Lovers and Liars Trilogy

by Sally Beauman

  “How odd. Maybe he changed his plans—went with another friend.”

  “Some other friend?” She gave him a wry look. “You can’t know James too well. James hardly has any friends. Not these days. He’s turning into a bloody recluse.”

  “But he did telephone you? When was this?”

  “Oh, God, I don’t know—when was it? Before Christmas, obviously, but not very long before, because when he said he was going skiing, I told him he was cutting it a bit fine.” She made a face. “That’s when he swore he’d get back. Said he was going for only a few days. It must have been around December nineteenth, twentieth, something like that. No, the nineteenth, that’s it. I remember, because it was the day my sodding agent actually bought me lunch. When James phoned, I’d just got back….”

  She stopped, looking at Pascal in a way that made him feel slightly alarmed. She leaned forward, revealing a considerable amount of cleavage. “More voddie?” she said. “No? Well, I’ll just top mine up a bit.”

  “So,” Pascal said as she sashayed back to the drinks table. “He never made it for the Christmas celebrations?”

  “No. Nor the New Year. Not even a phone call. Daddy was not overpleased. Mummy wept into the pudding and brandy butter. I had a lot of the thankless-child bit. Actually, I think Daddy’s given up on James. When he was in the army, it was okay—but since he left…”

  “That’s how I know him,” Pascal said firmly. “Through the army. That’s how we first met. On a NATO exercise…” He did a rapid calculation, then remembered the date on the photograph Jenkins had given them. “Around 1988, something like that…”

  He wondered if McMullen’s sister knew that a Frenchman was unlikely to be involved in a NATO exercise, but the anxiety was unnecessary. Clearly, the circumstances under which he had known her brother did not interest her in the least. She was the kind of woman, he began to realize, who became bored when the conversation did not concern herself.

  “Oh, really?” she said, pouring vodka. “Well, of course, James left the army around then. Back then, he was still the golden boy, apple of Daddy’s eye, Sword of Honour at Sandhurst, all set to be a general, all that boring bit. Personally, I think it’s all balls—Queen and country, all that antique stuff. Still, James always lapped it up. He’d have been just fine when we still had an empire. Still, enough of him…Tell me about yourself.”

  She weaved her way back to the chair opposite. Pascal took a discreet look at his watch. It was almost three, and already dark outside. He would have to speed this up. He took another minute sip of the neat vodka.

  “So,” he said. “Do you think James actually did go skiing? If he did, could he still be away? It’s just—”

  The return to the subject of her brother did not please her. She gave a shrug. “Oh, God knows. He probably did. Changed his plans at the last moment, went with some other people, joined a chalet party. It’s possible. If he did, he’ll have gone to Italy, that’s for sure. That’s where he usually skis, the Italian Alps. If so, he could be gone weeks. He’s mad about Italy, always was. Especially out of season, when it isn’t crawling with tourists. He could be anywhere—Florence, Venice, Rome, Siena. …Memory lane—James loves that. We spent half our youth trailing round bloody museums in Italy. That’s how we spent our school holidays, staring at sodding paintings, while Daddy researched another book. Shit!”

  She had spilled vodka on the front of her dress. She mopped at it ineffectively, then gave Pascal an odd look. “Daddy the art historian. The Titian-bloody-Tintoretto expert. Surely James mentioned that?”

  The gear change from amiability to hostility was swift. Pascal, who had encountered heavy drinkers many times and was used to such sudden swerves, made a placatory gesture.

  “Of course. The art historian. Yes.”

  “So that’s where he probably is.” She made a face. “Either skiing, or sopping up culture. Take your pick. Why should he worry? James got Granny’s trust fund. He doesn’t need to suck up to sickening little ad men. He doesn’t need to work for a living like the rest of us. James is rich.”

  “Ah, well, in that case…” Pascal rose to his feet. “I’ll miss him, I guess. I’m not in London long. …”

  “You’re not?” She gave him an unfocused look, then laughed. She tossed back another gulp of vodka. “Oh, well. I might have known. Too bad. Salut.”

  Pascal edged toward the door. There he paused. “I wonder,” he said. “There’s no one else you can think of who might know where he is?”

