Lovers and Liars (9 page)

‘I know.’ Jenkins’s smile became complacent. ‘Yet I hear it’s

been going on for years. Four years at least - that’s a great many blondes

‘You ;nust have taken leave of your senses.’ Pascal now made no attempt to disguise his impatience. ‘You flew me to London Yfor this? I might as well go now.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that. You haven’t heard it all. Just listen. Consider - my reaction was exactly the same as yours. The first time it was put to me, well, I wouldn’t have given it a second’s credence. And I certainly wouldn’t have flown you in, not at your rates.’ Pascal flushed; Jenkins waved him back to his chair. ‘Sit Oown - there’s a good fellow. And let me explain. There’s one very obvious question, isn’t there? Who was my sourceT

‘OK. Five minutes.’ Pascal sat down. ‘Who was your source? One of the girlsT

‘Certainly not.’ Jenkins looked offended. ‘You think I’d react way to some story from a two-bit tart? My source is right in !here, close to the ambassador.’

‘You’ve talked to this source yourselfT

For the first time, some of Jenkins’s ebullience diminished. He -RE

obifted his gaze slightly. ‘No/ he admitted in a grudging way, I haven’t. Not yet. My information was filtered, if you like. It ime through a third party.’

w ‘WhoT ‘The name’s not likely to mean anything to you, or Gini. It’s

o, man. James McMullen. I was at school with him, as it hapns. ve known him for years.’

f, .McMullen?’ Pascal glanced across at Gini, who shook her head. J , ,

d who is he, this schoolfriend of yoursT

#,-,,_’Nobody much,’ Jenkins replied, and there were signs his confi_”tAence was returning. ‘Well-connected. Clever - up to a point - in A, he was an Oxford scholar. But a bit weak maybe -vacillating,

drive. Left Oxford without a degree, spent some years as an .Wmy officer, then resigned. Took a few jobs in the City. Became “Al,:Ut of a drifter - a handsome, charming drifter. Goodhearted.

nest. A bit of a throw-back - not in touch with the modem rld. He first approached me about three months ago. Out of -*e blue. I hadn’t laid eyes on him in years.’

..,‘o,‘He told you the story about the blondesT Gini asked, watching closely. ‘Was he selling it? How much did he wantT -,’*-Wothing. My friend James doesn’t operate that way. He’s a .A. fleman, one of a dying breed. I doubt he even knows news—

pers pay for information, and if he did, he’d be appalled. No.

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He didn’t want money. He wanted something more subtle. He wanted the truth about Hawthorne to come out.’

There was another silence. Gini could see Pascal thinking, calculating. His impatience had gone.

‘All right/ he said, when Jenkins volunteered nothing further. ‘Your friend McMullen was an intermediary, bringing you information on someone else’s behalf. How close is that person to the ambassadorT

‘Oh very close indeed.’

‘And you can substantiate McMullen’s link with that sourceT ‘Pascal, please, of course. That was my opening request. That groundwork’s done. It was arranged for me to witness McMullen lunching with his source. There’s no doub ‘t they know each other. They’re old friends. And then… ‘ He paused, smiling. ‘Then also at my suggestion - James recorded a telephone conversation between them, with equipment I provided. The tape’s being copied now. I’ll let you have it tomorrow. When you hear it, you’ll see. James wasn’t lying. And he’s very close to his source.’

Pascal shrugged. ‘Very well/ he said. ‘Let’s take that as read for now. McMullen is close to this source, and the source is close to Hawthorne. How close? Someone employed in the household, or at the embassy? A maid? A driver? One of his aides? Some security manT

‘Closer than that.’

‘Someone in Hawthorne’s family? His brother? One of that tribe of cousinsT Gini suggested, then shook her head. ‘No. I can’t believe that. A united front. No-one in that family would talk.’

Jenkins was not listening. His gaze was now directed towards the windows, and the fading light of a winter afternoon. Gini could see how much he was relishing this, and she had an intuition: Jenkins loved scoops, he loved the coup de grdce. He would have saved the best, and the nastiest twist, for last.

‘In a way/ he began slowly, in a meditative tone, ‘you could say that the source is almost the ambassador himself. Because there’s another aspect to those monthly rituals - one I didn’t mention before. It seems that when Hawthorne returns from one of his sessions, he likes to go over its details, chapter and verse. Blow-by-blow descriptions, as you might appropriately say … It’s the conclusion to the night’s entertainments, apparently. And from what I gather, for Hawthorne it’s the most satisfying part of all.’

