Lovers and Liars (46 page)

re white; they had to have dark hair, and he picked them in the same bar, always on a Saturday night.

e woman who believed an eminent surgeon was passionately Rove with her, when the man had encountered her on only two kasions, at a conference, but had unwisely replied to one of k woman’s letters, explaining he was devoted to his children

his wife. That woman, too, had been an obsessive, and had oached Gini herself. She thought Gini should tell the world rthis distinguished man was, in reality, a liar and a cheat. ke had showed Gini, with cold indignation, the love-letters the kgeon had written her: they were in her own handwriting. d had half-pitied the woman, but the surgeon feared her. $r one occasion she had broken into his home and slashed his its to ribbons with a knife.

o, yes, Gini had some experience of the patterns of obsessive

1haviour — and it was not the kind that induced peaceful sleep. boession unravelled reason, and blurred the edges of life. To talk

6n obsessive was to step into the mirror and watch truth reverse. Irry pvrson she had ever encountered who fitted this category iared one characteristic. For the most part, the madness did not

Until you knew the truth, these people were ordinary, no -alarming than the next person in the supermarket, or the bus.

00y hed with quiet conviction because they were truly convinced Ok hes and their inversions were the truth.

F60, had Lise Hawthorne been lying that evening? Gini could tell. Had Hawthorne himself, the previous Saturday, been ng and disguising his true self? Again she did not know.

there was one factor besides Pascal’s arguments, besides the kinting evidence, which counted against Hawthorne, and it is this: famous and powerful men often seemed to court dani and the destruction of their careers. Every week newspaper kries gave evidence of this.

3he and Pascal had discussed it, in a caf6 in Venice. These days h instincts provided Pascal with much of his work. How else Ad you explain the long succession of eminent men who risked areer they’d spent a lifetime building, for a night with a call-girl,

an affair with a gabby actress who ran straight from bed to the tabloids? How else could you explain a man who prosecuted corruption in public life, then cheated on his taxes, or accepted a kick-back?

She had asked this question, and Pascal had sighed.

‘Because they enjoy the risk,’ he said. ‘They crave the danger

- they must. Perhaps they can only value their achievements when they know that one word in the wrong quarter, and everything’s lost. Maybe they simply get bored with the safety of success.’ He paused. ‘They seek self-destruction, Gini. I think it’s that.’

It was a viable theory, Gini thought. It explained the phenomenon as well, and as little, as anything else. It might explain Hawthorne - perhaps.

She closed her eyes. The house was quiet. It was well past midnight now. She felt herself begin to drift at last towards sleep.

It was two in the morning when she woke. She sat up and listened. Something had woken her, and her cat. Napoleon lifted his head. He turned his green eyes in the direction of the bedroom window. Gini tensed. From the yard beyond, she heard the wood of the fence creak. A twig snapped outside. She sat rigid: she could hear footsteps now. Slowly and stealthily they approached her window, then stopped. They moved towards the rear kitchen door. There was a rustling sound, a small rattle, then silence.

Gini stifled a cry. Carefully and quietly, she pushed the bedcovers aside, and stood up. She listened. The footsteps were retreating now. She heard their muffled progress across the yard; there was another creak from the fence. She clenched her hands to stop them trembling. Had he gone, or was he selecting an alternative route?

In bare feet, making no sound, she pressed herself against the wall, and edged towards the lights of the living-room. The curtains there were drawn well across. No-one could see in, surely no-one could see in? She listened. She heard the creak of the iron gate opening at the top of the area steps. She tensed. She crept silently to the front door, and pressed her ear against it. The footsteps were descending.

