Aiding and Abetting (7 page)

“The man we are looking for is stupid but cunning, not clever,” she said.

“That’s very true. One would think you’d known him, Lacey, as I did. He was stupid and boring. You had to draw him out. Sometimes, if you succeeded in drawing him out, he could be quite amusing though.” “But not clever.”

“Oh no, not clever. He had a flair for gambling. Always lost in the end but he had a physical presence, so that a gaming house would find him an asset, egging on the novices and so on.”

“Are you sure you’d recognize him?” said Lacey.

“No. I don’t think I would. At least, not face on because I’d bet that he’s had facial surgery. But you know, I might recognize him from the back. His shape, his movements, the way he walked. Now, if you find him, what are you going to do?”

“Arrange an interview.”

“He’d never agree to that.”

“Perhaps he would have to agree,” said Lacey. “Or face exposure.”

Joe did not reply. Plainly, he thought, she has it both romantically and practically worked out. Why doesn’t she just write the book? A book about Lucan. Why bother with Lucan himself?

Lacey went on, “You see I’ll do a deal with him.” “I was under the impression,” said Joe, “that you wanted to get him arrested and tried.”

“In a way,” she said. “Because I think he is guilty.” “Oh, you could never be sure. As I remember him he was an unpredictable fellow. Although I didn’t care for him much to begin with, well as I say, he rather grew on me.”

They were silent for a good while. Then suddenly Lacey said, “Oh my God!”

“What’s the matter?” He was driving, and slowed down.

“Did you see from the window that monk getting into a station wagon? He was saying good-bye to that lay brother. Then he drove off.”

“Yes, I did look out just then. I saw you were looking.”

“That couldn’t be Lucan, could it?”

Joe thought for a moment. “I only saw him from the back. It could have been Lucan, yes. From the height it could have been. But so could anyone that height and, I suppose, age, look like Lucan.”

“Wouldn’t it have been natural for him to have come straight to Ambrose from Benny Rolfe’s? He left early from Adanbrae Keep. Wouldn’t he have come straight on to Ambrose, his old gambling friend?”

“Very likely,” said Joe. “And now I come to think of it, that man could have been Lucan.”

“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” she said. “Be cautious, Joe. Dozens of men, from the back, could be Lucan.” “It was a station wagon,” he said, in a stunned way.

“Was it a Ford?” she said.

“Well, of course I don’t know. It might have been a Ford but I couldn’t swear.”

“Nor could I.”

“He could have stopped over at St. Columba’s. Almost certainly he would do that.”

“But Father Ambrose didn’t know his whereabouts,” said Lacey.

“Ambrose is a liar. Always very shifty. All obsessed gamblers are liars.”

“The prior of a monastery?”

“I think it possible,” said Joe, “for a man to be a holy person and a glib liar at the same time. He might be trying to protect a man.”

They were now well into Eastern Ross. Traffic began to appear as if out of the scenery, and they pulled up at a small lakeside hotel called The Potted Heid. The Lucan who had been seen off at St. Columba’s by the lay brother was the one called Lucky. Having been directed east, he decided to go south. If Joe Murray and Maria Twickenham’s daughter were tracking him, he wanted to keep an eye on them.

To the south, to the south. Lucky Lucan was heading for the airport.

But he was not at all sure how far he could trust Ambrose.

Had he put the couple on his trail? Had they recognized him while he hurried across the courtyard to the hired station wagon, so wretchedly noticeable? The couple had been in the parlor engrossed, Ambrose had said, in newspaper cuttings. They were writing a book about him. Why did Ambrose keep newspaper cuttings about the Lucan case? Benny Rolfe, mused Lucan, was inconsiderate, was scared. He should have arranged the money payments by transfer instead of forcing him to come and collect in this eccentric way. But Benny was scared of being caught as an accomplice. No guts. Lucan decided to find a roadhouse somewhere near Inverness. They would probably have to pass that way. He would wait the next morning, get another car, and if possible, follow them. As it fell out, Joe and Lacey delayed their departure from The Potted Heid to make love. It was after ten in the morning that they dumped their bags downstairs, and looked into the breakfast room. The high-priced and unjovial hotel produced some inscrutable coffee. Breakfast was definitely over. On the table where they were served the coffee which slopped over the saucer was a half-filled ashtray. Lacey, in great high spirits, pointed this out to the sullen houseman who totally ignored her. They went to pay the bill and were told that Joe’s credit card didn’t work. Then Lacey’s didn’t work. Joe said, “Let’s see,” and adjusted the card machine on a workable flat surface. His card then worked. They felt good to be on their way. They felt very good, anyway, at the grand beginning of a love affair, free and full of enterprise, without any mess of impediments.

