Lovers and Liars Trilogy

by Sally Beauman

  “I see. So you were there together. For how long?”

  “About six months. January through July. We had a whale of a time.” He leaned forward. “James’s mother hadn’t done her homework thoroughly enough. She thought the Gravelliers were very bon genre. And so they were—up to a point. What she hadn’t realized was that Madame in particular was this wonderful, passionate bohemian French intellectual. Lots of leftist friends. Parties until three A.M. Jean-Paul Sartre for supper. No house rules. No curfew. Can you imagine—after an English boarding school? I went totally wild. In fact, looking back”—he grinned—“that’s when I probably started on the downward slope. I smelled freedom for the first time. No doubt very bad for the soul.”

  “So you kicked over the traces? What about James? Did he do that as well?”

  “Oh, James.” He laughed. “Well, he started off taking it all very seriously. Courses at the Sorbonne, for God’s sake. I avoided all those like the plague.” He paused. “I think he could scent it too, though, that other world. Well, you couldn’t exactly miss it. By April, May, the whole of Paris—it felt like not just the city, but the whole world, was ready to explode. James got caught up in that a bit, I think, the fervor, the excitement. He went on one or two marches with other students from the Sorbonne. But come May, of course, he had rather more pressing concerns.”

  “Such as?”

  “He fell in love.” Kent gave an amused shrug. “And, being James, it hit him hard. The French have all the best terms for it—un coup de foudre, a thunderclap. He was turned inside out and upside down. Bouleversé. But then, you have to remember”—he glanced at her—“we were two English schoolboys, brought up like monks. Both of us virgins, alas. And we were only eighteen years old.”

  He broke off and glanced toward the door. Pascal had just entered, and was making his way toward their table. Kent gave a sigh.

  “Damn. A friend of yours? And I was just working up to that dinner invitation again. Pity. I don’t think I’ll mention it just now. I get the feeling it might not go down too well. Does he always frown that way, or only when men with ponytails buy you large gins you don’t drink? Oh, hi….” He rose to his feet, was introduced, and sat down again. He looked at Pascal closely, as he drew up a chair.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. “Pascal Lamartine. Poor James. What on earth has he been up to? James doesn’t chase movie stars, as far as I know. I didn’t realize you were working with the heavy brigade, Genevieve. If I had, I think I’d probably have fled.”

  Pascal began to speak, and Gini kicked him hard under the table.

  “Oh, Pascal’s just a friend,” she said. “We’re having lunch, that’s all. Nothing to do with this story or you.” She smiled at Kent. “Really. He won’t mind waiting a while, will you, Pascal?”

  “Not at all.”

  “It’s just that you’d reached a very interesting part of your story. Won’t you go on?”

  “I’ll get us a drink.” Pascal rose. “Gin and tonic?”

  Jeremy Prior-Kent hesitated, then shrugged. “No. I’ll switch back to beer, thanks. A Corona with lime. Cheers.”

  Pascal withdrew. Kent lit another cigarette. He paused, looking at Gini, then smiled.

  “I wonder why I’m getting the feeling that there’s more going on here than meets the eye?”

  “It’s those paranoid tendencies of yours—you mentioned them, remember?”

  “Maybe. Maybe. Still, what the hell? This isn’t a state secret. You really want me to go on?”

  “Yes. I do. Take it from where you left off. Paris 1968. May 1968. James McMullen fell head over heels in love. He embarked on his first love affair—”

  “Slow down.” Kent lifted a hand to stop her. “I said he fell in love. I never said he had an affair. I had affairs—lots of them. But not James. This was strictly platonic as far as I know, and all the more intense as a result. James is a bit like that. He liked to put women up on a pedestal, and then worship them, serve them. A very parfit gentil knight. Deeply medieval, and rather dangerous in my opinion. It breeds all sorts of unhealthy illusions. But James, of course, wouldn’t agree.”

  “So who was this woman? How did he meet her?”