They came down slowly, then paused. She heard them move towards the window. She braced herself for the sound of breaking glass, or the catch being forced.

it did not come. There was a shuffling sound, then the footsteps roached the door where she stood. And stopped.

hoever was there was as close to the door as she was. Two es of flimsy wood separated them. Through the panels she ld hear his breathing: a quiet inhalation and exhalation of th.

er limbs felt leaden with fear. She thought: I should have ed off the lights, and now it’s too late. She thought: I must naw, what to do when he comes in. Her n-dnd worked with clarity; it was like watching a sixty-mile-an-hour car-smash

ly approach. She told herself: I must move, so I’m behind the door n it opens. She took one step, then another. The lights in the flickered, and went out.

he gave a low moan of terror. The darkness was thick, she Id see nothing. She backed away from the door, and collided a table behind her. A vase crashed to the floor and smashed.

tside, the footsteps hesitated, then moved off. They remounted steps, crossed the pavement above in the direction of the are’s central gardens. The footsteps were rapid now. They d into the distance. The silence was intense.

he was flooded with relief. It coursed through her like blood. inched forward, and broken glass cut her foot. Carefully, ing for glass, she fumbled her way across the room. There

a flashlight in her desk. She could see nothing. She felt , then the handle of a desk drawer. She opened the drawer, felt around its contents. A leather glove brushed her hand. felt the cold metal of the handcuffs. She scrabbled. frantically e back of the drawer: she could not bear this absence of

t. She was crouching down, feeling in the drawer, when telephone rang next to her face. The sound was sudden loud; she started, and almost knocked the machine to the

o would call now, at this hour? She fumbled in the dark

the receiver, and as she did so relief flooded her body again.

1. She was sure it was Pascal. Her hand closed on the receiver she eagerly snatched it up.

man’s voice, but not Pascal’s, began to speak. ini/ he said. ‘Gini, is it youT

r skin went cold. The voice was low, unrecognizable, and

ini, I know it’s you. I got you out of bed. Listen, Gini, if s late d it’s time for us to talk .

‘Who is thisT Gini said. ‘What do you want?’

The man continued speaking, right across her question. The voice was whispery, the line poor.

‘Are you wearing your nightdress, Gini? I think you are. The white one, with the blue ribbon at the neck? I like it. It’s pretty. The material’s thin … ‘

‘Listen, whoever you are/ Gini began. She heard the fear in her own voice. She was wearing a white nightdress; its ribbon was blue. It was made of fine thin cotton voile.

‘Stand still,’ said the voice, riding over her words again. ‘That’s right. Now I can see your breasts through the cotton. You have beautiful breasts, Gini. You know what they do to me? They make me hard … All the blood goes straight to my cock, Gini. It’s stiff.’

Gini’s hand had closed over the flashlight. She drew it out, and switched it on. Light made her feel stronger. She held the receiver at arm’s length, and heard the voice whisper on. She brought the receiver closer.

‘Listen, you creep,’ she said distinctly, ‘do us both a favour. Go screw yourself, OKT

She replaced the receiver on its cradle. As soon as the room was silent once more she went to the bathroom and threw up.

She was pretty sure he’d call back again, whoever he was. When he did, fifteen minutes later precisely, she was ready for him - or as ready as she could make herself. With the aid of the flashlight and some candles, she had banished as much darkness as she could. On the desk, next to the telephone, she had placed her tape recorder. She had connected its microphone, and inserted a new tape.

This was not the best way to record a call, but it was the only method available. When the telephone rang, she picked it up, spoke briefly. As soon as the man began speaking, she pressed her microphone tight to the earpiece. She could not avoid hearing some of what he said. She tensed, listened. The same words, the same sentences, in exactly the same order as before …

This was no ordinary caller, no ordinary man. She was listening to a tape. That was why he spoke over her words as he did: because this call was pre-recorded. And with whom had she discussed pre-recorded telephone sex lines, not two days before? John Hawthorne. She listened, trying to block out the words and hear only the intonation of the voice.

t was not Hawthorne’s, she felt, though she was uncertain. The was slow, and neither English nor American, but somewhere een the two. It sounded muffled, as if the man spoke through ce of material, as if he had something pressed against his th. It was muffled, filtered, recorded - even so, the man was

ing aroused as he spoke. She could hear his breathing grow er as his script grew more direct.

me suck your breasts,’ he said, on and on in that low ery voice. ‘Then I’ll tie your hands behind your back. You got handcuffs, Gini? I’ll use those, I think. Then I want you to kneel

in front of me, like you’re in church. I want you to watch take it out … ‘ There was a deep sigh, a rustling sound, the whispering went on.