‘You mean he tells someone all thisT Gini stared at him in astonishment. ‘That can’t be true. You mean he comes back, sits down by the fireside, and describes what he’s done? Nicholas … ‘

‘Not by the fireside, I hear.’ Jenkins’s smile was now one of malicious delight. ‘In bed is the favoured location, or so I’m told.’ ‘In bed? You mean … T

‘I mean, my dears, that our source is the ambassador’s wife. Lise Hawthorne herself. She told McMullen, her old friend, confidant and self-appointed protector, and eventually McMullen told me. Rather trusting, as I’m sure you’ll agree, handing a stick Of dynamite to an editor - but then my friend James is trusting, and so I’m beginning to suspect is the ambassador’s wife. Trusting, frightened, trapped and increasingly desperate … And such a beautiful woman, too.’

Jenkins had finally obtained his hoped-for reaction. He bathed a few minutes in the glow of their astonishment, then rose to his feet.

‘Mrs Hawthorne wants this story to come out,’ he continued, more briskly. ‘Since she’s a devout Catholic, a divorce is ruled put. Now a divorce court, of course, would bring the truth to -,light - but since she hasn’t that option, she’s turned to the Press.

To us.’ He paused. ‘On one condition. We have to substantiate Aithis story without any apparent assistance from her. She cannot

1$e revealed as its source-!

‘You mean we can’t talk to her?’ Gini interrupted. ‘We can’t approach the main source directlyr

‘My dear Gini, absolutely not. Under no circumstances. That’s A.

Ahe first rule, the first condition McMullen laid down. No interm..-ews with the lovely Lise.’ Jenkins favoured both of them with a lienign, and possibly gloating, smile. ‘Leg-work, my dears. No cosy i,:Vhone calls to the ambassadorial residence. No cosy tte-A-t6tes

Lise. No enquiries to staff that get back to the ambassador seconds after you hang up the phone.’

‘Damn.’ Gini had opened her diary meanwhile. She was flicking ugh its pages. ‘I was just checking how the Sundays fall. It’s V1,

4112-ven davs to the third Sunday this month.’

‘I know,’ Jenkins replied. ‘And you’ll need every one of those S. ere s a lot to check out. And, annoyingly, there were day

ps in my friend James’s narrative. We know when these meetallegedly take place—!

‘But not where,’ Gini finished for him.

tT’ ‘11is shouldn’t be too much of a problem.’ Pascal rose. He

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looked at Jenkins thoughtfully. ‘After all, McMullen’s told you everything else. He’s been a very obliging kind of source. Location shouldn’t be a difficulty. Where is your friend Mr McMullen, Nicholas? How do we contact him?’

Pascal’s tone had been sarcastic. Jenkins seemed pleased to have riled him.

‘Ah, tiny problern/ he said cheerily. ‘I should have mentioned it before. McMullen’s disappeared. Gone to ground. We were due to meet just before Christmas. McMullen had promised to provide the next assignation address. Unfortunately McMullen never showed. He’s not been in his London flat for over two weeks. None of his friends has clapped eyes on him. He hasn’t written, hasn’t telephoned … Most mysterious. As if he’s dead … Still, I’m sure you’ll both track him down.’

He gave them both a jovial salute. Gini felt that for some reason he now chose to forestall further questions. ‘Must rush. Late for my own editorial meeting. Here, Gini.’

He slid a card and a photograph across the table. The picture must have been taken some years before, Gini noted, for in it McMullen wore uniform. A good-looking fair-haired man, wearing combat fatigues. It was not a very good photograph, nor a very dear likeness.

‘That’s his address, and the only picture I could get hold of. just to give you both a start. Pascal, talk to my girl Charlotte. I know she’s booked you a room somewhere comfortable. Check back with me in a couple of days, when you’ve got some results. Be ingenious, my dears. Have fun. Ciao.’

Vil

JENKINS always like that?’ Pascal asked, some time later as .:1hey left the News building.

around her. It was Gini shrugged, and pulled her coat tighter

oon. It was cold; rain Amost dark now, at three-thirty in the aftern

itternated with sleet. ‘You’ve met Nicholas before. You should ow. And yes, he is.’

I id in a gloomy way. ‘I always thought ,:‘He s a shit/ Pascal sa

`2 t, and now I’m sure. He gloats.’

t alone in Sure *He enjoys other people’s misfortunes. He’s no

e_

11 A&- It’s a wild-goose chase.’ Pascal glanced at the yellowish sky, turned up the collar of his jacket. ‘None of this will stand It’s too far-fetched.’

