Lovers and Liars (50 page)

‘It looks like him. Yeah, I guess so. It’s difficult to tell when he’s dressed like that. He looks younger here . Yes, I’d say that was him.’

Pascal stared at her. ‘You’re certainT

‘Yeah. Now that I look at it closely. It’s him.’

Pascal replaced the photographs in his pocket. This meant revising many of his previous ideas. He leaned forward. ‘So, did he explain what he wanted you to do?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘In detail. He went over and over it, where I had to go, what I should say. Like some goddamn military briefing … He gave me these names and addresses I had to learn. I said - if I’m posing as your wife, shouldn’t I wear a wedding ring? He said no.’

‘Did you believe it really was a practical jokeT

‘It could have been. That’s what he said. Frankly, I didn’t much care. Anyway,’ she paused, ‘he came back the next morning, with the most incredible fur coat I ever saw in my life, and these unbelievable pearls. The coat was to hide the fact that the Chanel suit didn’t fit too well - he had it all figured out. There’s not much more to tell really. He had a cab waiting downstairs. He drove with me to that courier place, waited in the cab outside. I took the packages in, did my number … ‘ She grinned. ‘Back to Claridge’s, say farewell to the pearls and the coat, collect twenty thousand dollars, go home.’

‘You sound as if you enjoyed it.’

‘Sure. I did. I liked Hamilton. I thought it was fun. No harm done.’ She paused.

‘Was I wrong?’

‘I’m afraid you were.’

‘I thought so.’ She gave him a shrewd glance. ‘More than just sending some unwelcome handcuffs, right?’

‘Yes, more than that.’ Pascal hesitated. ‘You haven’t discussed this with anyoneT

‘No. Only you. Hamilton said not to. So did Appleyard.’ She glanced at him again. ‘You look kind of grim, you know. Is this dangerous in some way? Am I in danger? Are youT

Pascal signalled to the waiter to bring the bill. He was not sure the answer to that question, but he was unwilling to say so. Loma Munro frowned. ‘Great. I’m not all right in other words. d neither are you.’

c ‘No, no.’ Pascal rose, and paid for their meal. Loma Munro rose; together they walked out through the glass-enclosed court of the caf6, onto the pavement of the Rue Bonaparte and ,e

the rain.

0 orna Munro shivered, and wrapped her coat more tightly und her. The streetlights were on now, the rush hour just ginning; the daylight was starting to fail. The model braced gi

1, rself against the wind, then smiled and turned back to Pascal. .‘Well, it can’t matter that much/ she said. ‘All I did was deliver V

ew p rce s. till, I’ll keep my mouth shut from now on.’ ‘It rni t be a good idea.’

‘And avoid Appleyard.’ She laughed. ‘Well, I hope I was some ind of help. I have to get back to my hotel now. I fly back to Jew York tonight. Nice meeting you, Pascal.’

Thev shook hands. Lorna Munro turned away, then turned back. ey, one last thing. When I’m famous, don’t creep up and take tu res by my swimming-pool, OKT She grinned. ‘Let me know advance’. Come right in the front door … ‘

‘I’ll do that,’ Pascal replied, and raised his hand in farewell. Lorna Munro stepped off the pavement to the edge of the traffic arning along the boulevard. She looked to right and left, saw lights change at the St Germain intersection, and began to

ss. Watching her, Pascal was certain she never saw the car.

It came out of the stream of traffic to his right, and accelerated t. By the time it reached the red light and the intersection, it s travelling at around fifty miles an hour. A black Mercedes oon, with tinted glass, it hit Lorna Munro sideways on, and sed her body ten feet in the air. She landed across its bonnet, wed, then was thrown to the ground.

A cacophony of horns filled the air. Pascal saw other passers-by the pavement freeze as he froze, and stare. The Mercedes sped t across the intersection, and disappeared down the boulevard

1. screeching tyres. Its driver never once touched its brakes;

re was no time even to read the registration plates. One second was there, the next it was gone.

“Pascal began to run forwards into the boulevard. His limbs heavy and slow with shock. It seemed to take an immense e to travel twenty yards.

Loma Munro must have been killed instantly, he knew that as soon as he reached her. Her neck had been broken, perhaps her spine. She lay on her back on the road, in a cluster of gathering people, her beautiful face unmarked, and her blue eyes gazing up at the sky.