en, then - I’ll do all the things I like. I’ll rub my cock on hair, on your face, on your lips. Over your breasts, where skin’s soft. It’s hard, and it’s big, bitch - can you feel it yet? en Your mouth and suck me off. Then maybe I’ll fuck you, like Ive never been fucked … ‘

ini could feel the anger begin. It was like something red in her d. It drove out the fear and even the disgust. It was useful, this anger: it felt good. Very carefully, she placed the receiver and rophone on the desk. She let him continue, and her tape run. Wouldn’t listen, but she would record, tape to tape.

he let him continue for ten minutes. Standing at a distance of feet, she couldn’t hear the words, but she could hear the tch of his voice. Ten minutes was enough.

he approached the desk again, and disconnected the microne. The man was approaching climax on the tape; she was ‘d to hear what came after that - another woman’s scream, aps. She put the receiver down on the man’s groans. She

tched the machine to answer-mode. She went back to the om, and held Napoleon close. The rest of the night seemed rminable. She scarcely slept. The man did not call again.

the morning, she woke from a brief and exhausted sleep. All lights vvere back on. When she went out to the kitchen, the ling sou rid she had heard was explained. Her night-time visitor left her a present, pushed through the cat-flap.

me wrapping, same box, same shoe - to make a pair. No king this time.

ini looked at the stiletto heel for a while. Then she unbolted back door. It was raining again.

She hurled the black shoe the length of the yard. It hit the back fence, and fell among the shrubbery. Gini closed the door and bolted it again.

It was six-thirty, Tuesday morning. She showered and dressed. She fed Napoleon, and let him purr in slumbrous luxury for a while on her lap. He purred, and she planned. She would do this first, and then that. Before this week was out, before Sunday came, she would find McMullen, and wind this story up.

‘I’m going to fix him/ she said to Napoleon. ‘I’m going to fix the bastard who did all this.’

Napoleon narrowed his topaz eyes. He washed himself, then went to sleep.

At eight precisely, Pascal called, as she had hoped. ‘Not on this line/ he said. ‘Call me later - the way we agreed, yesT

I LEFT her house at eight-thirty. She headed south for the s offices, through heavy traffic, cursing the hold-ups and

lights. If she could reach the office around nine, she had

0 od chance of cornering Nicholas Jenkins before the crises t

tmade up his editorial day barred her from entry. Jenkins, was now certain, had been less than totally frank when nally briefing her and Pascal. He must have told someone

g who would be assigned to the story. He might have told hes. She was also beginning to wonder if he could possibly vt

v e told Appleyard, even, indeed, if the first hint of the story d

come from Appleyard, and not McMullen as Jenkins claimed. s made some sense: it was characteristic of Jenkins to snatch s

credit entirely for himself; it was also characteristic of him react strongly to one of Appleyard’s hints. She knew the two been in touch in recent months. Now that she considered it, d

‘he realized that both the Hawthorne story and the telephone sex Cory had come her way the same week.

‘Halting at red lights outside the Barbican, she had a brief, ugly iid disturbing vision of Appleyard in that Venice room, two weeks ead. She closed her eyes. The driver behind her leaned on his iDrn. The lights were now green. Gini jerked the car into gear rid drove off. A squall of rain smashed against her windscreen.

She switched on her headlights. It was a dark, cold, wet morning; she could already foresee a day of perpetual twilight.

Appleyard, she thought. Appleyard, who had always been Jenkins’s favourite tipster. Appleyard, who was a notorious gossip, though protective of his own leads. There was some connection, some link, she felt certain - but what?

On the fifteenth floor, Charlotte I the senior secretary, together with her two assistants, was already at her desk. The door to Nicholas Jenkins’s office was shut. And it would be likely to stay shut, Charlotte implied, with a weary glance. Jenkins was in conference with his witchy familiar Daiches; both had a meeting later that morning with their proprietor, Lord Melrose. In Charlotte’s opinion, as Gini well knew, Melrose had inherited his father’s newspaper empire, but not his father’s aptitude: it was Charlotte who had to try to shield Jenkins when Melrose had one of his periodic flaps,