Lovers and Liars (42 page)

‘Fine,’ Pascal said. ‘Perhaps you’d better let me have their numberT

She gave the response he expected, a cold impatient glance.

‘I can’t do that. We’re going to a restaurant somewhere - and no, I don’t know which. Surely you can manage, Pascal, for three hours. It’s not asking so very much.’

Pascal was calculating the time in his head. If Helen returned at three, he could catch the five o’clock flight without problems. If she delayed him, however … He hesitated. He was about to mention the plane, then stopped himself. Knowing he needed to be somewhere else urgently would probably ensure Helen was late.

‘Here’re the keys. Double lock the doors, won’t you 7 I’ll see you around three. Goodbye, Marianne. Don’t let Da dy tire you out.’

At the playground, Marianne allowed Pascal to pushier on the swings for a while, but she seemed not to enjoy it ery much. She climbed onto the merry-go-round at his suggestion, and sat there politely while Pascal set it in motion. As soon as it slowed, though, she climbed off. Hand in hand they walked down to the small lake at the edge of the playground to watch the ducks. Pascal had forgotten to bring any bread to feed them.

‘It doesn’t matter, Papa/ Marianne said. She let go of his hand, walked across to a bench and sat down.

Pascal followed her and sat down also. He felt a sense of despair. Only half an hour had passed. ‘Is anything the matter, darling?’ he said gently. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘My ear hurts a bit. My throat’s sore,’ she replied, and rubbed it. ‘I feel cold.’

Pascal examined her face. Her forehead and lips were pale, but her cheeks were flushed. She shivered as he looked at her. He touched her forehead. It felt warm.

‘Does your ear ache, darling?’

‘It hurts. And I can’t hear very well.’

Pascal hesitated. He looked despondently around the park. No other children had ventured out.

‘Perhaps it’s just the cold/ he said, in a cheerful voice. ‘We’d be better off inside on a day like this, don’t you think, Marianne? I wonder, would you like to go to that cafC, where we went before? Do you remember? The one with the excellent ice-cream?’

Marianne gave a wan smile. ‘No, thank you, Papa. I’d rather go home.’

‘This was unprecedented. Pascal felt the stirrings of alarm. He Pt her forehead again, then took er hand.

pi ‘That’s a very good suggestion. We’ll go home, and make some eLan watch television together - how would that beT

tih r

, , ospect seemed to please her. She brightened.

r’Vcl like that,’ she said. ‘I always watch television on my own.’ q:)oesn’t Mummy watch with you, darling? Or the nanny - the nanny? What’s her nameT

‘E ‘Elizabeth. She’s English. Yes, she watches sometimes. Mummy ays says she will, then she’s too busy.’ She clasped his hand

tightly. ‘On Monday afternoons, it’s Dangermouse, I think. I re

him.’ ‘Good, then Dangermouse it shall be,’ Pascal said. C

It was not a long walk, but Marianne’s pace grew slower and [n

wer. She began to lag behind. Pascal felt her forehead again. now felt very hot. He carried her the rest of the way home. Indoors, lie tucked Marianne up on a couch in the television

m, and put a rug around her knees. He switched on the vision set, and lit Helen’s coal-effect gas fire. He went in search spirin, or paracetemol, and found them eventually in the third a

hroom he checked, Helen’s own. It was an elaborate bathroom, d out in rose marble. A long shelf was cluttered with cosmetics, [le

h anti-ageing skin creams and bottles of scent. The aspirin were the medicine cabinet, along with the horseshoe-shaped box t

taining Helen’s diaphragm, and several tubes of spermicidal

1y. The box was open, and the diaphragm gone.

1y P’. ascal closed the cabinet, feeling guilty at having seen this. He c1

hed a glass of water, and went back to Marianne. He had been c

ay no more than five minutes, but in that time, to judge from her e, her temperature had risen. She was now scarlet, and very hot the touch. The act of swallowing the aspirin caused her pain. .fPapa, my throat hurts,’ she said.

Pascal stroked her hair. He put a cushion behind her head, and Pa,,

tly unbuttoned the fastening of her dress. Her chest and neck t,

covered with a mottled rash. Pascal rebuttoned the dress. was still only one o’clock.

‘What time does your nanny - does Elizabeth come home on day off, Marianne?’

rc ‘hi the evening. After tea. To give me my bath.’ ‘Doesn’t Mummy do that on Elizabeth’s day off?’

