Lovers and Liars (55 page)

Gini drank some coffee, waited fifteen minutes, then left. There were telephone booths near the entrance, and from there she telephoned first the number of Pascal’s studio in Paris, then his wife’s number; on both fines, an answering machine was the only response.

Perhaps he was returning, even now, as she called. This thought made her heart lift. She was still unwilling to give up on this museum. She had now been here an hour. One more try, she decided.

This time, she took the stairs which led down to the basement galleries. Here, the overall lighting was dim, and the individual sculptures, which included some of the museum’s glories, were bathed in angled light. She passed along the Elgin Marbles, and a battle frieze which had once decorated the Parthenon. She looked at the great rearing marble haunches of the horses on the frieze, at the minutely observed weaponry, and at the frozen attitudes of dying men. Nothing; no-one; silence. She passed into a further gallery, and still another, and found herself in a part of the museum she had never penetrated before, in the Assyrian rooms.

Here, bathed in an angled fight, were walls of massive stone reliefs. They were sombre, detailed and magnificent: she stood, listening, before a great procession of ten-feet kings and warriors and priests. They were carTying offerings, and Gini tried to concentrate on the bundles of corn, the bowls of wine, the

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crificial animals. The phalanx of men reminded her of that rity phalanx that protected John Hawthorne wherever he

nt, though in the modern world, of course, their offerings were tornatic weapons, and modem princes like Hawthorne were ely accompanied by priests.

She bent to read the label which explained the symbols of these st events, and heard movement behind her - a single footfall, brush of stone against cloth.

At last. She swung around sharply, and scanned the room. m the corner of her eye, in the shadows of the far entrance, e thought she saw darkness move. She turned, and it was gone.

ran across to the entrance, but the gallery beyond was empty. ssive reliefs rose up on either side of her. She stepped back, ring beyond them and dazzled by the lighting which now shone ectly in her face. There was no-one there. There was no-one in

room behind her - but there were three other exits from this lace. She checked each of them in turn, but each led to corridors d stairs, and if someone had been there, he was gone.

She came to a halt, and looked around her with a sense of angry stration. Someone had been there, she was certain he had been ere. Why was McMullen playing these cat-and-mouse tricks? She as no,.%- standing at the foot of a back staircase, in a small ill-lit bb%,. From here she had a clear view back into the room where

6d been when she first heard the noise. She could see the ge relief she had been studying, with its procession of warriors priests. Just as she was about to turn away, a shadow moved

oss the face of the sculpture, and then a man came into sight. He was wearing the same dark overcoat he had worn before, he moved silently, on those soft-soled shoes described by

e Hawthorne. Frank Romero. He stood in front of the relief, aring up at it for a moment. He touched it. He peered behind then bent to examine the floor in front of it. He began to ve silently and stealthily around the room, examining each ef, each carving in turn, as if he were searching for something, e message left, perhaps.

Gini edged back into the shadows, and towards the stairs. A nd came out of the darkness, and clamped itself across her th. She felt a moment’s pure fear. Before she could struggle,

even think, she felt a man pulling her closer against him, so his uth was against her ear. She could feel his breath on her face. ‘Don’t scream, and don’t speak/ he said in a low calm English ice. McMullen’s voice. ‘I’m going to give you a number. Call it

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tomorrow at noon. You understand? If you do, nod your head.’ Gini nodded. ‘Don’t look round. Can you remember numbersT Gini nodded again.

McMullen repeated the numbers, slowly and quietly. ‘You’ve got that? Call it at noon tomorrow. Use a safe phone. Noon. Not five minutes before, not five afterwards. Now go up these stairs, turn right, then second left. You’ll be in the main hall. Buy some postcards, as if this was a normal visit, then leave. No, don’t look round. You’ve got thatT

He released her and Gini did as he said. She fled silently up the stairs, reciting the number to herself. Once she was safely back in her car, she took out a notebook and pencil and wrote it down, her hand shaking. The number had an 0865 prefix. An Oxford number.

A familiar Oxford number, too - at least she thought it was, but she couldn’t be certain, and she had left her address book at home in her flat.

