offered what she hoped was a convincing smile. Luxford got to his feet. Stone, she saw, had retreated to a conference table at the far side of the office. He’d pulled out a chair and sunk into it. His head was in his hands.
Luxford took a sheet of paper and began to write. The office door opened. The uniformed guard said, “Mr. Luxford? A problem?”
Luxford looked up. He took a moment to evaluate Stone before he said, “Stay close by, Jerry. I’ll let you know if I need you.” The guard disappeared. Luxford said to
Stone, “I ought to have you ejected from the building. And I will—believe me—if you aren’t prepared to listen.”
Stone didn’t raise his head. “I’ll listen.”
“Then hear me. Someone has Charlotte. Someone’s threatened her life. Someone wants the truth about Evelyn, about me. I don’t know who that someone is and I don’t know why he’s waited till now to use the thumbscrews. But the fact is he’s doing it. We can either cooperate, bring in the police, or call his bluff. Which, I may tell you, I don’t believe is a bluff in the first place. So you have two options as I see it, Stone. Either go home and convince your wife that this situation is deadly serious, or play the game her way and live with the consequences. I’ve done what I can.”
Stone said dully, “Into your hands.” He gave a muted, sardonic laugh.
“What?”
“I’ve played right into your hands.” He raised his head. “Haven’t I?”
Luxford’s expression was incredulous.
Deborah said, “Mr. Stone, surely you see that—”
“Don’t bother,” Luxford interposed. “He’s found his villain. They both have. Save your breath.”
He turned his attention to the padded envelope he’d been holding. It was stapled shut, and he ripped it open. He said, “We have nothing more to say, Mr. Stone. Can you see yourself out or do you need assistance?” He upended the envelope without waiting for a response. He stared at its contents. Deborah saw him swallow.
She got to her feet, rather unsteadily, and said, “Mr. Luxford?” and then, “No. Don’t touch it,” when she saw what lay among the rest of his mail.
It was a small tape recorder.
10
RODNEY ARONSON KEPT ONE EYE on his computer screen and the other on Luxford’s office door, no mean feat since his own office was on the other side of the newsroom from Luxford’s and the intervening space was taken up by a score of desks, filing cabinets, computer terminals, and the constantly moving bodies of The Source journalists. The rest of the news meeting members had drifted off to other responsibilities once Luxford had postponed the conference for an hour. If they found the editor’s order for a delay a curiosity, none of them had mentioned it. But Rodney had lingered. He’d got a good look at the face of the man who’d been accompanying Luxford, and there was something about his expression of barely controlled hostility that suggested to Rodney that he hang about Miss Wallace’s compulsively neat cubbyhole on the off chance something of interest occurred.