  “Well, the awful part is, I can’t remember her name. I met her a couple of times. She was older than James, around twenty-two or twenty-three. She was half-French and half-Vietnamese. Very beautiful, a tiny thing, very fragile-looking, with this astonishing long jet-black hair. She was Madame Gravellier’s niece, and she didn’t live in Paris. She was visiting, there was some conference thing going on, and her father was over for it, or her uncle…I can’t remember the details. It’s so long ago. And I don’t see that it can be of any relevance now. I mean James never mentions her, ever. He’s probably forgotten it ever happened.”

  “She was half-Vietnamese?”

  “That’s right. Well, Vietnam was a former French colony and Madame Gravellier’s family had connections there. A rubber plantation, I think—something like that. Madame Gravellier grew up in Indochina and came back to France eventually. But one of her sisters stayed on out there and went native. Married a Vietnamese. I’m pretty sure that was the connection. Anyway, the point is, this girl turned up one day at one of the Gravelliers’ crazy evenings, when there were about three thousand people milling about, students and artists and actors and writers and café intellectuals, and Christ knows what, and I was introduced to her and James was introduced to her—and the next time I looked round, I realized he was still sitting in the corner, talking to her. And they’d been there for four hours.”

  “That was how they met?”

  “Yes. She didn’t speak a word of English, but they were both fluent in French. So there they were, talking away. She was wearing this white jacket thing that buttoned all the way up to the neck, and one of those sort of sarong skirts. Her hair was loose. She was very tiny, very quiet, very self-contained. Well, I was curious. James wasn’t very good with women. He was shy. Usually, he wouldn’t speak to them at all. So I was curious what line he was taking. I stood there, sort of hovered around—I don’t think either of them even saw me. My French wasn’t too good, so it took me a while to understand what in hell they were discussing….”

  He stopped, and grinned. “You know what it was? Politics. Can you believe it? This really amazing-looking woman, and what’s James discussing? The thoughts of Ho Chi Minn.”

  He broke off as Pascal quietly rejoined them, then shrugged. “So, end of story. James went on seeing her, I know that much. She was in Paris around two months. Then she left, went back home. James and I split up then, around July, August. I didn’t see him again until we went up to Christ Church that October.”

  “And he never mentioned her then?”

  “No. Not one word.”

  “Could he have remained in contact with her?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that the change that came over him then, at Oxford, might have been connected to her?”

  “Not really,” he said. “To be perfectly honest, I’d almost forgotten her. You know, it was amusing, watching James in the throes, in Paris. But that was months earlier. I assumed he’d come to his senses. I mean, we were eighteen. She was just another girl.”

  He took a large swallow of his beer, glanced at the silent Pascal somewhat warily, then tapped his watch. “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to go now. I’d better put in an appearance at this lunch of mine, at least.” He rose and looked down at Gini in an uncertain way. “James is okay, is he? I mean, he’s not in trouble of any kind? I’m fond of James. We go back a long way….” He glanced at Pascal. “You’re not hounding him, I hope?”

  “Not hounding him. No.”

  “Well, if you really do need to find him, I’ve thought of someone you could try.”

  “Yes?”

  “Her name’s Lise Hawthorne. You know, the American ambassador’s wife. I met her with him once—ran into them in some dimly lit restaurant. She
might know. They’re very close friends.” He smiled.

  “When was this?”

  “Last spring sometime.”

  “Did James McMullen say they were friends?”

  “Yes. Subsequently…So he claimed. That wasn’t exactly the impression I had at the time….” Kent had been turning away. He stopped, looked back, gave Gini a meaningful look, and then grinned.

  “Put it this way. They were holding hands under the table at the time. At least, to be charitable they were holding hands. She was looking flushed. James wasn’t pleased to see me. Very bad timing on my part. But there you are—if people will carry on that way in a public place, what can one do? He lifted a hand. “Nice to meet you both. Remember my white-haired mother, Genevieve. Bye.”

  The door to the bar swung closed behind him. There was a brief silence. Pascal and Gini looked at each other.

