Lovers and Liars (25 page)

Interesting, he thought, the question of accents in this case: an English voice on the telephone to ICD, then an American delivering the parcels. It was something he must mention to Gini, Kate McMullen’s boast.

‘You must forgive me/ he said with studied politeness, as she reached for a cigarette. ‘Turning up on your doorstep like this. But I was hoping to see James while I was in London, and I thought perhaps you could point me in his direction. I’ve tried several friends. None of them seemed to know where he was.

‘Oh, James … ‘ She gave him a slightly sullen look, as if this explanation bored her. ‘Wouldn’t we all like to know? I’m entirely pissed off with him, actually. He swore blind to me that he’d try to get back for Christmas. We always go home to the aged parents then - you know how it is. Well, bloody James never turned up. Guess who had to help stuff the turkey, and walk the damn

? Shropshire in December is not exactly my idea of fun.’

ore blindT Pascal leaned forward to light her cigarette. Ive seen him recently thenT

n him? You must be joking. No such luck. I haven’t seen since last summer. He’s far too busy to bother with me. ys rushing around, doing God knows what. No, he teled. Said he was going off skiing with some bloody boring of his. And that wasn’t even true either, because I ran into

dy boring friend at a party two nights later, and he hadn’t heard from James, not for months.’

w odd. Maybe he changed his plans - went with some other … I

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

t he did telephone you? When wag thisT

God, I don’t know - when was it? Before Christmas, ob, but not very long before, because when he said he was skiing, I told him he was cutting it a bit fine.’ She made a

at’s when he swore he’d get back. Said he was only going few days. It must have been around December the nineteenth, tieth, something like that. No, the twentieth, that’s it. I

ber, because it was the day my sodding agent actually t me lunch. When James phoned, I’d just got back … ‘ paused, looking at Pascal in a way that made him feel

tly alarmed. She leaned forward, revealing a considerable nt of cleavage. ‘More voddie?’ she said. ‘No? Well, I’ll just ne up a bit.’

Pascal said, as she sashayed back to the drinks table, ‘he made it for the Christmas celebrations … T

Nor the New Year. Not even a phone call. Daddy was over-pleased.- Mummy wept into the pudding and brandy er. I had a lot of the thankless-child bit. Actually, I think dy’s given up on James. When he was in the Army, it was but since he left … ‘

at’s how I know him,’ Pascal said firmly. ‘Through the Army. t’s how we first met. On a NATO exercise … ‘He did a rapid lation, then remembered the date on the photograph Jenkins given them. ‘Around nineteen eighty-eight, something like … I

e wondered if McMullen’s sister knew that a Frenchman was dikely 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 reallyT 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, Sienna … 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 thatT

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, ess. I’m not in London long… ‘

ou’re notT She gave him an unfocused look, then laughed. tossed back another gulp of vodka. ‘Oh well. I might have n. Too bad. Salut.’

scal edged towards the door. There he paused. ‘I wonder/ id. ‘There’s no-one else you can think of, who might know re he isT

‘Who have you tried?’

‘A couple of people.’ He mentioned names Jenkins had given , whom he had called earlier that day. Kate McMullen gave rug; more vodka spilled.

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

‘Nicholas Jenkins/ Pascal said solemnly.

‘Works at the News. Oh, and there’s Jeremy Prior-Kent. They t to prep school together, they were at Christ Church toeT. He’s an ass-hole too. Makes TV commercials, for Christ’s

Not that he’s ever seen fit to cast me in one of them,

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

!‘What, I ise? The beloved, you mean?‘She rose and gave a harsh gh. ‘011 sure, try Lise Hawthorne. I wish you luck.’

“I’m sorry?’

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

y do you say thatT Pascal asked and he knew at once, it a question too far, one enquiry too much. Kate McMullen d on her feet. She put down her glass with deliberate care, gave him a narTow-eyed look.

at is this? Who are you, anywayT

I told you. I’m a friend of your brother’s. I was in London, 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 thisT ‘Look, I’d better leave, yesT 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 suddenT

Pascal turned back. ‘An AmericanT he said. ‘He was looking for your brother? When was thisT

‘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 motor bike, and weaved his way between buses and trucks, heading north-east. Stopping at a traffic light as he approached King’s Cross Station, he checked his watch. It

four now. He would be at Gini’s flat within ten minutes. He a lot to tell her, he was impatient to see her. By now, she d surely be back.

he reached the station, however, all traffic stopped. Sud, there were police everywhere; the air was shrill with sirens, h flashing blue lights. An accident, another IRA bomb scare actual bombing? Pascal felt his heart contract. What if they

bombed an underground station again? What if Gini had taken home?

peered ahead of him, through the swell of traffic. People spilling out of the station concourse, and being herded the pavements by police. His anxiety redoubled; at the ntersection, inching his way forward, he turned off into e-street. He roared down it - just in time. Glancing back,

saw barricades being set up. He headed north, approaching gton through a hinterland of decaying back streets. He accelted, just missed an incautious pedestrian, swerved, swore, and ed up speed again. At four-twenty he reached Gibson Square, slammed on his brakes.

ere were no fights on in Gini’s flat. Anxiety tightened his t. f ie ran down the steps to the basement area. In the ess he scrabbled around the flowerpots, found the key, ed it, and threw the front door back.

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

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

n Gini emerged from the Angel tube station, it was six. The ements were crowded with office workers going home; she d hear the wail of sirens in the distance. Two ambulances

d, shooting the intersection’s red lights. She could not wait home, to tell Pascal of her success. She began to run as she closer to Gibson Square. When she reached it, the first thing saw was Pascal’s motor bike. Her heart lifted. She ran down steps. The curtains were drawn, but the lights in her flat were It was good, she thought, to see that. She was so used to ming to dark rooms and silence.

e 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 lobby, opened the door to the living-room, and stopped dead. She gave a little cry, staring around her in disbelief. Her flat 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.’