  “Who have you tried?”

  “A couple of people.” He mentioned names Jenkins had given him, whom he had called earlier that day. Kate McMullen shrugged again; more vodka spilled.

  “Christ. What persistence. That’s about it. Who else? Oh, well, there’s a guy called Nicholas Jenkins, and a loathsome toad he is. He was at school with James. He might still see him. I wouldn’t think so.”

  “Nicholas Jenkins,” Pascal said solemnly.

  “Works at the News. Oh, and there’s Jeremy Prior-Kent. They went to prep school together, they were at Christ Church together. He’s an asshole too. Makes TV commercials, for Christ’s sake. Not that he’s ever seen fit to cast me in one of them, but—”

  “I have his name. He’s out of town….” Pascal paused. He gave McMullen’s sister a careful look. Her words were now noticeably slurred: It was worth the risk. “And then, I think he mentioned once, there was a close woman friend, yes? American…”

  “What, Lise? The beloved, you mean?” She rose and gave a harsh laugh. “Oh, sure, try Lise Hawthorne. I wish you luck.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Lise Hawthorne is a fucking stupid bitch. In my opinion. But then, I don’t know her very well. I’m allergic to super-sweet women. They screw men up. Try calling her by all means, if you can get past the thirty-five secretaries. She may even know where James is, though for his sake, I hope not.”

  “Why do you say that?” Pascal asked, and he knew at once, it was a question too far, one inquiry too much.

  Kate McMullen swayed on her feet. She put down her glass with deliberate care, then gave him a narrow-eyed look.

  “What is this? Who are you anyway?”

  “I told you. I’m a friend of your brother’s. I was in London, so I thought I’d look him up.”

  “The fuck you are…What is this? Questions, questions, James this, James that…What’s going on? What the hell is this?”

  “Look, I’d better leave, yes?” Pascal opened the door.

  “Army. You said you were in the army—you met James on exercise—is that what you said? You don’t look like a soldier to me. You don’t look like an officer. Your hair’s too bloody long. Oh, shit.”

  “Nevertheless.” Pascal gave a polite half-bow. “Second Parachute Regiment, Captain Leduc. Since retired, like your brother.”

  Kate McMullen was not listening. She lurched forward, then stopped. “That’s what the other one said. Now I come to think of it. He said he was an army friend too. Jesus Christ, is this some kind of joke? Bring on the whole bloody platoon, why don’t you? First an American officer, now a French officer…Who’s next? Christ, send in the Khmer Rouge, send in the Foreign Legion. …What is this? Why’s James so bloody popular all of a sudden?”

  Pascal turned back. “An American?” he said. “He was looking for your brother? When was this?”

  “Christmas bloody Eve. Just when I was leaving for Shropshire.” She drew in a deep breath, then abruptly sat down. “Oh, fuck it,” she said. “It’s not funny. Just sod off.”

  Pascal hesitated. He said, “I regret, but …”

  Kate McMullen threw her vodka glass across the room. It missed his head by half an inch. “Piss off.” She gave him a venomous look. “Who cooked this up? It’s a joke, right? At my expense? Well, I don’t fucking well find it funny, I can tell you that. Oh, hang on. I get it. …” She rose unsteadily to her feet. “It’s a bet. Between brother officers. Well, fuck you. Who wins? Just
tell me that. …”

  Pascal began on some reply; Kate McMullen cut him off.

  “Don’t bother lying. I can imagine. The winner’s the first one to score, right? You bastards. Wait till James hears about this.”

  She broke off, fumbled her way back to the drinks, and slopped more vodka into a glass, then turned around. “Still there? I told you. Piss off. Screw you…” She gave him one last vicious glance. “I preferred the American. He looked like hell but at least he took me out for a drink.”

  The traffic was heavy, and the wet air thick with exhaust fumes. Pascal mounted his motorbike and weaved his way between buses and trucks, heading northeast. Stopping at a traffic light as he approached King’s Cross Station, he checked his watch. It was four now. He would be at Gini’s apartment within ten minutes. He had a lot to tell her, he was impatient to see her. By now she would surely be back.

