Pascal, beside her, put his arm around her gently. “Gini,” he said, “Gini, try not to be upset. They like to smash things, to hurt. So far, so predictable, in an ordinary break-in, you might expect to find this. But look over here.”
He hesitated, as if unwilling to continue, then gestured toward the bed. “You see? It’s random destruction, apparently. But there’s nothing random about this. …”
Gini followed his gaze. She gave a low cry. She felt the blood drain from her face.
They had arranged the display on the bed very carefully, as an artist might arrange a still life. There, laid out across the duvet, was a white nightgown, the nightgown she had slept in the previous night. Around it and upon it were her relics, those sad little secret mementos of her past life. A dried flower, Pascal’s one-page letter, a bullet casing, the room service menu from a Beirut hotel, a copy of L’Etrangère. In the center of the nightgown, carefully placed, was one small gold earring. She took a step forward; the earring glittered, struck the light.
She gave a small, incoherent gesture, took another step forward, reached out her hand. Suddenly, almost harshly, Pascal jerked her back.
“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t touch the nightgown. Don’t, Gini. I’ll deal with it. …”
“What? Why? I don’t understand….”
He put his arms around her and drew her away. “It was a man who did this. At a certain point…it excited him, Gini. He’s used your nightgown. Please, don’t look. Come out of here, now.”
Gini broke away from him, she backed into the doorway. Her skin felt icy, then clammy and hot. She felt the room sway, start to shift. Pascal gave an exclamation of concern and tried to take her hand, but she pushed him aside.
“Don’t touch me,” she said. “Please, just don’t touch me!”
She ran away from him, into the bathroom, slammed the door, and locked it. Then she knelt on the white tiles, surrounded by more detritus, broken scent bottles, shards of glass. She could hear Pascal outside, calling her name, hammering on the door. She knelt there, shivering; the glass cut her hand, this space was cold and white and hideously shameful. After a while Pascal stopped hammering on the door. There was a long corridor of silence, then she was violently sick.
She had forgotten how kind Pascal could be; she had forgotten, or not allowed herself to remember, how his kindness conveyed immense strength. When she finally emerged from the bathroom, he took her in his arms like a child. He bathed her hands and her face. He took her back to the living room and made a space for her by the fire. He wrapped a blanket around her and made her sit still. He fetched her sweet tea, and then a little weak whisky to drink.
“Sit there,” he said. “Just sit there quietly, Gini. You’re in shock. I’ll come back in a minute. There’s just some things I need to clear up.”
She listened to his footsteps as he moved around her bedroom, then the kitchen. She heard the back door open, the clang of the trash-can lid. Cold air eddied through into the room. Pascal returned. He was carrying Napoleon.
“Here, Gini.” He stroked Napoleon, then placed him on her lap. “One cat. One wet, bedraggled, forlorn cat. He must have been outside in the yard all this time. Shall I get him some milk?”
Gini nodded. She held Napoleon close. He bristled his fur and watched her warily with his huge topaz eyes. Then he curled beside her and began to lick his wet fur into place. Pascal returned with a saucer of milk, which he placed near the sofa. Then he knelt down so he was directly in front of her, and took her hand in his.
“Now,” he began, his voice gentle but firm, “I want you to listen to me, Gini. Promise? You won’t interrupt?”
Gini nodded.
“Where did you keep those things—those things from Beirut? Were they in your bedroom?”
“No.” Gini swallowed. She lowered her gaze. “I kept them in here. In a box. In my desk.”
“Darling, don’t. Don’t. Don’t cry.” He leaned forward and drew her against him. He stroked her hair, and waited while she wept. When the little storm of tears was over, he drew back from her gently. Gini couldn’t tell whether he regretted that endearment or not. Perhaps it had been instinctual, accidental, just meant to be soothing. It was not repeated.