The hills, glens, lakes, wrapped themselves around the lovers’ mood. The weather was good, with alternating cloud- and sun-breaks, making spectacular effects.

They stopped beyond Inverness for lunch at a good pub, Muir’s Cairn, this time a lucky find. Could Lucan have gone ahead of them? About ten cars were parked outside the pub, two of them white, a medium sized Renault and a family Ford. Inside, it was warm, there was a good crowd of people, at the tables and at the bar. They were given a table by the window with a fine view. “Now,” said Lacey, “let’s look at the clients.” Joe was already looking over the top of the menu. There was no sign of a single man vaguely resembling the monk who had been seen into the station wagon. From where they sat it was difficult to see everyone around the bar which stretched away into a more public salon.

Lacey glanced out of the window behind her. It was raining, now. Two or three people and a couple were making towards their cars. One man in particular drew her attention. He was putting on a dark-green waterproof short jacket, and got into a white car. He was not the man they were looking for but it now occurred to Lacey that it was quite possible the suspect Lucan had changed cars. It would be possible to do so between Caithness and Inverness, and certainly not difficult for a man of Lucan’s resources. She remarked on this to Joe. He, in turn, observed that the further south they went the less likely were they to find their man. “And besides, he might have gone directly south after leaving Benny’s place,” said Joe.

“But you know Betty Kerr said he was going north. That might mean the monastery. He was very close to Ambrose in his younger days, according to my mother,” Lacey said.

Smoked salmon was on the menu and so were lamb chops. Joe pointed this out. “Sounds delicious,” said Lacey. “That’s my choice.” Around them people at the other tables were being served mainly fish and chips or large salads piled with eatables covered with mayonnaise. Joe, too, chose smoked salmon followed by lamb cutlets, mainly out of love for Lacey. He was in fact so taken with this charming young woman now in his life that he didn’t care very much what he ate. He didn’t care very much about finding Lucan, except to make Lacey happy. In the quite authentic glow of their new love affair they did not focus their full attention on the comings and goings of the other customers. However, when they were served their second course of cutlets with green peas, Joe said to the waitress, “Is the smoked salmon followed by lamb in great demand today?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, “it’s always a good combine.” Driving south, maddeningly slow on the road, was a white Ford, quite unusual enough a car in those parts. It was driven by a whitish-haired man who, from behind, might have been their man. They were aware that the amusement of guessing the possibilities of tracing Lucan rather outweighed the possibilities themselves. There were many alternative routes to the south of Caithness.

But it was definitely fun. The new lovers were in the mood for fun. Still, the car driving so slowly (why slowly?) in front of them was an exciting fact. The driver wanted them to pass, and in spite of numerous bends and dips that made passing inadvisable, they could sometimes have done so. But Lacey, who was at the wheel that afternoon, didn’t do so. She kept doggedly behind the white Ford which kept doggedly at its almost funereal pace, much to the fury of the traffic behind them, which passed both cars as best it could.

“Whoever’s in that Ford knows we’re positively following him,” said Lacey.

They were approaching a tall wall surrounding a large house. Ahead were a number of people dressed in their best clothes for a wedding. The Ford slowed down even more. It glided towards the huge gates with heraldic designs picked out in gold surmounted by a pair of legendary creatures in stone. The white car caused a few young giggling men and women to make way for it as it swung into the drive. As Joe and Lacey passed they could see on the lawn in front of the house a huge marquee. Loud voices and soft music completed the scene of the wedding. Joe and Lacey drove on.

