Lovers and Liars (20 page)

‘They’re carefully written, Pascal.’

‘Even so. It could just be something someone jotted down. Then they needed a piece of paper, to pad out that photograph frame, so they used this. It might not even be McMullen’s writing.’

‘That’s true.’ Gini took the piece of paper back from him and scanned it. ‘It’s just … the way McMullen disappeared. Why contact Jenkins, then disappearT

‘Something happened, obviously between the meeting when he

lefivered that tape, and December twenty-first last year. Maybe

1C thought he was in danger.’

, ,,But then surely he’d want to make contact? The story was epching a crucial stage. He was about to provide that assignation KkIress. If he had to disappear for any reason, surely he’d try to “ke contact of some kind?’

‘Leave a trail, you mean? Possibly.’ Pascal looked across at the pper. ‘But if that’s some kind of coded message, I can’t crack it, op youT

‘No. I can’t. But then codes aren’t my strong point. Never Kere. We could try the obvious things, I guess, substituting letters W numbers. Try that, Pascal.’

j,,Vith the letter -A” as number one? OK . He scribbled in he notebook, then grinned. ‘Not too helpful. Look.’ He passed e page across. It now read like this:

6/2/6

2/1/6

C F/B/F B/A/F

‘Gibberish. Damn.‘Gini frowned. ‘Let’s try it with “B” as number me, or “C”. “C” is the third letter of the alphabet, Pascal - maybe hat’s what the number three at the top means … Try that.’ .They tried this and other combinations for some time. None of e combinations produced anything resembling a message, not Ven a clear word.

‘Hopeless.’ Pascal was the first to grow impatient. He pushed e paper to one side. ‘I think we’re wasting our time.’

‘One last try. Think, Pascal. It was the only scrap of writing in Ne whole flat. It was inside Lise Hawthorne’s photograph. That uggests something, surely?’

, ‘Maybe, maybe … ‘Pascal smiled. ‘I can see it’s tempting. OK Orhaps vou missed something. Maybe you can’t make this work n its own. Maybe it has to be matched, to something else. Tell ie again, how you found it.’

A went through the desk twice. There was a leather blotter . ‘Clean blotting-paper?’

‘Pristine. Unused. I checked under it - nothing there. Then iere was a pile of books, but there were books everywhere, on w shelves, on the coffee table, piled on the floor, by his bed ou saw.’

.‘You checked inside the booksT

‘Obviously. Nothing. Oh, one of them had his name, his Oxford college and a date written - nineteen sixty-eight. I’ll check, but I imagine it’s the date he was there.’

‘Nothing underlined in the book texts, written in the marginT ‘Nothing I could see. I was looking quickly. They were well read, but clean.’

‘What books were they?’

‘A poetry anthology, Milton’s Paradise Lost, a Carson McCullers novel.’

‘Eclectic.’ ‘Sure, but the bookshelves were the same. Novels, political works, poetry, history. Masses of history, maybe that was his subject at Oxford. Oh ‘and books in foreign languages, German, French, Italian .

‘A welleducated army officer. Interesting . Pascal sighed. ‘It doesn’t seem to help, however. Go on.’

‘That was it. The books, the blotter, the photograph of Lise not a recent photograph by the way - and a leather container for pens and pencils. Nothing more.’

Pascal shook his head. ‘Then I don’t see it. It’s a blind alley.’ He smiled. ‘You don’t know any friendly neighbourhood codecrackers, by any chanceT

‘Unfortunately, no. Not my line. Except - wait a minute. There is someone who might help. A friend of Mary’s - erstwhile Cambridge don. He worked in military intelligence in the war

- at least, I think he did. He compiles crosswords now, fiendish crosswords for The Times.’

She broke off. Pascal, she saw, was watching her closely, his expression absorbed, gentle, slightly sad.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, nothing.’ He smiled. ‘I like it when you concentrate, that’s all. There’s a certain expression that comes into your face then. You push your hair back, behind your ears, and you … It’s nothing. Just the way the light was falling on your skin. My photographer’s eye.’

Gini looked at him uncertainly. Pascal rose abruptly to his feet.

‘I’ll get the bill,’ he said. ‘And then I’ll walk you home.’

When they were back in her flat, Pascal showed no inclination to leave. While Gini made coffee, he prowled about the room. He checked the doors, the windows, the pictures, the bookshelves,

a.way that made her nervous. She sat down by the fire, g Napoleon, while Pascal peered at prints of art exhibitions. ritually, she could stand it no longer.