  “Well, well, well,” Pascal said. “So. Are they friends, the way McMullen claimed—or are they lovers?”

  “I know what Jeremy Kent was implying and so do you. Lovers. Yet Kent spent most of the past hour explaining how straitlaced McMullen was in that respect.”

  “That kind always fall the hardest. When they fall.”

  “Indeed. What’s more, Kent isn’t just McMullen’s old school friend. I recognized him, Pascal, the second he walked in. He runs that escort agency I went to, he’s one of its owners.”

  “He admitted that?”

  “Yes. And furthermore, James McMullen knew about that agency. He questioned Kent about it within a month of his July meeting with Lise.”

  “So you think McMullen could have been planning to use that escort agency? As a way of setting up Hawthorne?”

  “It is a possibility, Pascal.” Gini closed her notebook. “If Lise and McMullen are lovers, we have to look at this differently. Just for a start, it means they’ve both lied.”

  “I do realize that.” Pascal rose. “Come on, Gini. We have an appointment with that Suzy woman, remember? We meet her at three. I have the bike outside. Let’s hear the call girl’s side of the story.”

  “You think that’s what she is? A call girl?”

  “Gini, this is a story about sex, yes?” He took her arm. “Other things too—love, maybe. War, maybe. Lies certainly. But sex definitely. Of course I think she’s a call girl, don’t you?”

  Chapter 29

  PASCAL HAD BOOKED A room in a large, discreet Knightsbridge hotel. It overlooked Hyde Park to the rear. They arrived there after taking their now-usual circuitous and time-consuming route, with some forty-five minutes to spare. Pascal had coffee brought up. He lit the first of several cigarettes, and began in his habitual way to pace the room.

  “And so,” he said, “I collected the keys for the St. John’s Wood house. We can move in, and I can start setting up my cameras tomorrow. If this damn meeting of Hawthorne’s actually does take place, it could be at any point from midnight Saturday on. I want to have everything ready well before. I want to be certain that no one can enter or leave without my seeing them, even after dark.”

  He broke off, and shrugged. “After that, I spent an age checking those gun licenses and that wasn’t straightforward at all. In the end, with the aid of someone from the firearms division at the Metropolitan police, I finally traced it. McMullen’s guns are registered as being held at his London flat—and that’s surprising. The regulations are very strict now. Guns have to be kept in a locked gun cabinet and the police check that they are. McMullen has no gun cabinet at that apartment—we’d have seen it. But that’s where the guns are registered. Two shotguns and one rifle. The shotguns for sporting use, the rifle because he’s a registered member of a gun club. According to the records, it’s outside Oxford. He regularly uses its range.”

  He stopped, turned back to Gini, and shrugged.

  “So, there you are. No progress in his army career. I drew a blank there. So that’s the sum of my achievements. Then I came to collect you. I thought that man Kent would be long gone by then. And I’m afraid I interrupted you at a bad moment, yes?”

  “A bit. It was all right. He finished his story finally. And it looks as if you were right, Pascal. There really is a link between McMullen and a woman in Vietnam.” Quickly, she told him the details of her conversation with Kent. Pascal listened intently.

  “I see. I see,” he said when she had finished speaking. “That could be possible if McMullen was living there with an ex-colonial family. Also, there were always strong links between the left in France and Vietnam. And all the peace negotiations between the Americans and the North Vietnamese took place in Paris. The year 1968 was crucial—it was the year Lyndon Johnson called a halt to the bombing of North Vietnam. It was the year of the Tet offensive. I think it was the year the final peace negotiations began—though they dragged on for years afterward. I’d have to check that…” He glanced at Gini. “Kent mentioned a conference? He said that was why the woman was there?”

  “He did. He didn’t mention what conference. He was vague in some ways, specific in others. He could remember how she looked, this woman, but not her name.”

  “How did he describe her?”