  As he reached the station, however, all traffic stopped. Suddenly there were police everywhere; the air was shrill with sirens, lit with flashing blue lights. An accident, another IRA bomb scare or an actual bombing? Pascal felt his heart contract. What if they had bombed an underground station again? What if Gini had taken the tube home?

  He peered ahead of him, through the swell of traffic. People were spilling out of the station concourse and being herded along the sidewalks by police. His anxiety redoubled. At the next intersection, inching his way forward, he turned off into a side street. He roared down it—just in time. Glancing back, he saw barricades being set up. He headed north, approaching Islington through a hinterland of decaying back streets. He accelerated, just missed an incautious pedestrian, swerved, swore, and picked up speed again. At four-twenty he reached Gibson Square, and slammed on his brakes.

  There were no lights on in Gini’s apartment. Anxiety tightened his throat. He ran down the steps to the basement area. In the darkness he scrabbled around the flowerpots, found the key, inserted it, and threw the front door back.

  He ran into the living room, switching on the lights and calling her name, just in case she had returned. Then his eyes took in the room, and he stopped dead.

  He stared around him with fear, then anger, then disbelief. Gini had had visitors. And they had left a calling card of a kind, a large one, an unusual one. There it was, foursquare, neatly centered, on the top of her desk.

  When Gini emerged from the tube station, it was six. The sidewalks were crowded with office workers going home; she could hear the wail of sirens in the distance. Two ambulances passed, shooting the intersection’s red lights. She could not wait to be home, to tell Pascal of her success. She began to run, a few blocks from Gibson Square. When she reached it, the first thing she saw was Pascal’s motorbike. Her heart lifted. She ran down the area steps. The curtains were drawn, but the lights in her apartment were on. It was so good, she thought, to see that. She was so used to returning to dark rooms and silence.

  She was calling Pascal’s name before the door was half-open. The sentence she had been storing all this way home was already on her lips.

  “Pascal, Pascal,” she called. “I’ve found her—the woman who delivered those parcels. I know who she is….”

  She crossed the tiny foyer, opened the door to the living room, and stopped dead. She gave a little cry, staring around her in disbelief. Her apartment had been rifled. More than that, it had been wrecked.

  In the midst of the wreckage stood Pascal. He swung around as she entered, white-faced. The tension in the room was like a force field. Gini felt herself collide with it. The next second Pascal was across the room. His arms tightened around her. He pressed her against him.

  “Gini, Gini…” he said. “Oh, thank Christ.”

  He was still wearing his jacket, and it was wet. Gini felt the slickness of wet leather against her face. Through the thickness of the leather she could feel his heart beat. She closed her eyes, clung to him, and just for an instant let the past come swooping back. Pascal was touching her. She felt his hands against her wet hair, cradling her head. He began to kiss her hair, her forehead, then abruptly he drew back.

  He held her a long time, at arm’s length, still gripping her hands. He touched her face, and to her astonishment she realized his hand was shaking.

  “There was another bomb,” he said. “At King’s Cross. I saw the police clearing the station. I just heard it on the radio. I thought—you could have come back that way. But you didn’t. You’re safe….”

  She could see him fighting down the emotion in his voice. Releasing her hands, he gave a sudden, almost angry gesture. “I’m sorry. It’s a legacy from the war years. Bombs. Snipers. You see someone at breakfast. You find out they’re dead that night. The suddenness of death. The fact that it’s arbitrary, no one’s safe. Ever. I can’t forget….”

  “Pascal, it’s all right. I remember too. I didn’t come that way. I came straight home from the City. I—”

  She stopped and looked away. Chaos surrounded them: possessions tossed in heaps. She saw herself stand and wait, all those years before: a square, bare room, hours passing, people passing, bombs in the distance, the rattle of machine guns, all those Beirut hours when she feared for him. She hesitated, fought to remain steady, looked around the room. She said: “Who would do this? Why? There’s nothing here worth stealing.”

  “I don’t think theft was the point.”