“Listen to me, Gini.” He clasped her hands. “You understand what this means? Someone—whoever came here, or whoever sent them—that person knows a great deal. I think he knew about that key. He certainly knows your shoe size. And he knows how to hurt you, and me.” He paused. “Gini. He knows about Beirut.”
“That’s not possible. No one knows.” Her throat felt dry, and it was hard to speak. “You. My father. Me. No one else….”
“Does Mary know?”
“No. No. I never told her.”
“Would your father have told her?”
“No! He swore to me he wouldn’t. He promised he wouldn’t tell anyone. If he had told Mary…Pascal, Mary’s so honest, so direct. If she knew, I’d have guessed.”
Pascal frowned. “Then I don’t understand. I’ve never discussed this. Not with anyone. Not even my wife. Gini, think. You’re sure? No one?”
Gini hesitated. She looked down. “I told a friend today. At work. That I’d known you before. But that was the first time, ever. Truly, Pascal. And that can’t have any bearing on this. I only saw her this afternoon. Late. It was past three o’clock.”
“That doesn’t account for it. I was back here just after four. Dammit. It has to be your father, Gini. He must have told someone—it has to be. Unless…”
She saw him break off, hesitate, look around the apartment, at the phone, at her desk.
“Unless what, Pascal?”
“Nothing. Never mind that now.” He turned back to her. “There’s something more important. Never mind how they knew for the moment. Take this.”
He held out to her some tiny thing, in his palm. When Gini looked down, she saw it was a small gold earring.
“Put it on. Will you do that?”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
He watched intently while she fastened the little ring, then he reached across and smoothed her hair back, took her hand in his.
“Did you really think you’d lost it?”
“No. I lied. I knew I had it.”
“Why lie, Gini?” There was consternation in his eyes. “Why lie, to me of all people, about that?”
“I don’t know why….” She glanced away. “Except, it looks sentimental. Foolish. I thought you’d despise me if you knew.”
“Despise you? You can’t have thought that.”
“Well, I did.”
“Listen, Gini. I want you to understand something. The person who came here today …” His voice hardened. “So stupid. So crass. They think they can come in here and smash something up. Cause pain by doing it. Well, they should learn there are some things you cannot smash. What you remember, what I remember—they can’t alter that. They can’t touch us, Gini—don’t you see? Not unless we let them. And I don’t plan on doing that.”
“You mean—they can’t alter what we felt?” Gini raised her eyes to his. There was a long silence. As soon as she said the words, she regretted their caution, that past tense. A glint of sudden amusement came into his eyes. Leaning forward, he kissed her brow, then quickly rose.
“Of course,” he said in a dry tone. “That’s exactly what I meant. And now”—he gestured around him to the detritus, the chaos—“now I’ll get rid of them. Exorcise them. I’ll clean this up.”
They tidied the apartment together. They replaced everything—books, tapes, clothes, china. Nothing was missing that Gini could see, but that did not surprise her. Pascal had been right: The reason for this break-in was not theft.
A residual feeling of sick distress remained with her as she packed away her possessions. She tried not to think ahead to how it would be later, when Pascal left for his hotel and she was alone here. Looking around her when the rooms were restored to their original state, she fou
nd them altered. She felt none of the confidence of yesterday. Her home now looked fragile, easily violated, unsafe.
She would have liked to stay in and eat at home, but Pascal was curiously adamant, insisting they go out to a restaurant, a different restaurant.
They selected, at random, a Chinese place nearby. This Friday evening, as always on Fridays, it was noisy and crowded. When they were finally seated, Gini said, “Didn’t you like the other restaurant, Pascal? The Italian one?”
He gave her a cool glance.
“No, no. I liked it. It was fine. It just might be a good idea to avoid repetitive patterns of behavior, that’s all. I also think we should be careful what we say in your apartment.”
Gini stared at him. “You can’t mean that.”
“Oh, but certainly, I can. Someone is very well informed about us. It won’t hurt to make their lives a little more difficult, yes?”
“Are you telling me there’s a wiretap on my phone, Pascal?”