A man checked for a pulse at her throat, then shook his head. Pascal hesitated, then turned aside, and pushed his way through the crowd. Other witnesses would have seen the car. He could be of no further use here. Police enquiries would hinder not help him. He stopped. He could still hear her voice, and the frank optimism with which she’d spoken of her future plans.

She’d had less than half an hour to live at the time. He leaned against a wall, and pressed his face against its grime. He looked at the question, and then looked at it again: if he had not contacted her, would Lorna Munro still be alive?

HO ELSE knows about the Hawthorne story?’ Gini said to B

olas Jenkins.

They were in the back of Jenkins’s chauffeur-driven Jaguar, the ‘[e

Th r being one of the perks of Jenkins’s job. Speeding south to r

e Savoy through wet streets, Jenkins seemed distracted and on e

ge. k”Come on, Nicholas. Someone else knows. Who? DaichesT V’Will you give me a break? How many times do I have to say it? ,iou, Lamartine, me. That’s it.’ He stopped, then glanced at her Pharply. ‘WhyT

‘Because I’m getting the strong feeling someone does know, Iicholas. They knew before you even assigned Pascal and me this.’

,”Crap. You’re getting paranoid, Gini.’

‘Look, Nicholas, just give me a straight answer, will you? Does Paiches know?’

‘No, he bloody well does not. I know Daiches likes to imagine

6’s rather better informed than God, but I have news for him. Re isn’t.’ He glanced at her again. ‘Why, was he fishing?’

‘Not exactly. He made a few remarks about this dinner with O!,laawthorne tonight.’

‘So? I don’t blame him. I made a few myself. Since when have

you been so pally with our illustrious proprietor? Hand-delivered invitations–-

‘Never mind that now, Nicholas. It’s not important. This is. If Daiches doesn’t know, did Johnny Appleyard? Had you heard any rumours about Hawthorne from Appleyard? Nicholas, did Appleyard give you this tipT

‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this! How many times do I have to spell it out? This is my story, one hundred per cent. It has nothing to do with fucking Appleyard, God rest his soul and all that. This was my lead, via my source, and it’ll be my fucking exclusive if you and Pascal come up with the goods. If you actually make some progress. Are you making progressT

‘Yes, Nicholas, we are. I worked all damn weekend on this.’ ‘So? Big deal.’

‘And what’s more, it’s a much bigger story than we originally thought.’

‘It isT Interest gleamed in his eyes, then he raised a finger to his lips. ‘Save the details for later.’ He glanced at the glass screen between them and his driver.

‘After dinner, I’ll drive you home. We can talk then.’ He stared out of the window at the passing streets. Then he seemed to make an effort to improve his own mood; he turned back to her with a smile. ‘This should be useful anyway,’ he said. ‘Gives you a chance to see Hawthorne’s public persona … I must say, Gini, you’re looking very pretty tonight. It makes a change to see you in a dress.’

He eyed her legs as he said this. Gini put another three inches of leather seat between them. The car was slowing. Jenkins peered through the window again.

‘Oh, I don’t believe it - what the fuck!’

Approaching Kingsway and Covent Garden, they came to an abrupt halt. Ahead of them through jammed traffic, Gini could see police cars and flashing lights. They inched their way towards the rn16e. Security barriers were being erected. All the traffic was being diverted. In the distance a siren wailed.

‘Fucking IRA/ Jenkins said. He leaned forward, and opened the glass partition.

‘Just step on it, will you, Chris? Cut through the Garden, and go down past the opera house.’

‘That’s just what I am doing, sir. So is everyone else.’

‘Then use your ingenuity/ Jenkins snapped. ‘That’s what you’re paid for. I don’t intend to be late.’

the dinner at the Savoy was a large one. It was being held in Lhe River Room, and Gini estimated there were three hundred

es S.

The security was tight - because of the current round of bomb s, Gini assumed at first. Jenkins corrected her on this. ,,,‘Nothing to do with the Dublin cowboys/ he said irritably.

s was all laid on weeks ago, Melrose told me. We’ve John wthome’s presence to thank for this .

‘k,4V

He gestured towards the throng of people at the entrance to the r Room. Each person had to present a security pass; each pass s laboriously checked. When they finally reached the entrance, s

s small evening bag was opened and searched.

‘Perhaps you’d like me to turn out my pockets,’ Jenkins said, a blustering way.

‘That won’t be necessary, sir/ replied a polite American. ‘Just your hands under this scanner, front and back … Thank u, sir. Ma’am.’