The tall, white-haired stranger made his way over the lawn to the thronging mass of joyful guests, the men in their formal clothes, and occasionally kilts, the women in their smart outfits with big black hats, at least five hundred people. At the far end of the marquee the bride and groom could be seen with their young friends, doubled up with laughter. A quintet was playing softly, to suit the two main generations represented. By instinct, the stranger noticed a tall, dove-gray-clad woman and her equally tall and grayly distinguished husband standing apart. He went over to them. “How do you do? Congratulations. I’m Walker,” he said. “I’m afraid I hadn’t time to change but they knew I wouldn’t. Glad to be here, anyway.” Having said this and shaken hands with the couple, he helped himself to a glass of champagne from a tray that was wafted before him.

“Oh, don’t worry about your clothes,” she said nervously. The stranger looked down on his dark-gray suit and then beamed at them. “So glad you could come, Mr. Walker. I don’t know half my new son-in-law’s friends, I’m afraid.”

“Hundreds of them,” said her husband. “And hundreds we hardly know on my daughter’s side.” “Well, I’ll go and say a word to the happy couple,” said the stranger.

It would have been difficult for him to reach the couple even if he had wanted to. The marquee was very warm both from human heat and from the side-stoves carefully placed along the sides of the tent. The stranger found a spot to stand, and before long was approached by a good-looking middle-aged woman. “I’m sure we’ve met somewhere, but I can’t place you.”

“Walker,” he said.

“Walker? I don’t recall.” She spoke with a strong Scottish accent. “But I know your face. I’m Bessie Lang.” “Bessie!” he said. “Of course. How the years fly!” He took another glass of champagne. She refused one. “I must remind Bobbie,” said the stranger, “to give me the guest list. So many people I know here. But of course, the young people, especially on her side, are more or less unknown to me. Oh, there’s Bobbie over there”-the stranger waved to the other side of the tent-“Excuse me, won’t you? I have to make myself useful over there. Let’s keep in touch.” Then he was gone, lost in another crowd, mingling, smiling, exchanging pleasantries. He shook hands finally with the bridegroom’s mother and kilted, lace-shirted father, who were as short, it seemed, as the bride’s parents were tall; then, having judged that a good forty minutes had passed, he made his way through the chattering concentration of the Scottish privileged, back to his white Ford.

True enough, on the road, his pursuers had disappeared.

Maria Twickenham’s daughter and Joe Murray, the latter’s name only dimly remembered by Lucan, both of them on the hunt for him. He remembered Maria Twickenham well and felt a great nostalgia for her. If it had been Maria, he might even have revealed himself for twenty minutes. But the daughter . . . And Joe . . . Oh, no, you don’t write any book about me, you don’t. Ambrose had suspected they were having an affair. “I know by the way they look over each other’s shoulders while they’re perusing the press cuttings,” Ambrose had said. “There’s something about lovers and their slop, I always know it.”

And the girl’s name is Lacey, thought Lucan. Very ridiculous. Imagine if I were to put in twelve to fifteen years in a prison cell just to satisfy a girl called Lacey . . . Anyway he had thrown them at the wedding. Any subsequent enquiries would result in a man called Walker having put in an appearance at the invitation of a man whose name no one remembered.

Hildegard had come from Paris by train through the tunnel. She had brought two bulging zip-bags full of documents, a small suitcase, her handbag briefcase, and what she stood up in. She got a taxi and went to the Manderville Hotel at Queen’s Gate, where she had booked a room. In the taxi she put her watch one hour back. It would be one fifteen in Paris, it was twelve-fifteen here. In Paris Jean-Pierre would be on the phone trying vainly, as he had tried for the past half hour, to reach her and arrange, as usual, where they would eat lunch. This was the first of the hard and difficult aspects of what Hildegard had set out to do. That was, to disappear without a trace. She had in fact decided on this course without fully realizing it herself, from the day, the hour, the moment she realized that the Lucan claimants knew about her past.

