Lovers and Liars (4 page)

just as before, the building was deserted. There was still no reply from McMullen’s apartment. The parcel, though, had disappeared, and beside the door there was now a saucer of milk for the cat. Presumably the package had been received therefore: but Giovanni still felt uneasy. He hammered several times on the door panels, then pressed his ear against them. He listened, and stiffened. He was certain he could hear someone inside; there were slow rustling movements behind the door, then the creak of a floorboard. Someone was there, moving about.

The light was failing. His wife plucked his sleeve. She gave a shiver, and glanced over her shoulder.

‘Let’s go, Giovanni/ she whispered. ‘Let’s leave. It’s creepy here.’

Giovanni raised his finger to his lips. Usten,’ he said in a low voice. ‘There’s someone in there. I can hear them … If he’s in there, why doesn’t he answer the doorT

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‘I can’t hear anything. It’s just the wind.’ His wife, too, had pressed her ear to the door. Now she recoiled sharply. ‘Giovanni, what’s that horrible smell? It’s foul … ‘

‘Drains, I guess. It certainly stinks. Worse than this morning.’ He drew back with a puzzled frown. He hammered one last time on the door. Silence this time, complete silence.

‘Please let’s go, Giovanni. Please. You’re imagining things.’ ‘OK, OK. God, it’s cold. You’re shivering. We’ll go … ‘

They walked around the comer to a small caf6 in the square, and drank a glass of red wine apiece. Giovanni tried asking the caf6 owner a few questions - whether he knew this Signor McMullen, whether the Palazzo Ossorio was occupied - but he got nowhere. The cafC, owner, a taciturn man, shrugged. That place? One mad old grandmother, he thought, with around fifty stray cats. No-one else. It would fall down into the canal any day now, through sheer neglect …

Whether the caf6 owner knew it or not, this information was incorrect. As Giovanni and his wife passed the palazzo one last time on their way home, Giovanni looked up. The window of apartment six was on the top floor, in the comer of the building. All the windows in the palazzo were dark, except that one.

Giovanni stood looking up at it; no, he was not mistaken, and he had been right earlier, too. Someone was in that apartment then and was there now. The shutters were closed but between them he could see a band of faint light.

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GENEVIEVE HUNTER lived in the basement flat of a tall, terraced, early-Victorian house overlooking one of Islington’s prettiest squares. When the ICD courier arrived it was shortly after nine in the morning and she was already resigned to the fact that she would be late for her newspaper office that day. She was upstairs in the rooms occupied by her elderly neighbour when she heard the knocking from the basement area below. Opening the window, she leaned out and saw a uniformed man below, cradling a package and a clipboard.

‘Hold on - I’ll be right down/ she called. The man looked up at her, shivered, stamped his feet, and nodded.

Genevieve closed the window, and carefully locked it. She looked around the meagre bedroom in which her upstairs neighbour, Mrs Henshaw, had spent five years of widowhood and nearly forty years of married life. Linoleum covered the floor; the only furniture was a massive wardrobe and an ancient, equally massive bed. The only heating was provided by a gas fire. Genevieve checked the gas was off, then shouldered Mrs Henshaw’s two large suitcases and made for the stairs.

Her neighbour, who was one of the few remaining residents from the days when this area was rundown, and who could still remember what Islington had been like before it was discovered

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and ‘gentrified’, was due to spend ten days with her married daughter in Devon. She was sixty-eight now, and unused to travelling. She had packed enough clothes, judging by the weight of these cases, for a stay of two months.

Gini smiled to herself, and manceuvred the cases down the narrow stairs. When Gini had first purchased her basement flat, with its central heating, its modem kitchen and bathroom, Mrs Henshaw had regarded her with some suspicion and alarm: a tall, thin American girl, unmarried, working for a London newspaper. ‘I like to keep myself to myself/ Mrs Henshaw had said, eyeing her round the crack of her front door when Genevieve came up to introduce herself. Then, gradually, this suspicion had wom. off: Mrs Henshaw discovered that this young American kept a cat - a magnificent marmalade cat, called Napoleon and Mrs Henshaw was very fond of cats. This forged the first bond; then Mrs Henshaw found to her surprise that this eager boyishly dressed young woman, who seemed to work such long hours, could always spare the time to fetch her groceries when her arthritis was bad, and was even prepared, over a cup of strong tea, to listen to Mrs Henshaw’s memories of the area, to look through her old faded photograph albums, to hear the stories of hard times past, and the six children Mrs Henshaw had brought up in this place.