‘Maybe. I’m not so sure of that. Nicholas knows a good story … … …en he hears one. Think about it - from his point of view it could true, that’s ork two ways. If the allegations about Hawthorne are

true, there’s still a story: e stuff. If they turn out to be un

Hawthorne, peddling lies about her husband to the Press.’ ay Maybe so.’

a small awkward silence. She could feel Pascal’s gaze, ere was

averted her face. She looked around her. The News offices, in had been under siege er years after the move from Fleet Street,

to union pickets. They were a grim place. ‘Fortress Docklands’ they’d been nicknamed, and the tag was apt. From where they stood, just outside the brutalist office building itself, they were ringed by fifteen-foot walls, barbed-wire fencing, and electronic security-manned gates. A few blocks beyond, through a maze of grim council estates and converted warehouses, was the River Thames. The proximity of the river and its low-tide mud flats made the air dank. I work in a prison, Gini sometimes thought.

‘GenevieveT Pascal had turned to her. He touched the sleeve of her coat, then quickly withdrew his hand. His use of her full name, and the French manner in which he pronounced it, brought the past roaring back. For one brief and painful instant Gini remembered how it had once been in that little room by the harbour. She remembered how the dancehall music made the floor pulse, how the lights of the fishing boats glittered across the water at night, how it felt when Pascal took her in his arms.

She averted her face, and kept her eyes fixed firmly on the security gates.

‘I’m sorry.’ Pascal hesitated. His manner was awkward.

‘I wasn’t told I would be working with you. I promise you, Gini, until just before you walked into that room, Jenkins had said nothing. I had no idea.’

Gini turned to look at him. ‘If you had knQwn in advance would you have agreed to work with me or refusedT

A shadow passed across his face, but the Pascal she remembered had always been honest, and he gave her an honest answer now. ‘If it had happened a few years ago - yes, I’d have refused. I was trying to make my marriage work. There was Marianne

- my daughter.’ He paused, looked towards her, then away. He thrust his hands into his jacket pockets, half-shrugged. ‘So

- yes, if this had happened a few years back, I would have refused. You know why, I think.’

‘Too many memoriesT ‘Partly. And too much risk.’

There was a little silence. Gini stared hard at the gates. Eventually, she said, ‘Risk?’

‘We quarrelled once. I had no wish to do so again.’

It was not the answer Gini had hoped for. She began to move across the yard in the direction of her car. She pushed her wet hair back from her face. Pascal came after her, and touched her sleeve. She came to a halt.

‘Why do you ask?’ he said, in an agitated way. ‘You don’t want to work with me now, is that it?’

Gini turned to look at him. His face was pale and drawn, his hair wet from the rain. She could both feel his tension, and see it written on his features.

If that’s the case, just say so, Gini, I’ll understand. I’ll tell Jenkins rm pulling out. It doesn’t matter. There’s plenty of other work. I’ll do that, Gini. I’ll tell him right now. If you want.’

, Gini hesitated. The sleety rain was cold against her cheeks. Tiny wet particles clung to her eyelids and lashes. She blinked.

1. ‘No/ she said eventually. ‘No, don’t do that … After all, it’s a good story. It could be a major story. There’s no reason why we can’t work together as a team. I might have found it hard too, a few years back. But not now. Now it’s fine. I’m over all that .

‘I see.’

‘It was a long time ago, Pascal. Twelve years.’

He touched her shoulder, and made her face him. He looked down at her intently, then with a halfsmile, tilted up the brim of

1er cap.

Wh the disguise, Gini? A boy’s cap, a man’s overcoat, your y

Iovely hair all tied back? Trousers, boots. Are you trying to change your sex?,

‘No, no, of course not.’ She gave a quick protective irritable “gesture. ‘I just don’t like to look too female, that’s all. Not when

1 work. I work with men all the time, and … I find it’s simpler, all.’

‘Your eyes haven’t changed, you know thatT ‘Pascal, don’t.’

She drew back from him sharply, and looked away. She could feel his gaze rest upon her face. The sleet fell. Across the yard, a Var engine started up. She tried to fight down all the memories that surged forward when she heard that tone, amused, half-tender, in lis voice. She said to herself: I will not let this happen to me again; A won’t.

Pascal moved a few paces off. He made an odd gesture of the hand, as if relinquishing something. He said, ‘Youfre right. Of course.’