She drove north as fast as she could, but the rain was still heavy, and street after street was grid-locked with traffic. She used every backstreet rat-run she knew, but even so it took her almost an hour to drive the five miles.

She parked in the square, and ran down the area steps, inserted her key in the lock. The address book was on her desk, just next to the telephone. She swung the living-room door open. As she closed it something soft brushed her face.

She continued a few paces on, towards the desk. Then the terrible wrongness of the room registered. She stopped. Sickness welled in the pit of her stomach. Something soft had brushed her face, as she closed the door. There was nothing there, there should be nothing there, to brush against her in that way. On the back of the door was an empty hook.

She turned, looked, and cried out. She ran across to the door, but it was too late - at least an hour too late.

Whoever had killed Napoleon had made a neat job. The black stocking sent her the previous week had been used to strangle him. They had wound the nylon around his throat, throttled him, and then left him to hang from the hook by this noose. His body was already stiffening. There was blood on his mouth and nostrils. There were scratch-marks on the door panels where he had scrabbled with his feet.

Gini thought: How long did it take him to die? She cradled his body, lifted him down, and held him close. She began to cry,

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pressed him tight against her chest. His eyes were closed and fingers fumbled to undo the stocking. She rocked him, and t. Her fingers would not move too well, but in the end she ound the noose. She sat down on the floor and crooned to

poleon. She stroked his marmalade fur, and tried to believe t love could resurrect. Napoleon lay inert in her arms. It cut to the heart, the littleness of his body, in death.

e stroked his fur, and touched the beauties of his whiskers his feet. After a long time, the wildness calmed and the tears ped. She sat there, and made herself a final promise: no-one uld stop her now, not after this.

She was still sitting there, holding Napoleon, when Pascal’s r bike drew up in the street. She did not hear the bike’s ne, or his footsteps on pavement. She heard and saw nothing

he was in the room with her. Then she heard his closeness, looked up. She saw his face change as he registered the .ng discarded on the floor and the bundle in her arms. He angrier then than she had ever seen him, and she had a

f groping sensation of how formidable, in anger, he might Whoever made an enemy of Pascal made a mistake.

7ben his face became gentle, an extraordinary tenderness lit his eyes. With a few low words, he bent, and gathered her e.

e said, ‘My darling, don’t cry. We’ll find them, I promise you, oever did this.’

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THEY BURIED Napoleon in the small garden behind the house. The earth was soft from the rain, and the task easy enough. They worked in silence, side by side, and when it was over, Pascal said close to her ear, ‘Not here. Not here. Pack some clothes and come with me. We have three days left. It’s time to disappear.’

The journey was long and circuitous, though the distance travelled was short. They went first to a small hotel in St James’s, where Pascal was known and a double room had been booked. Pascal said the manager, an old contact of his, would ensure the room appeared to be occupied. Telephone calls would be made, and food sent up.

‘Our ghosts will occupy this room,’ he said. ‘But we’ll be somewhere else. For a day, maybe two, this will help. Then, if necessary, we try something else.’

They moved on, setting off in one direction, then doubling back. When Pascal was satisfied they were not followed, he led them to their destination. It proved to be a small cottage in Hampstead, near the sunurdt of the heath. It was situated in a maze of narrow cobbled alleyways inaccessible by car. It had three entrances. Pascal parked his motor bike in a shed to its rear.

‘I came here earlier and checked the house/ he said. ‘It’s

mous. It isn’t overlooked at front or back, and it has a ber of other advantages, Gini. Look.’

e led her inside, and Gini went from room to room with mountastonishment. The house was well furnished and equipped. bed was niade up. There was several days’ food in the

ge. The day’s newspapers were neatly stacked in its small ng-room. All the windows had thick wooden interior shutters. exterior doors were reinforced with steel plates.

Pascal,’ she said, ‘who lives here? What is this place?’

it’s a safe house - and no-one lives here as such. It belongs to a tact of mine. Once upon a time, she owned the most celebrated thel in France. Then there was a little misunderstanding about

x. She retired to London, and invested the remains of her fortune property. She’s over seventy now. An extraordinary woman. lets this place to former clients of hers, people who need someere secure and private, and clean in the electronic sense.’ -‘Are there many such peopleT

‘Oh ves. We can talk here, Gini. It has anti-electronic surveillance uipment, and it’s regularly swept. It may not be one hundred r cent Secure’ nowhere is, but it’s ninety-nine per cent.’

