What Men Say (24 page)

She said reluctantly: “I wasn't at the inquest so I've only heard secondhand. The connection seems to be a
van, the one that was used in these attacks on the road to Newbury. Someone saw her getting into it, apparently. My”—she glanced at Christopher—“a friend of mine who's a journalist says they're interviewing the other women who've been attacked, trying to establish the make and so on.”

Harriet screwed up her eyes. “But I had no idea about these attacks on the A34, I drive that way every month to see my mother and you'd think . . . Well, we should have been
warned.”

“Excuse me.” The waitress came up behind her with two plates, an onion tart for Christopher and
quenelles de brochet
for Loretta, giving Harriet little choice but to move aside.

“I suppose it'll be in
The Times
tomorrow,” she said regretfully. “Listen, Loretta, why don't you join us for a drink if we're still here when you finish? We've only just finished our main course.” She nodded to Christopher and went back to her husband.

“Eat slowly,” Loretta urged, sotto voce, when Harriet was out of earshot. “Her husband's the most terrible bore, he's a fellow at St. Anthony's. Bridget feels sorry for her, I can't think why else she'd go on seeing them.”

“She's watching us,” Christopher said warningly.

Loretta pulled a face and picked up her fork. “Oh, well. Listen, there's something I wanted to ask you about computers.”

“Computers?”

“Isn't that your—I thought it was your field.”

“It is. But I couldn't help noticing how your eyes glazed over at the party when I started to tell you about the engine-simulator program.”

She blushed. “What?”

“Come on, you were almost comatose.” He grinned, then said: “OK, what do you want to know?”

“Well,” she said diffidently, just wanting to get something clear in her own mind, “someone was telling me about a thing called an audit trail. Apparently it's a sort of log, you must have one at CES, and I just wondered if there was any way—” She froze, her fork halfway to her lips, as the street door opened and two men walked into the restaurant. A woman slid out from behind the bar to greet them and Loretta could see a conversation going on about tables, the woman looking doubtful and glancing at her watch. For a moment she thought she was safe, that they would turn and leave without noticing her, but then the woman turned and pointed uncertainly to the party of four who had just finished coffee at the next table. Both men swiveled their heads in obedience to her gesture and Loretta tensed, guessing what was about to follow.

“Loretta.
” John Tracey stalked to her table and glared down at her, a thunderous expression on his face.

“Hello, John.” She put down her fork, controlling her own anger and assuring herself that she owed him no apologies. “How's the story going?”

“The story?” He looked blank for a moment, then said cruelly: “I thought you'd lost interest now your mate's in the clear.” His companion, a tall bearded man who had followed Tracey to Loretta's table, coughed politely behind him. Tracey turned. “I don't think you've met my
ex-wife,
have you, Mark? Mark Dawson,
Independent on Sunday.”

“This is Christopher Cisar,” said Loretta crisply. “Now, if you'll excuse us, our food's getting cold.”

“Oh, yes,” Tracey said bitterly, “we don't want to break up the party. Come on, let's go somewhere where the company's a bit more congenial.” He wheeled round and collided with a waitress, who was, fortunately for both of them, empty-handed.

Mark Dawson called after him: “John? What's the problem?” but Tracey was already wrenching open the door to the street. Dawson held up his hands in mute apology and hurried after him, disappearing into the warm night.

Loretta leaned back and closed her eyes. “I
can
explain.”

Christopher said: “Why should you? It's none of my business if the guy still carries a torch for you.” He picked up his knife and fork and resumed eating.

“Is that all? Don't you want to know the whole story?”

“Nope. This tart is terrific. Are you going to let that mousse go cold?”

Loretta gazed at him for a moment, looked down at her untasted
quenelles
and picked up her own fork.