Jean-Pierre would go round to her office. Ring the bell. No reply. Her secretary-Jean-Pierre would ring her up at home, he would go down to the bar and ring her up. But perhaps no-did Jean-Pierre know her secretary’s surname? No, he wouldn’t. At three thirty a young patient beset with unnecessary fears was due to arrive for a session. Dominique, the secretary-receptionist, would by now have let herself in, and would be puzzled by Hildegard’s non arrival. “Will you take a seat? Dr. Wolf will be here any minute,” she would say to the girl. In the meantime, four o’clock having struck, she would ring Jean-Pierre’s flat in vain, and then the workshop. “M. Roget? This is Dominique, Dr. Wolf ’s receptionist. No, there is no sign of Dr. Wolf. A patient is waiting. Perhaps you should-yes, please come here. Something must have happened. Please come at once.”

They would ring the hospitals, possibly the police stations. Jean-Pierre would send the patient away with his polite apologies. Eventually, perhaps tomorrow, he might make a statement to the police. Dr. Wolf is missing. The police would search her office, the flat she shared with Jean-Pierre. He would be interrogated closely. “When did you last see Mme. Wolf? What was her state of mind?” He would probably guess her state of mind. He would of course not elaborate on this to the police. He would know she had gone into hiding.

He would wait for a message. About that, she would have to decide. On no account must anyone trace her whereabouts. She had disappeared, perhaps forever. The Lucans would disappear too, go back to where they had come from; Hildegard thought of them as “The Lucans,” without a thought that one of them was probably real, and the other a fake.

In Paris, the course of events that Hildegard had imagined more or less took place, except that Jean-Pierre did not report her disappearance to the police. She had paid up the rent on her office and given notice. She had left the office furniture, but taken her laptop computer and many of the current files, including the Lucan papers. Dominique checked through, wearing her coat and wool cap, ready to go off into her own life, while Jean-Pierre watched. Dominique looked at all the files that were left. “From my memory,” she said, “and from my appointments book, the files here belong only to patients who had finished their course. The current files are gone.”

“Who were the current clients?”

“Well, there was Walker, there was Lucky Lucan. There was Mrs. Maisie Round, Karl K. Jacobs, and just a minute . . .” She consulted her diary: “There was Dr. Oscar Hertz. Dr. Wolf did like Dr. Hertz so very much. There was Ruth Ciampino. Mrs. William Hane-Busby, also.”

“No French clients?”

“At the moment, none.”

Jean-Pierre was struck by a stab of jealousy. “Who was Dr. Hertz?”

“Dr. Oscar Hertz is a recent widower. He has problems of grief and so on.”

“Do you know the addresses and telephone numbers of all the clients whose files are missing?” She sat down in her coat and typed, with the aid of her appointments book, what little she knew about the list of names she had just given. “Dr. Wolf spoke seldom about her clients. She was friendly, talkative, very nice to me, but she didn’t say much about the patients who came to consult her. Now, I’ll leave you my office keys. This is the front door. These are the office door-there are two safety locks.”

“I know,” he said. “I have copies of the keys.”

“And the keys to the filing cabinet. The keys to Dr. Wolf ’s desk.”

“I don’t have those. Leave them with me.” “Do you want me to make a statement to the police, M. Roget?”

“There’s no need to tell the police.”

“Would it not be correct?”

“There is no need.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Suppose,” she said, “that Dr. Wolf has met with an accident?”

“I don’t suppose. You do not take half your office archives with you to have an accident.”

Dominique left, a small figure, wrapped in her coat and scarf, her woolly cap, her paycheck in her bag, provided by Jean-Pierre, her blonde hair half covering her pink cheeks.

She closed the door behind her, but immediately he opened it to call her back.

“Leave me your telephone number and your address.” “It’s in my file,” said Dominique, “but I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying in Paris.”

“No?”

“No.”

He asked her, “Are you in touch with Dr. Wolf?”

“Why should I be in touch with Dr. Wolf?” “I mean no offense, Dominique. But if she gets in touch with you, will you let me know?”

“Yes, I will do that, M. Roget. I will certainly tell you.” Hildegard had long felt that sentimentality was a luxury she could not afford. Perhaps she had always felt it, right back to the time when the family had a pig farm, and the little pigs squealed pitifully, and bled. These things had to be.