He drew her towards him, and took her hand. Her face was hite, and still tear-stained. He kissed her brow gently.

‘Now, listen, Gini/ he said. ‘Go upstairs. Unpack. Have a bath.

- do as I say. It will make you feel better. While you do that, make us something to eat. Then, later, when you feel stronger,

e’ll go over all this, piece by piece. We’re close now, darling. I feel it, it’s starting to make sense.’

Gini drew back from him; she looked up at his face. ‘You know said you asked Jenkins to take me off the story. WhyT Tascal smiled. ‘I didn’t know he’d already done so, obviously C He paused. ‘I don’t want anyone to know what we’re up Gini, not even him. I don’t trust him completely. I don’t trust one, Apart from you, of course.’

u tou didn’t mean what you said to him - Pascal, you promise thatT

‘No, I didn’t mean it.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m afraid for you, yes. protect us any way I can. I won’t let what happened to Loma

unro happen to you-‘ He broke off. Gini’s expression had pa

Lprome fixed. He told her, then, exactly what had happened, ;Wd how swiftly it had happened.

Gini gave a low cry. ‘We killed her, Pascal. We did that. We as Opod as wrote her death certificate.’

‘Don’t.’ He drew her close. ‘Gini, I thought that at first. But it isn’t true. It wasn’t hard to trace her. Anyone could have done so. They could have killed her any time they liked. Don’t you see, Gini, they waited until she had spoken to me, until I could actually witness her death. It was another of their warnings, like Napoleon, like Venice. So/ his face hardened, ‘we pay attention to those warnings. We’re much more careful from now on. We stay together, at all times. But we don’t give up - either of us, no matter what Jenkins believes, or anyone else. We work together on this, and we succeed.’ He paused, his expression now both sad and determined. ‘What you said to me, in Venice - you remember? Believe me: I heard what you said.’

When Gini came downstairs, she felt stronger and refreshed. A delicious smell of cooking emanated from the kitchen. She found that Pascal had set the table there, and she was touched by what she saw: two places, laid in the French manner, two lighted candles, a checked cloth, and a small pot plant in the centre, removed from one of the rooms upstairs. Deep purple African violets. The candles were a little askew. Pascal gave this arrangement a proud look. He made a great play of opening oven doors and checking temperatures. He flourished dishcloths a lot. Gini suppressed a smile. She knew perfectly well that Pascal could not cook. From the oven, he produced what turned out to be a very good boeuf bourguignon, which as they both knew, had come ready-cooked.

‘Extraordinary/ he said with a smile as they ate. ‘It’s much easier than I realized, this cooking. You open the oven, put the thing in, and voila.’

‘It’s a little bit more complicated, Pascal, if you’re starting from scratch.’

‘It isT He looked at her with great seriousness. ‘Could you make thisT

‘From scratch? Yes, I could. It’s not that difficult .

‘Excellent. I have a few French prejudices. It’s nice if a woman can cook.’

‘And if she can’t?’

‘No problem. If I love her enough. If I love her very much, I take lessons myself. Or we eat in a different restaurant every night. Or order in pizza. Or starve. So long as I’m with her, it won’t matter in the least.’ He rose to his feet. ‘So, now I shall make us coffee. Then we can talk. Begin at the beginning, Gini. You first.’

And so Gini recounted to him, one by one, all the events of the

*She told him about Frank Romero, and the buttons n his jacket; about her meeting with Lise, and the things Mary

said; about the strange postcard signed ‘Jacob’ from McMullen, about the circumstances of that long and frightening Monday ht.

Pascal listened intently and quietly, smoking a cigarette. When came to the question of the telephone call, of that whispering cene male voice, his face paled with anger. ‘You have that ording you made? Get it now.’

‘She left the room while he listened to it. When she returned, had never seen him so coldly furious, she thought at first and then she remembered; there had been another occasion,