  He spoke flatly, and Gini knew there was something in his tone, some warning, but her mind couldn’t catch it. Events were too fast, too sharp. Her home felt invaded; she felt invaded. She gave a little shiver, gazing around her with mute distress. This hurt: It hurt to think of strangers rifling her closets, going through her desk. On the floor, scattered, were all the bits and pieces that made a life: letters, postcards, tapes, books, photographs, diaries. Had they read her diaries, read her letters? She hesitated, then looked back at Pascal’s intent white face. He was watching her closely, carefully, and she felt an instant’s sudden panic, a sensation of defenselessness. She looked away: Was that due to the break-in, or Pascal’s momentary closeness, his embrace?

  She took a few steps forward. In a flat voice she said, “I suppose I’d better call the police.”

  “No.” Pascal moved so he stood between her and her desk. “No. Don’t do that. I wouldn’t call the police.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this isn’t an ordinary break-in, Gini. There’s no sign of forced entry, for one thing. No broken glass, no broken locks.”

  Gini stared at him. Her mind seemed to be working very slowly. “You mean they used the key?”

  “I think so, yes. If so, they were good enough to replace it. But, Gini, it’s more than that.” His face was troubled. He hesitated. “In a minute, I’ll show you. They’ve been everywhere. In the kitchen. The bathroom…”

  “My bedroom?” She swallowed; she began to feel sick.

  “Yes. There too.” He paused. “But before we go in there, there’s something else you have to look at. These were unusual thieves, Gini. Thieves don’t usually leave gifts.”

  “Gifts? I don’t understand….”

  “They left you something, Gini. They left you this.”

  He moved slightly to the side as he spoke, and she saw it then, on the desk behind him. Another parcel, larger than the first. As before, it was neatly wrapped in brown paper, as before, the string was sealed with scarlet wax.

  Pascal cut the string with a knife. Inside the wrapping paper there was a box. Inside the box were sheaves of black tissue paper. Inside the nest of paper was a shoe: one shoe, a woman’s, made to fit the left foot. It was black patent leather. It had a four-inch stiletto heel. Inside the shoe was a stocking, also black, very sheer. She laid it out on the desk in front of them, her hands trembling slightly. There was a sharp intake of breath from Pascal. Gini stared down at the stocking, puzzled. It had a pretty laced-edged top. At first she thought it had been looped together in some odd way. Then she realized what Pascal had already discovered: The black stockin
g was tied in a noose.

  She gave a low exclamation. Pascal’s face became set. He picked up the shoe, then the stocking, and examined them closely. Both appeared new. The sole of the shoe was leather, and unmarked. Neither shoe nor stocking bore any maker’s name.

  Pascal turned to look at her. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said grimly. “I’m thinking the same thing. You’d better try it on.”

  Gini removed her own shoe. She inserted her foot into the black patent leather. It pained her instep, for she never wore heels this high. Even so, it was at once apparent to them both: This shoe might have been made for her—Cinderella’s slipper. Gini looked down. She hated this shoe, she loathed this shoe, but she couldn’t deny it was a perfect fit.

  “I feared this,” Pascal said. “I feared this….”

  Gini kicked the shoe off. She bent, replaced her own, then straightened. “They’re trying to frighten me, Pascal. They want to frighten me off. Well, I won’t let them do that. I know what they thought—they planned it very carefully. They thought I’d be alone, that I’d come home, alone, in the dark, and find this….” She hesitated; an expression she did not understand crossed his face. Impulsively, she reached for his hands.

  “Don’t you see, Pascal? That’s how they planned it? And they were wrong. I’m not alone. You’re here, and—”

  “Oh, no, Gini. I’m afraid you’re wrong. I think they knew I’d be here. This message is for both of us.”

  “They can’t have known that. How? It’s not possible.”

  “I don’t know how they knew, but they did. Gini.” He hesitated. “Come into the bedroom. You’ll understand then….”

  The bedroom, like the living room, was in a hideous mess. All the closet doors, all the drawers, had been opened. There were clothes tossed everywhere. There was a trail, from door to window, of all her most personal belongings: her underclothes, her nightgowns, makeup, jewelry, all tossed down in a heap. On the top of the pile, near the door, were the two photographs she kept by her bed. A picture of Mary, a picture of her father. Their silver frames were buckled, their glass smashed as if someone had stamped on them and ground them underfoot.