The Room Was Dark And Loretta's Eye lids fluttered open to an illusion of unfamiliarity, of objects lost in shadow or eerily illuminated by the glacial light of the moon. A gleam in one corner, just within her field of vision, was the dressing-table mirror, perfectly angled to reflect its cold beam; she gazed for a moment at the ceiling, searching for the hair-thin crack which branched from the rose, then let out a small, involuntary sound of pleasure as Christopher's hands parted her thighs. She glanced down at his head, overwhelmed by sensations she had not known for months as his tongue caressed and teased her, and her disappointment when he suddenly pulled away was acute.

“Did you hear that?” He sat on the end of the bed, listening intently, but Loretta was too disappointed to take in what he was saying. Instead she reached forward without speaking and tried to draw him back, before the exciting sensations subsided entirely.

“No, listen.” He pushed her gently away, got up and went to the window, where he pulled a curtain across at waist level while he stared down at the garden. Loretta propped herself on one elbow, heard a distant sound between
a shout and a cry and said crossly: “It's only kids. Come back to bed.” She fell back, frustrated and embarrassed in about equal proportions, and was astonished when Christopher padded across the room and began retrieving discarded clothes from the floor and a chair.

“What are you
doing?”

“I'm going down. Looks like you've got visitors in your garden.”

Loretta sat bolt upright. “In the garden? Impossible—they'd have had to come through the house.”

“All the more reason to go look.” He tucked in his shirt, zipped his fly and returned to the bed, his hand closing on her wrist as she reached for the lamp. “No lights. Let's find out what's happening first.” He kissed her on the lips, parting them with his tongue to reassure her that he was going reluctantly, and went to the door. The brass knob turned soundlessly, and Loretta saw his dark form slip from the room.

“Hang
on.
” She scrambled off the bed, not wanting to be cast in the role of helpless female, and promptly tripped over a shoe. “Christopher,” she called, on hands and knees, “wait for
me.
” She lunged for the chair in the corner, pushed herself upright and seized an old T-shirt from the heap of clothes.
“Christopher.”

“Shhh,
” he called warningly from the floor below. She pulled on the T-shirt and felt her way after him, whispering in a nervous, urgent voice: “Shouldn't we—what about the police?” He did not reply and she glanced back at the pale shape of the phone on her bedside table, wondering how long the emergency services would take to answer if she dialed 999. She didn't want to be left holding the receiver while Christopher grappled with a burglar two floors below, and she had recently heard a radio program alleging that sick and
frightened people were frequently left waiting twenty minutes or more. She hurried onto the landing, throwing a worried look at the closed door to the other bedroom where Bridget was, as far as she knew, tucked up and fast asleep. Relieved that they hadn't already disturbed her, Loretta felt for the banister and began tiptoeing down the stairs in her bare feet.

Her progress became easier at the half-landing, which was illuminated by the cold light of a street lamp shining through the fanlight above the front door. She took the remaining stairs two at a time, grasping the newel post and swinging round onto the basement steps without a pause. She was unprepared for the dark tunnel after the bend and her shoulder brushed the wall, knocking a picture askew, as she hurried down to the kitchen. Here the street lamp came to her aid again, streaming through the uncurtained basement windows and reflecting coldly off the white cupboards.

“Christopher?” She spoke in a loud whisper. “Where are you?”

“In here.” His voice came from the dining room. “Where's the key?”

“What key?”

“To these doors.”

“Oh—I'll get it. What can you see?”

“Zilch, because of the steps, but somebody's out there all right.”

She lifted the key from its hiding place on the mantelpiece and tiptoed to the French windows, registering a slight nervous shock when her hand brushed Christopher's bare forearm. She slid the key silently into the lock and turned it, reaching for the handle only to find that he had got there before her.

“I'll go first.”

“It's
my
house,” she whispered.

“For Christ's sake—this may be a
burglar
we're arguing about.” He yanked the doors open, stepped out onto the paved area and ran lightly up the steps. Loretta saw him silhouetted against the limpid night sky for a few seconds, then he strode forward and said in a loud voice: “OK, who's there?”

