Lovers and Liars Trilogy

by Sally Beauman

  His immediate instinct, as Hawthorne closed the shutters with that small tight smile of derision, had been to smash his own cameras, to lay waste to that aspect of his life. Never again, Pascal said to himself, never again will I allow myself to do this.

  If Hawthorne had intended to teach him a lesson, he had succeeded, he thought. He crossed furiously to his rented car, began to unlock it, then stopped.

  Never had he felt more like a voyeur. He felt tainted, sickened by his own actions that evening, by his own actions these last three years of his life. He slammed his fist against the bodywork of the car, and felt pain shoot through his hand and arm, punishing himself for what he had done, for continuing to take pictures tonight, even in those few short minutes when he had still believed the woman with Hawthorne was Gini. Even then he had continued—how could he have done that?

  This is what I have become, this is what I have allowed myself to become, he thought, and his mind went black with self-disgust, and self-hate.

  He had cut his hand. He drew in a deep breath to steady himself, then another, and this time the icy air steadied him. He lifted his hand and looked at his watch. It was past one. He stared at the watch face. Past one, and Gini was not back.

  He began, then, on a frantic and crazy pursuit. He drove to an almost deserted Paddington Station, and ran along the platforms, questioning porters, ticket clerks, any passerby who would stop. The last Oxford train had arrived, on time, more than an hour before. Pascal could not let go of the conviction that Gini must have been on that train. He started searching the station.

  Then he saw this endeavor for the foolish thing it was. He drove back to the St. John’s Wood house at a crazy speed and burst through the door. His cameras were still there. His empty coffee cup was still there. But Gini was not. He saw, but did not care, that the gothic house opposite was empty. The shutters in that rear room were open once more. The house was in darkness.

  He ran back down the stairs, leaving all his cameras and equipment where they were. He could not bear to touch them or look at them. He stood in the hall, breathing fast. The lights here were still non-operational. The telephone was still dead.

  A new mad conviction gripped him then. Gini must have returned. She must be in London, but she had gone to the Hampstead cottage, or perhaps to her Islington flat. He scrawled an incoherent message, left it in a prominent place, and drove at high speed, first to Hampstead, then to Islington, then back to Hampstead again. It was evident that Gini had not been to Islington: There was a pile of mail for her on the doormat. The message light of her answering machine had been blinking, but when Pascal, with shaking hands, played the tape back, he heard only his own voice, and the two incoherent desperate messages he had left earlier. As he discovered in Hampstead also. He stood there, torn with indecision. In which of these three places should he wait? It was now three in the morning. He stared out at the darkness across the heath. He had just, for some stupid, hopeless reason, replayed the answering machine here too. He had already, crazily, replayed it twice.

  Staring into the darkness, he listened to the mockery of his own useless and loving message, his own former voice.

  “Is John Hawthorne safe?” Gini asked. She had asked Malone this question twice before, once in the car, once in the hall of this house; neither time had she been answered. They were now in a small sitting room off the main hall. Malone was standing in the doorway. Beyond him she could hear activity, voices, footsteps. Malone was watching her, she saw, and he had that security man’s expression, that closed expression on his face. He glanced over his shoulder as someone passed, and said something inaudible.

  Gini took a step forward. “I asked you a question,” she said sharply. “Is the ambassador safe?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is he here? Is he here in Oxfordshire?” She saw him hesitate, and for a moment thought he was not going to reply; then he changed his mind.

  “No, ma’am. The ambassador is in London tonight. He’s in London all weekend.”

  Gini swung away from him. She stared around the room. It was comfortably furnished. There was a chair, a desk, bookshelves. There was no telephone.

  “I have to have a phone,” she said. “I have to use a phone.”

  “Ma’am. I’ve sent for some coffee. You’re”—he hesitated—“I think you should just sit down, ma’am.”

  “There isn’t time. I have to use a phone. There’s people I need to speak to urgently.” She gave an agitated gesture and tried to push past him.

  Malone took her arm firmly. “I’m sorry, ma’am. As you can see”—he paused—“there’s a security alert. We have a few problems here, right now, and…”

  Gini stared at him. “You know, don’t you?” she burst out. “You know McMullen’s not dead. How do you know? Has he been seen? Is that who they’re looking for out there? Well, they won’t find him here—not if John Hawthorne’s in London—”

  She broke off. Malone, moving with that surprising swiftness she remembered, drew her back firmly into the room. He closed the door.

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’m not saying anything.” Gini backed away from him furiously. “I’m not saying anything to you, or to anyone else.” She hesitated. “The ambassador. I’ll speak to him. I want to speak to him. Look, if you’ll just get me a telephone. Please. It could be important—I know he’ll take the call. If you tell him it’s me…”

  Malone gave her a long, considering look. He said quietly, “If you’ll wait right here, ma’am. I’ll be back.”

  As he left the room, another dark-suited American spoke to him briefly in a low voice. Malone looked back at her over his shoulder. He disappeared into the hall. The other man nodded politely in her direction. He left the door open and stood, blocking it. He turned his back.