“Gini.” He leaned forward. “How much do you know about modern listening devices?”
“Not very much.”
“Well, forget all the films you’ve seen. Forget little bugs behind pictures, inside phones, under tabletops. They can still be used, obviously. But there are other devices too. With the right laser equipment, someone could be in a car outside your house. He could be in a room across the square. And he could pick up your words as clearly as if he were standing three feet from you. Less. Even when you’re alone, when you’re not speaking, you’re not safe. They can tell which room you’re in. They can hear you pour a drink. They can hear the tap of your word processor keys. They can hear you yawn. They can listen to your breathing when you’re asleep….”
Gini shivered. “You’re beginning to believe it, aren’t you?” she said slowly. “You’re beginning to believe that story about Hawthorne….”
“I certainly believe there is a story. Which may or may not be the story we were told. I also believe that we’re being helped, and hindered. Both at the same time.” He paused. “One thing I’m quite sure of. We’re not the only people eager to find James McMullen. There are others on his trail.”
He told her, then, about his meeting with McMullen’s sister, and the conversations with his friends.
Gini listened intently. When he had finished, she said, “How strange. ‘The beloved’—that’s what she said?” she frowned. “Listen, Pascal. Two other parcels were sent besides the two we received. And both those recipients are now missing.”
“Both?”
“Yes. Appleyard also. He’s been missing for ten days.” She explained her conversation with Stevey. Pascal listened carefully, interjecting a question now and then. “And there’s more, Pascal, much more. I was trying to tell you earlier, when I came home….” She leaned forward, her face now eager and excited. “I know who it was who delivered those parcels. Susannah identified her this afternoon.”
“Identified her? How?”
“From a photograph, a photograph in a directory of fashion models. I borrowed the directories from the office this afternoon. Susannah picked her out easily. She is American. She works for an agency in New York called Models East—it’s one of the most successful firms. I called them, there and then, from the ICD offices. She’s new, Pascal, just starting out. Her name’s Lorna Munro.”
“You’re sure?”
“Totally sure. Susannah was certain.”
“Did you get a number for her?”
“Yes. But it’s maddening. She’s in Italy, doing some work in Milan. I have a hotel number.”
“Have you tried it?”
“Yes. But she was out. So I left messages everywhere. With her booking agent in New York, at the hotel, with the magazine she was modeling for. She’ll call back, Pascal, I’m sure.”
“And?” Pascal was smiling.
“And?” Gini replied.
“I can tell, there’s more.” He gave a little shrug. “The way your eyes light, the color in your cheeks. Very tough, very tenacious, this reporter I’m working with. I’m not so sure I’d like her on my trail….”
“I don’t like to give up.” Gini looked at him a little uncertainly. “And neither do you, Pascal.”
“True.” He made no further comment. “So what else did you find out?”
Gini hesitated. She drew out the notes Lindsay had taken down that afternoon. She glanced at them, then frowned. “Something I don’t understand,” she began. “It’s a lead, but I don’t understand it at all. That Chanel suit—”
“The one this Lorna Munro wore when she delivered the parcels?”
“Yes. I thought someone must have purchased it, but I was wrong. It was lent on approval, Pascal. It was out of the Bond Street shop for almost four days. It was collected on the afternoon of Friday, December thirty-first, and returned to the shop when they reopened on Tuesday, January fourth, after the long New Year weekend.”
He frowned. “That’s unusual?”
“Not necessarily. It’s something they would do only for a very good customer. What is strange—very strange indeed—is who that customer was.” Gini leaned forward. “Lise Hawthorne requested that suit, Pascal.”
“Lise Hawthorne?” He stared at her in astonishment. “You’re sure of that?”
“As sure as I can be. The manager at Chanel knows Lise well. According to him, it was the ambassador’s wife. She telephoned on the Friday morning. He spoke to her himself.”