Loretta crept out behind him, unsure whether she most dreaded hearing a stranger's voice or—and this was her other reason for not calling the police—that of John Tracey in a drunken rage. Instead she stopped dead on the bottom step, hardly aware of the cold paving stones under her feet, and listened in astonishment to a woman's voice saying the same thing over and over again.

“You
bastard
” it howled and sometimes, by way of variation, “you fucking,
fucking
bastard.” Loretta unfroze and ran up the steps, fearing that Christopher was being attacked, and saw him struggling with a figure in a billowing white dress who appeared intent on throwing herself into the oily water of the canal.

“Loretta,” he appealed, turning his head, “can you help here? I can't do anything for this goddam dress—”

Loretta ran the length of the garden, slipping and sliding on the wet grass, and skidded to a halt on the edge of the small landing stage. The intruder broke free from Christopher, screamed one final obscenity and collapsed on the water's edge, transforming herself at once into an exhausted ballerina. Pale skirts settled around her and she bowed her head in a gesture of despair reminiscent of Giselle—although, as one corner of Loretta's brain admitted, she knew little about ballet and was probably thinking of an imperfectly remembered photograph. The recumbent figure began to shake with sobs and Loretta exchanged a glance with Christopher, saw
that he was as much at a loss as herself, and bent to touch the stranger's bare arm.

“Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

The fragile beauty lifted her head, revealing an unexpectedly plump décolletage. “Of
course
I'm not all right. Someone's just tried to fucking
rape
me.”

Loretta jerked back. “Rape you? Who did?”

The girl—close up, she looked no more than sixteen—smoothed her lustrous dark hair, sniffed vigorously and dabbed at her eyes, leaving trails of mascara on each cheek. A faint splash, like an oar in water, alerted Loretta and she went to the water's edge, straining to make out any sign of movement between the tree-hung banks.

“See anything?” Christopher joined her, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder.

“N-no. I thought I heard something but . . .” Loretta was trying to work out how far the girl's assailant might have traveled by now—how soon he could leave the boat without being stranded, like his victim, in a garden without access to the road. Presumably he would get off at Aristotle Lane, by the bridge, and disappear along Polstead Road. “I
am
going to call the police,” she told Christopher in a low voice, thinking there was at least a chance of apprehending the would-be rapist, and was astonished when the girl let out an angry wail. “Christ,” she exclaimed, “are you trying to make things
worse!
You can't call the
police”

Loretta glanced at Christopher for reassurance. His eyes narrowed and he tapped his right nostril, a gesture she did not immediately comprehend. “But you said someone tried to rape you,” she began, turning back to the girl, “and the obvious thing . . . I mean, they may be able to
catch
him.” She stopped in confusion as Christopher's
meaning—nose candy, cocaine—dawned on her.

“Only Adam bloody Hall,” the girl said, leaping to her feet. “I'll deal with
him
tomorrow.” She gazed down at the quivering layers of silk chiffon and began to make violent but ineffective brushing motions.
“Shit,
there's grass stains all over my dress, that's thirteen hundred quid up the spout.”

Loretta gasped. “Thirteen hundred pounds?” She had seen similar dresses in a shop window in Oxford, ball gowns with velvet bodices and flounced skirts, but had no idea that they cost so much—or that anyone could afford them in the middle of a recession.

“Mummy bought it for my twenty-first,” the girl continued, scratching at the fragile fabric with her fingernails. “She'll
be furious
when she finds out.” She gave the material one final swipe, as though showing it who was boss, and turned crossly to Loretta. “Are we going to stand here all night? I mean, Adam's gone off with my bag and stuff and I have
no idea
how I'm supposed to get home.” She jerked her head towards the house. “This your place?”

Loretta nodded.

“Right then. If you take me to a phone I'll call a cab.”

Loretta started across the grass, the whisper of silk behind her indicating that the girl was following. “Where do you live?” she called over her shoulder, wondering how easy it would be to get a taxi at one, perhaps even two o'clock in the morning.