‘No. Elizabeth always does it. Then she reads me a story, and bits me to bed … ‘

Pascal frowned. Careful to keep his voice calm he said, ‘Listen, Marianne, I think maybe Papa should call a doctor. See if he can give you something for that throat of yours. OK? Now, would you like me to call my doctor, or the one you usually seeT

‘Your doctor, Papa. Our doctor’s horrid. He’s old, and he’s always in a hurry. He’s cross.’

The doctor was on the other side of Paris, treating an emergency

- cardiac arrest. He would come after that, but Pascal should not expect him for two hours at least.

Pascal returned to the television room. Marianne had fallen asleep. He sat by her side and watched her anxiously fo_a while. Her breathing was regular, and her skin felt a little co er - the aspirin taking effect.

Pascal rose, and began to pace the room. He fe 7ess, worried, and unable to settle. He picked up one of Helen’s fashion magazines, then tossed it aside. There was never anything worth reading in this house. He looked across at the telephone, and considered telephoning Gini. It was past two now. He looked at Marianne, still sleeping. He began to acknowledge to himself that he might not catch that five o’clock flight. Some time after two, still restless, he went out to the street. There was still no sign of the doctor’s car.

He returned inside, and sat down opposite Marianne. To calm himself he tried to think of work, but that did not have a calming effect. He remembered the Palazzo Ossorio, and he felt torn between two fears - fear for Gini, fear for Marianne. From his pocket, he took out the small brass button he had found the previous evening, beneath the pile of Stevey’s clothes. It had been lodged in a crack in the floorboards, almost invisible. Did it belong to the assassin? It certainly looked new, bright and untarnished. He turned it this way and that. The design was well-worked. Examining it more closely, he saw it represented the kind of garland made to adorn a hero’s brow, or a victorious generalfs. Bay, oak - whichever leaf indicated triumph - that.

He peered at the tiny thing closely, then put it away. From his camera bag he took out the book Gini had found. An old, battered paperback, a Penguin edition, available in thousands of shops. On the cover was a portrait of a young John Milton; inside the pages were discoloured by age, and spotted with damp. Paradise Lost. The same book Gini had found on McMullen’s desk. Did it indicate more than a taste for Milton, for epic poetry - or not? The likelihood, he supposed, was that it did belong to McMullen,

dicated. t at at some point, McMullen had been in Venice. it told him no more than that.

e glanced across at Marianne, who still slept. For want of ing else to do, he began to read, but he quickly found self in difficulties. Pascal’s spoken English was excellent father had taught languages in the village school, the village re Pascal grew up. His father had died when Pascal was ten, his memories of him were blurTed, but he could remember the ings, long ago, when his father had read to him, little extracts nglish, little samplings of greatness, some Shakespeare, yes,

uld remember that, and some Dickens. Not Milton that he remember. He turned the page. The extraordinary clotted x here was beyond him; good his English might be, but not enough for this. He turned another page, stiffened, then the book up to the light.

ng the side of the verse there was a faint pencil mark: no but one passage had been marked, singled out. Pascal the words carefully:

For now the thought

Both of lost happiness and lasting pain Torments him.

al frowned. The words reverberated in his mind. He applied m, briefly, to his own life. Did they fit McMullen’s also? He d the book. Across the room, Marianne had begun to murmur. pushed the rug aside restlessly. Pascal felt her forehead again. aspirin must be wearing off; her skin was burning hot.

e ran out into the hallway, opened the front door. Still no sign e doctor’s car. Anguish and alarm gripped him. He returned e room, removed the rug covering his daughter, turned off fire, and opened the window a crack. He must reduce her erature; somehow he must reduce her temperature.

e knelt down at his daughter’s side, and began to stroke her ead. He wondered if he dared to give her more aspirin yet. the packet, it said the dose should be given at four-hour

als. He looked at his watch. What time had he given her aspirin? Around two, he thought. It was now nearly four, too er more, surely?

felt an gonized indecision, realized he had now missed his t, then forgot the flight at once. Marianne had woken. She d him for some water. When he brought it, she sipped, but

seemed unable to swallow. Pascal laid her down again, went through into another room, and called the doctor’s once more, his voice unsteady with anger and alarm.