,`Just what are you doing, PascalT

What?’ He swung around, and gave her an absent-minded look, if his concentration were elsewhere.

s a very ordinary apartment/ Gini said patiently. ‘Ordinary rs, pretty obvious books. You appear to be casing it. I just ered why.’

Td like to know you, perhaps.’ He gave a shrug. ou do know me.’

ybe. You’ve changed. I’m not so sure.’ what does your investigation tell youT

a number of things. We like the same painters. We’ve even to some of the same art exhibitions. This one, for instance - in .’ He ‘gestured at the poster. ‘You were there. I was there.’ s, and so were roughly twentyfive thousand other people, . It was a very successful exhibition.’

ven so.’ He gave her a sharp glance. ‘it was in Paris. I live in That exhibition was last year.’ He paused.

id you go to it on your own?’ es, I did, as it happens.’

o boyfriend?’

was probably between boyfriends. I quite often am.’

also went to this exhibition on my own … ‘ He hesitated n.I’You never thought of calling me then, when you were in I didn’t. Pascal, it was years since we met. You had a wife, mily, I-,

Knot last year. No wife. I was divorced three years ago. You that.’

`lDid IT

“That’s what ou said yesterday. You said you’d heard .

4Gini looked away quickly. This deception was hard. She wonwhat Pascal’s reaction would be if she told him the truth: she could never go to Paris, or anywhere else in France for

t matter, without every street, every caf6, singing his name. remembered the times, the many times in the past, when had walked the Paris boulevards, sat in Paris cafLss, and seen features in the air, in the reflections on the Seine. ‘What about

onT She turned back to look at him. ‘You must have been London, hundreds of times. You never called me, Pascal. You

never wrote. There was just that one accidental meeting in Paris.’ It was Pascal’s turn to look away. He wondered what Gini’s

reaction would be if he told her the truth: that he had called her, that he had spoken to her - many, many times, in his own mind. Could you explain to someone that despite absence and the passing of time, it was perfectly possible to maintain an imagined dialogue with her, that those exchanges could take on vitality, a life of their own? No, you could not explain, he decided grimly, any more than you could explain how their influence remained with you, how it entered into you and stained you, and how sometimes, with a particularly painful trickery, it would surface in dreams.

He stared at the curtains of Gini’s room, and for a brief instant saw his own home in Paris, the home he had then shared with Helen, five years before. Mid-afternoon, spring sunshine; his daughter was asleep in the next room; Helen had gone shopping. He picked up the telephone, put it down; he did this three times, then finally he dialled.

He had seen Gini outside that caf6 just a few hours before. All that time, the impulse had been mounting. Now, guiltily, he gave into it. During that brief glacial embarrassed conversation, she had mentioned the name of her hotel. Such was his perturbation he was incapable of thinking. All he knew was that he had to speak to her, hear the sound of her voice. So he dialled, spoke to the receptionist, waited; his pulse accelerated. The room number rang three times, four, five … Then a man’s voice answered. Pascal froze. He should have foreseen this, it was so obvious, she had made the situation perfectly clear … He was about to hang up, and then found he was unable to do so:

‘Je peux parler 4 Mademoiselle Hunter?’

‘Non. Je regrette . ‘The Englishman’s French was good, almost unaccented. There was a slight pause. ‘Elle est partie.’

‘Quand?’ ‘Cet apr&-midi - une demi-heure … Vous voulez laisser un message?’ ‘Non. Ce n’est pas important. Merci. Au revoir - - - ‘

He knew, as he replaced the receiver, that Helen had returned. He could feel her presence, through his shoulder-blades. He swung around.

‘No luck?’ She gave a small tight smile. ‘What a disappointment for you. I wondered when you’d call.’ She gave a quick glance down at her watch. ‘Two and a half hours. I’m surprised you waited that long. But then of course you couldn’t call earlier, could you? I was here.’

She placed her shopping-bag on the table, and began calmly to ack it: bread, wine, vegetables, cheese. ‘Never mind, Pascal. her next time you’re in England. She’ll be delighted to hear you. She made that very clear.’