  “As tiny. Very fragile. Quiet. She spoke fluent French. When he met her, she wore white. She had long black hair.” Gini hesitated. “It did cross my mind, Pascal—”

  “What?”

  “Well, the way in which types of women seem to recur in this story. First there are the blondes—all the women Hawthorne allegedly meets. Then Lorna Munro. Now Suzy. Then suddenly, their very opposite: two women, poles apart in many respects, and yet they both share the same coloring, the same dark hair….”

  “Maybe. Maybe.” Pascal shrugged. “I’d say it was just a coincidence. Lots of women have dark hair.”

  “Of course. But don’t you remember? In the car in Oxford, McMullen said he’d loved only two women in his life, so what he felt for Lise was not an inconsiderable thing. Don’t you see, Pascal, he might associate Lise in some ways with this other woman. And if he did, it might explain a great deal. If she died—even if she didn’t die in the way he believes—he could have transferred all the feelings he had for her to Lise. It would intensify his commitment to Lise.”

  “Possibly.” Pascal made an impatient gesture. “But I’m fed up with all this speculation. That’s where we end up, again and again. With speculation. I want some facts. Some nice, simple, straightforward facts. Like, for instance, are McMullen and Lise Hawthorne lovers? Yes or no? What are you doing?”

  He turned around. Gini had just picked up the telephone.

  “I’m calling Mary. I agree with you. There are a few details I’d like to know as well.”

  “Mary? Gini, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Darling, she’s in constant touch with John Hawthorne, for one thing. This woman Suzy’s arriving any second for another.”

  “No, she isn’t. She’s not due for another ten minutes. I just have time, Pascal. And I won’t tell Mary where I am, obviously. I can make it just seem like a casual inquiry. I haven’t spoken to her in days. She can’t get hold of me at my apartment. …Quite apart from anything else, she’ll start getting worried if she doesn’t hear from me. I just want to find out what she knows about James McMullen—whether she ever met him at any of Lise’s embassy parties, whether Lise ever discussed him. She could have, Pascal, and if she did, I want to know.” She began dialing the number.

  “Oh, very well. Very well—but for God’s sake, keep it casual,” Pascal said. “Talk about something else first. Then say you ran into McMullen or something and he mentioned Lise’s name. Don’t make it obvious, Gini. I don’t like you calling her now. It’s almost Sunday. For all you know, John Hawthorne could be with her. I—”

  He broke off as Gini began speaking. She had hardly begun on her first sentence before she was interrupted. She stopped, and stood listening in silence. Pascal could just hear the sound of Mary speaking rapidly.

  �
�Oh, I see,” Gini said. “I didn’t realize. I’ve been out a lot. When? Oh, Mary, I’m not sure. I…It’s rather short notice.”

  Pascal moved a little closer to her. Gini had paled, he saw, and on her face was an expression he knew of old, a closed, blank, defensive look. She moved so her back was toward him, and began to twist the cord of the phone. Her answers became monosyllabic. He could hear and see that she was attempting to resist something, and then giving ground.

  Finally she replaced the phone and turned back to him. The alteration in her demeanor was startling. A confident young woman now looked like a nervous child. Only one person produced that effect on Gini. Gently, Pascal took her hand.

  “Your father,” he said. “You were speaking to your father, weren’t you?”

  “That’s right. Mary passed him the phone.” She turned her face away. “He’s in London, passing through. Seeing some publisher about his Vietnam book. He’s been trying to get hold of me for two days. He wants to see me at Mary’s. Tonight. Not for long—they’re going out somewhere. Just for an hour or so.”

  There was a brief silence. Pascal watched her face. He said quietly, “Gini, when did you last see him?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Two years ago. Two and a half.”

  “Does he call you? Does he write?”

  “No.”

  “But now he’s passing through, so you have to drop everything and go running.”

  “He said it was urgent, Pascal. Important. I’ll have to go.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet it was important. And urgent. He knows you’re working on the Hawthorne story, Gini. It’s just more pressure. Hawthorne’s roped him in.”