Mrs Henshaw, resigned to being chivvied and dismissed as an elderly bore, lonely since her children had married and moved away, responded to this. ‘That Genevieve - she’s like a daughter to me,’ she would now claim, in Mr Patel’s grocery shop.

As Gini made her way down the stairs, she found Mrs Henshaw waiting anxiously in the hall below. She was wearing zip-up furry bootees, three cardigans, an overcoat, a new woolly scarf Genevieve had bought her, and her best hat. She was trembling with nerves. As Genevieve descended, she was checking the contents of her handbag for the third time, and muttering to herself. Tickets, spectacles, hanky, purse, pension-book, keys: Genevieve put down the suitcases, and put an arm gently around her shoulders. It was hard, she thought, to make the simplest journey when you were old, and poor, and alone and unused to travelling further than the corner shop. The important thing was not to rush her neighbour, or to show the least sign of impatience.

‘Mrs H./ she said, ‘that is one incredible hat. You look great.’ Mrs Henshaw flushed pink. The flurry and anxiety diminished

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a fraction. She peered at her reflection in the small hall mirror, and then smiled.

‘It’s my best. I last wore it for MY Doreen’s youngest’s christening, and that’s eight years back. My Doreen always did like it, so I thought . . - ‘

From the basement below came the sound of renewed knocking; the noise put Mrs Henshaw into a new panic at once.

‘Oh, Gini, love - all that banging, I can’t think straight. Did I put the gas off? What about the milk? I forgot to cancel the milk… ,

Genevieve edged to the front door, opened it, called down again to the delivery man in the area below, and then began the complicated process of persuading Mrs Henshaw out of her house. She tried not to think of how late this was making her for the News offices, and tried to keep up a soothing refrain. Yes, the gas was off, she had checked in every room; yes, the milk delivery was cancelled, and all the windows shut and locked. Yes, Mrs Henshaw’s daughter would meet her at the station the other end, and at this end, the cab driver would help her onto the train, even carry her cases on for her - it was all fixed.

Genevieve helped Mrs Henshaw out of the doorway, and down the front steps to the street. Her neighbour had a new plastic hip, but her pace was still unsteady and slow. When her attention was diverted, Genevieve gave the cab driver a hefty tip.

‘You’ll see her onto the train? You’ll take care of her bags? Oh

- and please don’t hurry her. It gets her in a state … ‘

The young cab driver looked her up and down and grinned. ‘Your gran, is it, loveT

‘No. Just a friend. But she’s not used to travelling. She doesn’t go out much.’

‘Don’t you worry. I’ll see she’s all right.’ He bent his head into the cab, and grinned at Mrs Henshaw. ‘All comfortable? Right, You sit back now and relax. By the way - I like the hat.’

‘It’s my best.’ Mrs Henshaw quivered, and Genevieve felt a surge of pity for her. She leaned into the cab, and planted a kiss on her whiskery cheek. A squeeze of her hand, another check through the handbag to make sure the tickets were there, and Mrs Henshaw was off. Genevieve stood watching her disappear into the distance. She lifted her face to the damp grey air as the cab rounded the comer. She sighed and turned back to the basement steps.

The uniformed courier was now mounting them. In his hand

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he was carrying a neat package. Gini saw that it was tied with string and sealed with red wax.

The courier looked this Genevieve Hunter up and down. When she had opened the window above, and called down to him, he had at first taken her for a young man; now, on closer inspection, he could see some of the reasons for that mistake. She was tall and slender, and dressed in a mannish way: black trousers, black polo-neck sweater, flat boots. Her long fair hair was tucked back beneath a battered khaki baseball cap, and she wore an odd military-style trenchcoat which reached to mid-calf and was adorned with innumerable flaps and pockets and epaulettes. Now that he could see her properly, however, there was no mistaking her sex: this young woman had a grave, clear-eyed and rather beautiful face.

‘Sorry I kept you waiting,f Genevieve said. She signed for the package, and was about to stuff it, unopened, into her bag, when she stopped and looked at it more closely. She might be in a hurry to reach the News offices, but this parcel was unusual, to say the least.

‘How strange/ she said. ‘Can you believe it? Look . She held the package out to the courier. ‘Someone’s stencilled the address.’