  Gini gave a sigh. She was still trembling, she realized, from head to foot. She turned away, and as she did so, passed a mirror hanging on the wall to her left. For an instant she thought there was someone else in this room, some strange woman—and then she saw that this strange woman was herself. She turned back to the glass and stared at her own reflection. No wonder that Malone had seemed taken aback. Her face was cut and streaked with blood; her coat was ripped; her face, hands, and sleeves were covered in mud. Her hair was in wild disorder, stuck with leaves and bits of twig. Beneath the blood, and the mud, a strange white face looked back at her.

  She stared at this white face with its glittering eyes, and turned away. She began to pace the room, up and down, up and down. After a short while an expressionless Malone returned. He closed the door, plugged in the telephone he was holding, and held out the receiver. As Gini took it, she heard John Hawthorne’s voice.

  She gave a low cry of relief and began talking very fast, the words tumbling over one another. Hawthorne interrupted her at once.

  “Gini,” he said. “Gini, you’re all right? What’s happened? Where were you?”

  “It’s McMullen.” Gini was speaking very fast. “It’s McMullen. He isn’t dead. I’m sure he’s not dead.”

  “Gini. It’s all right. Try to be calmer. Listen, we know that. My people know that. The results of the post mortem came through at four P.M. today. The blood group was wrong. Gini, listen to me—”

  “He isn’t here. They’re looking for him here,” Gini said. “He was here earlier—at least I think he was. He has a cottage here, up in the woods on the other side of the valley opposite your house. I went there—and I think he was there too. He locked me in. But that was hours ago. At four, or maybe five. Then he left. He took my car. I think he took my car—someone did.”

  “Wait.” Hawthorne’s voice was suddenly very sharp. “Just wait a minute, will you, Gini? Don’t say any more on this line. Put Malone on. Will you do that?”

  Malone had been watching her closely throughout this exchange. Silently, she handed him the telephone, then sank down into a chair. Malone stood next to her. She could hear the faint sound of Hawthorne, speaking ra
pidly; Malone said little, and his face remained expressionless throughout. After a few minutes he nodded, then handed the telephone back to her.

  “Gini,” John Hawthorne said, and he sounded much calmer, much warmer, so his voice was like a lifeline. “Gini, I want you to listen to me very carefully. It’s nearly three in the morning—did you know that? Malone says you’re in shock. He says your face and hands are badly cut. This is what I want you to do. I want you to let them help you clean yourself up, and make sure you’re not hurt. I want you to have something to eat and drink—no, Gini, don’t interrupt. Then, in about an hour, I want you to come here in the car with Malone, because I need to talk to you myself and I can’t do that on the telephone, not even this telephone. Now, do you understand that?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Gini, Malone will stay with you the whole way. Door to door it’s an hour at this time of night. If I can’t be with you as soon as you get here to the residence—and I might not be able to be because we have a few problems on this end as well—then I’ll be with you just as soon as I can. You understand? But I have to see you, Gini, and I have to talk to you.” He paused, and dropped his voice gently. “You remember what I said to you before, about giving me a few more days?”

  “Yes. I do. But…”

  “It’s hours now, Gini. Hours—that’s all. Now, listen to me. Don’t discuss this with Malone, or with anyone else. Just come straight here, you promise me?” He paused and sudden amusement lifted his voice. “I have to tell you,” he went on, “that you don’t have a great deal of choice in the matter. I intend to make sure you’re safe.”

  Gini looked at Malone uncertainly. She could hear the same seductive directness in Hawthorne’s tones that she had heard in her apartment on Friday night She said, “I’ll do that but on one condition…”

  “A condition? And what is that?”

  “I have to call Pascal. I have to call him now.”

  There was a silence, then a sigh. “Of course,” he replied evenly. “Put Malone back on. He won’t let you near a telephone, I’m afraid, unless I give the word. I’ll see you shortly. Good night.”

  Gini handed the telephone once more to Malone, who again listened to his instructions with an expressionless face. When the conversation was over, he unplugged the phone without a word, left the room, and returned with a different instrument. He plugged this in and remained by her side while she dialed. With shaking hands Gini dialed the St. John’s Wood house. She listened to silence, to nonconnection, then redialed twice.

  She tried the number twice more in the next hour, during which time she was escorted to a bathroom, where she washed her hands and face, and then escorted back to that small sitting room, where she was given coffee, and some food she could not bring herself to eat.

  Precisely one hour later, Malone rose to his feet and checked his watch. “We should leave now, ma’am,” he said.

  Gini was allowed to try the St. John’s Wood number one more time. This time, to her surprise, it connected, and actually rang. An answering machine picked up. Gini was about to replace the telephone, to try her Islington number or the Hampstead number, but then she looked at Malone’s face and had a quick, sure instinct: He would not allow her to do that.

  He was looking at his watch even now as the answering machine at the other end fed her its prerecorded message.

  “Pascal,” Gini said quickly. “I’m well. I’m safe. I’m returning to London now….”

  “Ma’am…” Malone took a step toward her. He shook his head.