Gini held her hands beneath a device the size of a portable one. A bluish light scanned the backs of her hands, then her MS.

Nicholas took her arm, and they walked through a discreet ffold device erected in the doorway. Jenkins had keys in his et which triggered an alarm. Politely but firmly, he was taken e behind a screen. He emerged flushed, and spent the next -hour boasting of his experiences there.

,,,‘The scannerT he said jovially to right and left. ‘The scanperls nothing. Believe me. I had the CIA grope. A testicular Best sex in years .

The evening, as Gini had expected, was a high-powered affair. It the top table, some distance from where she and Jenkins Were both seated, she counted four serving Cabinet Ministers, tree press barons including Melrose, several well-known teleOision news reporters, the head of the Independent Broadcasting I uthority, and no less than four leading newspaper editors. When nkins observed these four, his expression became sour.

k”Why’s that pompous fart from The Times up thereT he said. And that Scots wanker. Great. Just great. Thanks a bunch, kelrose .

He began to crumble his bread roll savagely. Turning his back ron Gini, he launched into conversation with the woman seated other side.

‘Correct. Up a hundred thousand, and still rising . Gini heard.

She turned her attention back to the top table. John Hawthorne was seated at its centre, flanked by Lord Melrose and the Chairman of the BBC governors. There were no female faces, and Hawthorne was the youngest person there by at least a decade.

Compared to the powerful but ageing men who surrounded him, Hawthorne emanated youth and authority. The later speeches were to be televised, and the lights in the room were already strong. They blanched the skin, and gave several of Hawthorne’s companions an appearance of fatigue. Not the ambassador, however. Hawthorne might have been wearing TV make-up - Gini was too far away to be sure. If so, it had been expertly applied. Hawthorne looked even more tanned and fit than usual; the tan emphasized the blue of his eyes, the white Hollywood perfection of his smile.

Where were the security men? Gini studied the room. She could see the toast-master, various waiters, a television crew just to the left of the dais, and another, more centrally placed, just below Hawthorne himself. A floor manager, with head-phones, two sound men … and then she saw them: that Malone man, immediately below the dais, and two more on either side. One was Frank Romero, the other a man she had not seen before.

As she looked she saw Romero turn, scan the room, glance back to the ambassador, then move across and speak to one of the waiters. The man nodded, and disappeared. Frank Romero made that movement which was now becoming familiar to her: he raised his arm, and appeared to mutter into his cuff. At a distance, the tiny wrist-mike was invisible. Ro imero lowered his arm, made another quick, hard inspection of the room, then crossed to one of the tables nearest the dais. He bent, and spoke into the ear of a white-haired man.

Gini stared. He was about forty feet from her, facing in her direction. He was unmistakable: it was the ambassador’s father, S. S. Hawthorne. He listened intently to Romero, then said something. Romero walked swiftly away.

Gini frowned: Hawthorne had told her that his father was coming over for that forty-eighth birthday party - a party that was still more than a week away. She was certain that was how he had phrased it. He had given no indication that his father was arriving this soon.

Strange. She surveyed the other tables. It was difficult to be sure,

t she thought Lise Hawthorne was not present this evening. the wife was absent, but the father was here: what could that ?

e looked back at S. S. Hawthorne. She could now see that was seated in a wheelchair. He was deep in conversation the woman next to him. He looked much younger than

years. Like his son, he conveyed force and vitality. He had ained handsome; he looked vigorous. She would have put age at little more than sixty-five, though she knew he was alt eightN .

he Magu s,’ said the man seated to her left. He spoke suddenly, king Gini jump. Looking around, she saw that he had followed r gaze, and was also looking at S. S. Hawthorne. As she turned, smiled. A short, grey-haired American, aged about fifty. He nced down at the place card in front of her.

‘Genevieve, it is you. Sam’s daughter, right? I couldn’t believe ‘when I saw you. Last time we met - well, I guess you were und four, five years old.’ He held out his hand to her. ‘You n’t remember. I’m Jason Stein.’

1’m afraid I don’t remember meeting, but of course I know your me. The New York Times, yesT

‘Right. I’m head of the London bureau now. For my sins.’ He ned. ‘Nice to meet you again. So tell me,’ he lowered his ice, ‘whv the big interest in the Magus over thereT He nodded S. S. I lawthorne’s direction.