‘Don’t worry, M. Lamartine/ said the receptionist, in a soothing tone. ‘I’m sure she wfll be fine. Children do develop these high fevers suddenly. Keep her cool. The doctor will be with you shortly. Don’t alarm yourself. She will be perfectly all right.’

The receptionist was wrong. Marianne was not all right. At five-thirty, just as Pascal was getting ready to give her more aspirin, he heard the doctor’s car pull up outside e was in the act of moving across the room to open the froni Por, when he stopped. Marianne had made the tiniest a horrible dry sucking-in of breath.

He swung around. With a dreadful suddennes=e’s eyes opened, then rolled back. She gave a small preliminary tremor, then her whole body convulsed.

‘Apologies for alarn-iing you, ma’am.’ This huge man was, Gini thought, very polite - very polite and very impassive. His face was as blank as a barn door. He was now holding a wallet out to her. He flipped it open. She saw a US embassy crest, a photograph, and a name: Frank Romero. He snapped it shut.

‘Lady Pemberton is at the ambassador’s residence now. She wasn’t available to call you as planned, ma’am. The ambassador felt it might be simpler if you joined her there, ma’am. I have a car here. He apologizes for your wait.’

Gini hesitated, and the man picked up on the hesitation at once. He handed her a plain white card on which was printed a number.

‘If you’d like to call that number, ma’am. You can confirm the arrangements.’

‘Thank you,’ Gini said. ‘I need to get my things, in any case.’ Gini hesitated again, then shut the door. She ran back into the sittingroom, and placed the call. It rang three times, then John Hawthorne answered it. He sounded calm, absolutely as he always did.

‘GiniT he said. ‘I’m sorry about all this. I’ll just pass you over to Mary .

Mary sounded anything but calm. She sounded exhausted and flustered, too. ‘Gini, I’m so terribly sorry, darling. There’s been a bit of a drama. No, I can’t talk. If you could just come straight over … What’s that, JohnT There was a pause. ‘Oh good. Gini

am you there? I gather John’s sent one of the - security people. . Yes, darling - whatT

11 don’t understand. Why do you need me there, Mary?’ ,.E)arhng, I can’t explain now. Yes, when I see you. Good - in t twenty minutes, then, half an hour.’

ini hung up. She gathered her bag and’her coat, kissed Dog, walked out to the steps. It had stopped raining. Frank Romero standing by the car. He was in the act of removing his dark

rcoat, which he folded neatly and placed on the back seat. By time she had descended the steps, he was on the pavement, e ready, opening the rear passenger door. Gini looked at him tly, very intently. She could see that beneath the coat, he had wearing clothes which might have been sharp informal wear,

possibly a kind of uniform. Black shoes, dark grey trousers with e-edge crease, and a double-breasted blazer in black. The r was fastened with a double row of brass buttons. She stumconvincingly; Frank Romero put out an arm to steady her. tch your step, ma’am. The pavement’s slippery … ‘

Gini leaned on his arm, wriggled her unhurt ankle and grimaced. re were also brass buttons on the sleeve of his jacket, and could see them clearly now. They were stamped with an

teresting, a memorable device - a little garland of oak leaves. straightened up, and gave him a smile.

‘I’m fine. It’s OK. I just twisted it a bit. I’ll sit in the front.’ .She sat beside him, and waited until they’d travelled one street, o streets. ‘So tell me,’ she said, ‘have you worked for the bassador long?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘How Iong’?,

He glance d towards her then fixed his eyes on the road ahead. ince he was appointed, ma’am.’

‘I guess it must be a very interesting job . ‘Yes, ma’am.’

Damn and blast, Gini thought. She sat in silence, trying to decide e best approach. Frank Romero kept his eyes on the road ahead. was rush hour and the traffic was heavy. Near Hyde Park rner, thev came to a halt.

‘Would v)u mind if I asked you a question, Frank?’

He gave her another quick covert glance, then turned his impassive face back to the traffic. ‘It’s something I’ve always wanted to know. ou security people -how do you train for work like this? You have

‘Oolice training, maybe, or a period in the military, or whatT

‘In my case, ma’am … ‘ he kept his eyes on the road, ‘I had a period in the military. I’m a Vietnam vet.’

‘How interesting. You have something in common with Ambassador Hawthorne then. He was telling me about his time in Vietnam the other night.’

‘Yes, ma’am?’

There was a long silence. Gini did not prompt. Eventually, as she had been silently hoping, her remark seemed to encourage him, he actually volunteered some information.