When they left the restaurant, Pascal was thoughtful. He took her arm, and they began to walk back to her apartment. It was still raining; the streets gleamed; as cars passed, their tires hissed. Their footsteps echoed on the wet pavement. Gini could feel a little dread inching its way toward her. She tried not to imagine how it would be, alone in her apartment, after Pascal left.
At Pascal’s insistence, they took a roundabout route. Halfway back to Gibson Square, in a deserted side street, he paused.
“Your house, Gini,” he began. “I’ve been thinking. Who lives upstairs?”
“My neighbor. Her name’s Mrs. Henshaw. She’s one of the few original Islington tenants left. Back in the sixties, and early seventies, this was still a poor area.” She gestured around them. “Then it was discovered. Gentrified. Most of the original occupants left—or were persuaded to leave.”
“Bribed, threatened, you mean?” Pascal glanced at her.
“Oh, sure. Inadequately bribed. Or found their water was cut off, that they had no gas or electricity. It’s not a pleasant story, what happened around here. Mrs. Henshaw was luckier. They converted the basement flat, and then left her alone. But these houses are worth a lot of money now. So the landlord tried, a few years back, to get her out. She’s lived in the house all her life. Her children were born there. Her husband died there. …” Gini’s voice became angry. “I did try pointing that out to the landlord. It cut no ice.”
“So what happened?”
“I found her a good lawyer. She has a protected tenancy. She’s safe there for life.”
“I see.”
They walked on a little farther. Pascal said, “So this elderly neighbor, living alone upstairs. Is she there at the moment? I’ve heard nothing, seen no one.”
“No, she’s gone to stay with one of her daughters.”
“But you have a key?”
“Yes. I do. Sometimes, you know, I do her shopping for her, pop in and see her. It’s easier that way.”
“Fine.” Pascal glanced over his shoulder and quickened their pace. “Give it to me, will you, when we get home? I’d just like to make a few checks.”
When they reached her apartment, she silently handed Pascal the key. He left the room, and she heard him outside, mounting the steps to Mrs. Henshaw’s door. A creak of floorboards above her head, then absolute silence. She turned to the television set and watched part of the news bulletin. Anti-U.S. demonstrations were spreading throughout the Middle East; at King’s Cross the IRA bomb had detonated by a newsstand, spra
ying the concourse with shrapnel and broken glass. Forty-five people had been injured. Two—a woman and a four-year-old child—had been killed.
In comparison, her own fears seemed selfish and feeble. She switched off the set, angry with herself. She waited. There was silence from upstairs. She made herself walk into her bedroom, and she tried to pretend to herself that it was still, as always, her own familiar room. There were clean sheets on her bed, a clean nightgown was on her pillow. Pascal had disposed of the other nightgown. She told herself not to be foolish: It was gone.
She could still sense the presence, though, of the man who had been there. He had been through all her things, touched her clothes: He still tainted the air.
She backed out of the room and across the small dividing hallway. She heard movement in the living room behind her, and swung around.
It was Pascal. She stared at him. He was placing a blanket on her sofa, and some cushions in a pile at one end. Napoleon, who had taken to him, was rubbing against his legs. Once the blanket was in place, Napoleon jumped up onto it, kneaded, circled, and lay down. Pascal had not realized she was watching him. He smiled at her cat, reached forward, and replaced him on the ground.
“Mais non …” he said firmly. “No, Napoleon. That’s not the idea at all.”
“Pascal,” Gini said, walking forward. “What are you doing?”
“Doing? I was checking upstairs. I found nothing. And now…” He gave her a sidelong glance in which there was a certain amusement he tried to disguise. “Now I am making up a bed—évidemment.”
“Oh, I see.” She hesitated. “It’s kind of you, Pascal—but really. I’ll sleep in my own room. I have to go back there sooner or later. I’d better start now.”
“This bed is not for you. It’s for me. You see? It fits me perfectly.”
He lay down on the sofa by way of demonstration. The sofa, a relatively short one, was not made to accommodate a prone man of six feet four.
Lovers and Liars Trilogy Page 21