  Gini looked at him and knew she had to think very quickly. She had to give Pascal a message she was sure he would understand, a message Malone—or anyone else listening in on this line—could not interpret. “Darling,” she said quickly. “I’ll see you later today. Meantime, I’m thinking of you, and remembering…”

  “Ma’am…”

  “I’m thinking of Beirut, darling. And all those places we used to meet…”

  The telephone went dead. Malone, who had just bent and unplugged it, straightened up. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, still in that flat voice, still with that expressionless face. “My apologies.” He took her arm firmly. “It’s time to go.”

  He said nothing more, and led her out to the black car waiting outside. He opened the front passenger door for Gini, then moved around and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  Gini turned her face to the window. The floodlights had been cut. The house, driveway, and road beyond were dark. She was feeling stronger now, calmer, and much more alert. By the time they reached the end of the drive and turned out fast into the road, her eyes were becoming accustomed to the moonlight.

  As Malone swung the car toward the village and the highway beyond it, she kept her head turned, looking up the hill to her left. She peered at the woods at the top of that hill, where McMullen’s cottage was concealed, and the wide expanse of fields leading up to those woods. She could just see men, fanning out across the fields, making their way silently up the slope. This puzzled her, and she thought it puzzled Malone also, for he too noted the searchers and frowned.

  “I don’t think they’re going to find anything—anyone—up there,” Gini said. She glanced at Malone.

  “Neither do I,” he said.

  The remark was flatly made, but it surprised her, coming from a man usually so uncommunicative. He kept his eyes on the road ahead.

  “Still, I guess they have to be thorough,” she said.

  “The Brits are certainly trying to be thorough…” Malone said.

  “Those are British security people up there?”

  “Some of them are British. Some American. As to who’s actually involved, I can’t comment on that.” He increased their speed. “I don’t give instructions around here. The ambassador does.” The remark was made in a tight-lipped way. She saw him hesitate, then glance at her. “At that cottage…” He paused. “Did you actually see this man McMullen? Or anyone else?”

  “No.” Gini looked at him. “You heard me. I thought I made that clear.”

  “I thought you did too.” He gave her a cool, assessing and intelligent glance. “You also made it clear that whoever was up there left. Around eleven hours ago, right?”

  “Yes.” Gini hesitated. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no,” he replied. “Let’s just get you to London, okay?”

  She knew he would say nothing more, and she was right. Malone maintained a thoughtful silence the entire way to London. Once on the motorway, he drove very fast. There was little traffic, but the route was heavily patrolled, Gini noted. They passed no less than four police cars in fifty miles. None pursued, or made any attempt to flag them down—and Gini found this lack of reaction strange.

  Malone was driving at just over one hundred miles an hour. The traffic might be light, but he was exceeding the speed limit by thirty miles an hour, at least.

  When they reached the residence, it was a few minutes before five in the morning, and still pitch dark. They turned into Regent’s Park, passed the mosque, and were waved in through the residence’s lodge gates.

  Malone escorted her into the hall she remembered, past the pinkish drawing room, which was empty, up some stairs, and into a small, anonymous room at the back of the house. It did not have a telephone, but Gini was not surprised to see that. Malone drew out a chair for her politely, asked her to remain there, then left the room, closing the door behind him.

  The minute he left, Gini rose to her feet. She moved to the window and lifted the curtain aside, but she could see little. Behind her was the darkness of the residence gardens, beyond that the park itself, locked at night, and beyond the park, the lights of London. She let the curtain fall and looked around the room. It had two armchairs, a table with some magazines. There was an empty grate, with a large mirror over its mantel. She listened. This house, in contrast to the sense of urgency and alarm in Oxfordshire, was silent. She could hear no footsteps, no voices.

  She sat down
in one of the chairs, listening, wondering if John Hawthorne would come to her soon, and what he would say when he did. Time passed. The silence of the room began to lull her. She felt her eyes begin to close, and realized for the first time how tired she was. She sat there for some time, half asleep, half awake, and then she heard a noise that jolted her upright.

  It was a low, steady sound, somewhere between a whine and a hiss. She tensed, fully awake now, and rose to her feet. She stared at the door. The noise was louder now, she could hear it approach. A second before the door opened, she realized what it was. It was the noise of an electric wheelchair moving fast along the thickly carpeted corridor outside.

  Then Frank Romero opened the door and the wheelchair, and its occupant, came into sight.

  S. S. Hawthorne propelled himself into the center of the room. He stopped the chair, swiveled it fast so he was facing her, and smiled at her in a way so like his son that Gini was shocked into silence. He held out his hand to her.

  “Ms. Hunter? John has been held up. He has to talk to the security people. Sit down, please. While you’re waiting for John, I thought you and I might have a brief talk.”

  He motioned her into a chair facing the fireplace, with its mirror above. With that low hissing whining sound, he maneuvered his chair so that he had his back to the fireplace and was facing both her and the door behind her. Gini tensed, and glanced over her shoulder. Romero, she saw, had not left the room, but was standing in front of the door, his arms folded across his chest. S. S. Hawthorne looked across at him.

  “You can bring them in now, Frank,” he said in a curt way. “I don’t want to waste time on this.”