,She’s a friend/ Pascal began, hopelessly. ‘I told you-‘

Oh, I know what you told me - and you lie terribly badly. always did. I thought that particularly interesting. After all y lie? Why should I care? It was years before you met just another of your foreign affairs. Why pretend otherwise? Ss, of course, it was a very special affair. Was it special, calT

‘I won’t discuss this. You’re wrong. You wouldn’t understand-‘ ‘Wrong?’ She met his eyes coldly. ‘Oh no, I don’t think so. Not

11. 1 fi nd it quite remarkable - that you’ve never once mentioned name, not in all the years I’ve known you. So secretive. Her nds were shaking - did you notice?’

‘No, I damn well didn’t.’ O ‘Well, they were.’

‘Look, can we just forget thisT

‘Oh, I can. Probably.’ Her gaze became coolly speculative. ‘The estion is, can youT She folded up the grocery bag, very delibtely. ‘Unfinished business, I’d say. I can always tell. My advice uld be to go to London, finish it off, and when you’ve got it t of ),our system, come home.’

Helen … ‘

-‘Why not? It’s much the best way. Go to bed with her. You viousl% still want to. Why else phoneT

‘For Christ’s sake, that’s the only reason to phone a woman, is Because VOU want to go to bed with her?’

.‘No. Of course not. But it’s the reason in your case, whether u know it or not.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Do you know, I really don’t care? I don’t care any more where u go, what you do, or who you screw.’ She paused, gave him considering look. ‘Have you been faithful? Are you faithfulT ..‘As a matter of fact, yes. I am. With difficulty.’

As always, anger and retaliation pleased her. She gave another ill smile. ‘Well, don’t fight it any more on my account, Pascal. ‘You loved me, I might feel differently. But since you don’t, it ally makes no difference. Feel free. Fuck around.’

‘She turned away, still quite calmly, opened the fridge, and began put away the groceries. Pascal lost his temper. He lost his temper

with his wife, with the room, with the air. He smashed his hand down hard on the kitchen table,

‘Why?’ he shouted. ‘Why do you do this? Why do you say that? I married you, after all.’

‘Ah yes. You married me.’ She turned around, and looked at him. ‘And you said that you loved me. I even believed you - for a while.’

‘I believed it, damn you.’ He hit the table again, and knocked over the wine. ‘I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.’

Helen righted the bottle expertly. She gave him a cool glance. ‘Ah, but did you believe it, Pascal? I could see you tried - but did you really believe it, in your heart?

There was a silence, a long silence. Pascal turned away and Helen sighed.

‘Precisely/ she said, and this time the bitterness came through in her voice. ‘Maybe that’s why I never felt like your wife even with your ring on my hand. Face facts, Pascal. You married me because I very unwisely let you get me pregnant. You married me because it was the decent thing to do, and you can be a decent man. Very sweet, very touching - only then, unfortunately, I lost the child.’

Her voice had risen. It hit a high strained note. Pascal swung around.

‘WhyT he said. He could scarcely speak. ‘Why, in God’s name do you do thisT

‘Because it’s the truth. Do you think I’m totally blind? After my miscarriage I knew exactly what you were thinking. You were thinking you needn’t have married me, after all.’

‘How can you say that?’ He advanced on her, white-faced. ‘I was here. I did everything possible. I found us this apartment - you said you wanted this apartment. I gave up job after job - for six months, longer, I scarcely left your side. My mother tried to help.’

‘Oh don’t bring your bloody boring mother into this. Your mother thinks like a French peasant. She thinks childbirth’s nothing. She expects a woman to give birth easily, like some bloody animal in a farmyard. What does she understandT

Pascal bit back an angry reply. His mother had come up to Paris, had stayed several months. She had tried hard to help Helen after the miscarriage: she had shopped for her, cooked for her - and been insulted for her pains. He looked at his wife, and his face hardened.

‘Forget that then,’ he said. ‘Distort everything. There’s one thing even you can’t forget. We had Marianne.’

tiny spasm of pain tightened her face. She made a shak gesy

of the hand, then regained control. ‘Ah yes. We had Marianne. y gave you a reason to stay with me. Thanks, Pascal.’ turned away and began to lay the table for Marianne’s tea.

shook out a tablecloth, found a bib, a child’s plate, Marianne’s spoon. Pascal felt a sense of pain and bewilderment. Some se charges were old, some new and they left him wary. He

been down this particular road so often before. He could go I , and hold her; she would cry. Later, a day later, two later, it would begin all over again.

aps she had been expecting him to make just such an , because when he did not, it angered her. Two patches r rose in her cheeks. She stopped laying the table, looked him.