She had fourteen brothers and sisters, some old enough to be her mother or father. Someone washed and dressed her, took her to school, fed her: a brother, a mother, a sister, a father, whomsoever. She grew up on the pig farm. The sisters and brothers eventually married and went to live each in a house not far away. They continued in the pig business. Hildegard (then Beate) grew up, with all of them around, among the pigs. She went to school, was clever. She fought herself free from her home. She found Heinrich. She made blood-money. And now she was supposed to ask herself about her loyalty and love for Jean-Pierre in Paris. She knew very well he would be frantically looking for her. She couldn’t afford such sweetness. He would expect some sign of her affection. It was too much to ask. And yet the question asked itself. Oh, Jean-Pierre, what else, what else could I have done?

Jean-Pierre had packed a small bag and set it aside. He was ready to leave Paris any time, at a moment’s notice. Hildegard had been missing over a week and no message from her had reached him. He was more worried by this fact than by her absence, for he was convinced that she was safely settled somewhere of her own choice. She had left her car in the garage, paid up three months in advance. The garage owner could give no explanation, no clue. Jean-Pierre was not anxious for her safety. He brooded only over the fact that she hadn’t rung him at his business number or on his mobile telephone. He made a decision to find her and follow. He began with the list of her patients that Dominique had given her. Only Lucan and Walker had no phone numbers against their names.

“Mrs. Maisie Round?” Jean-Pierre spoke in English, and quite well.

“Yes, speaking. Who is it?”

“Jean-Pierre Roget. I am a friend of Dr. Hildegard Wolf. I-” “Where is Dr. Wolf? It is shameful that she has left in the middle of my treatment. Her secretary just rang and told me she had left Paris, that was all.”

“I was wondering if you had any clue where she was, Madame.”

The woman started to speak again, shrieking, and did not leave off shrieks until she had come to the point in her discourse where Jean-Pierre broke her off. She shrieked:

“It is nothing short of criminal to leave a patient hamstrung in a sitting in the middle of a course just as I was getting to the heart of the matter and she knew that I was arriving at that point of no return so I am now in deep shock and my psyche is severely damaged and at the end of the day the bottom line is I am going to have my attorney issue a writ against Hildegard Wolf and also have her definitely struck off because it looks like here in Paris she was never registered at all with any school or any institute of psychiatry but I paid her over a period of eight months only to find myself neither divorcing from him or engaging with Thomas and I am in a preposterous dilemma that she should have spared me as it was her responsibility to address the problem right from “

At this point Jean-Pierre quietly hung up. He fixed himself a vodka tonic and rang the next patient. A woman answered in French.

“May I speak to Dr. Karl Jacobs?”

“Dr. Jacobs is on holiday. Can I take a message?”

“Well perhaps you can tell me yourself if Dr. Jacobs had any idea of the whereabouts of his analyst, Dr. Hildegard Wolf? When will Dr. Jacobs be back?” “He’s expected to return in about ten days. I can leave a message for him, but I don’t think I can help. A gentleman called Walker has been asking how to get hold of Dr. Wolf. He saw Dr. Jacobs’ name on the desk of the receptionist, I believe, as he was one of Dr. Wolf ’s patients himself. Dr. Wolf left suddenly, it seems.” “Is Dr. Jacobs upset?”

“Oh, no, he was very relieved. He said he’d had enough of her.”

Jean-Pierre left his phone number.

The next patient, Dr. Oscar Hertz, was the one that Dominique had mentioned that Hildegard had liked. A widower, she had said; his problem, grief. From Dr. Oscar Hertz there was no reply. Jean-Pierre rang Mrs. William Hane-Busby’s number. “Yes, speaking,” said the lady in the English tongue. “I’m a friend of Dr. Hildegard Wolf, and I have your name as one of her friends. You see I’m trying to find out where she is.”

“Yes, I would like to know, too. I esteem Dr. Wolf greatly. A very distinguished mind. You know she is discussed in the universities and their publications. She must have had some very urgent reason for going off like that. Do you know her well?”

“She’s my girlfriend,” Jean-Pierre felt it right to say.