She shook the package, as the courier bent forward to inspect it. There was a small rattling noise. Genevieve frowned, and the courier shook his head.

‘Maybe it’s meant to be a surprise,’ he said, in an encouraging tone. ‘So you can’t recognize the handwriting, won’t know who sent it until you open it up. Boyfriend, maybe?’ He gave her a shrewd glance. ‘A surprise present from the boyfriend, something like thatT

Genevieve smiled; there was no boyfriend, at the moment, and the last possible candidate for that title had left to edit an Australian newspaper a month back. Genevieve did not miss him greatly, and he was, in any case, not the kind of man to send surprise parcels. She felt a momentary unease, gave the package another tentative shake. The courier, who seemed as curious as she was, produced a pocket-knife.

‘Here.’ He handed it to her with a smile. ‘You never know these days, love - it could be a bad idea, carrying that around. Maybe you ought to open it up.’

Genevieve did so. Carefully, she cut the string and removed the brown wrapping paper. Inside, there was a plain cardboard box.

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inside the box there were sheaves of new tissue-paper. Inside this was a pair of handcuffs. They were made of heavy steel. A small key was inserted in their lock.

Genevieve drew them out with a cry of surprise. The sense of unease deepened. She felt around inside the tissue, but the handcuffs came with no accompanying message, or note. Her mouth tightened in anger, and her cheeks flushed.

‘Great. No note.’ She looked at the courier, who was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I’m getting a pretty strong message all the same. What kind of a creep would send me thisT

She frowned down at the handcuffs, trying to think of candidates: who might find such an anonymous gift appealing? Who might want to play this kind of sick joke?

She could think of no-one. She had enemies as well as friends at her office, of course, and there were people she had alienated as a result of past articles, certainly, but she could think of no-one who would retaliate in this particular underhand way. With an angry shrug, she began to fold up the wrapping paper.

‘Chuck them away, love - I would/ the courier said, on a defensive note. He gestured to a dustbin up the street.

‘No way.’ She set her lips. ‘I need them. I’m going to find out who sent me this .

She began to push the handcuffs into her bag. The courier hesitated.

‘I could make a few enquiries if you like,’ he began. ‘At my office. They were sent out from our City branch - I know that much. I could call in there after work - ask around . Genevieve gave him a grateful smile.

‘Would you? I’d check myself, but I’m tied up all day.’ She handed him her card. ‘Those are my numbers - work and home. I should be back here around six. Will you call me if you discover anything? I’d be very grateful.’

The courier promised he would do so; he said that his name was George, and he would call her at home, without fail, after six. He then left, for his next delivery, and Genevieve stood for a while on the pavement, watching his van disappear. It was cold, and beginning to rain. She turned up the collar of her coat, and gave a small shiver. Handcuffs. Did that mean that she had an unknown enemy? Or was this anonymous package meant to convey something else?

She walked across to her car, and drove off. The rush-hour traffic was heavy, and delayed her further still, but she drove the whole

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way to her newspaper’s docklands offices unaware of the passing time, considering her anonymous present. Halfway there, she finally made the obvious deduction: the sender of these handcuffs was likely to be male - and at that her residual sense of sick unease increased.

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IT WAS typical of his ex-wife, Pascal thought, turning into the smart estate where she lived, to elect to live here, in Paris and yet not in Paris, in surroundings which could scarcely be less French. His former wife, born with a gift for languages, fluent in French, German and Italian, remained English to the core. She retained a thin-lipped disdain for foreigners, an unshakeable belief in their inferiority. ‘ParisT Helen had said, at the time of the divorce. ‘Live in Paris? Are you insane? I only stay in France on sufferance, for Marianne’s sake. I’ve already found the perfect house. It’s on the outskirts. It costs five million francs. We can build it in to the settlement. I hope you’re not going to quibble, Pascal. It’s cheap at the price.’

The five-million-franc house lay ahead of him now, just up the street. It was what Helen called an ‘executive’ house. It had seven bedrooms, all expensively furnished and five of them unused. It had seven bathrooms, a kitchen like an operating theatre, a four-car garage, and a view of desolate immaculate turf. It was a house which could have been built in any expensive suburb in the world. Pascal had seen others just like it, equally vulgar, in Brussels, London, Bonn, Detroit. Its bricks were an aggressive scarlet. He had loathed it on sight.