Lovers and Liars Trilogy by Sally Beauman
This helped a little—it identified the Oxford college McMullen had attended, and the year he was there, but nothing more. Gini replaced the books. She stared fixedly at the desk. There must be something—she was certain of it. After all, McMullen had initiated this whole story: If he had had to disappear, if he had chosen to disappear, would he not try to insure he could be traced?
The blotter? Carefully, she removed the paper, but there was nothing concealed beneath. She lifted the photograph of Lise, and gently undid the frame fastenings on its back. At first she thought there was nothing there either, just a backing of cardboard and paper between the picture and the back of the frame—and then she saw it. On one of the sheets of paper used as padding, a series of numbers, written in pencil, arranged like this:
3
6/2/6
2/1/6
It could have been something; it could have been nothing at all. If it was a code of some kind, or a reference, there was no time to decipher it now. Quickly she folded the piece of paper and put it in her pocket. She pushed the glass, picture, and frame back together, and closed it up. She turned, about to tell Pascal what she had found, when from the bedroom beyond came a low exclamation and Pascal called to her.
“Gini. Gini, quickly. Look at this.”
Gini gave a small involuntary shiver. It unsettled her; it felt creepy and illicit, doing this.
She crossed to the bedroom. It was unmistakably a man’s room, austere, well ordered. One wall was lined with closets. Their open doors revealed row upon row of conservative jackets, conservative suits.
Pascal stood in the center of the room by the double bed. Next to him was a chest of drawers. Several of its drawers had been opened. Gini gestured toward them.
“Did you do this?”
“What—open the closets and drawers? Yes. Why?”
“Because the desk is totally empty. It’s been cleared out. I was trying to figure out who did that. McMullen—or the person who set off the alarm earlier in the week.”
“Someone’s been through the desk?”
“That’s right. Plus every single other drawer in the place. There’s not a single scrap of paper—except this.”
She held out the piece of paper she had found. Pascal examined it closely.
“It means nothing to me.”
“Nor me. But it was inside the frame of Lise Hawthorne’s photograph on his desk.”
“Keep it. We’ll look at it later.” Pascal lowered his voice and caught her by the arm. “Now I’ll show you what I found. Something very curious indeed. Look at this.” He gestured toward one of the drawers. Gini looked inside it, frowning.
“Shirts,” she said. “I see shirts. Umpteen identical white shirts—all very neat, back from a laundry, still in their cellophane sleeves. So what?”
“So this McMullen—he’s a well-organized, a methodical man—yes? He keeps white shirts in this drawer, blue shirts in the next. Here, in this top drawer on the right, handkerchiefs—also just back from the laundry. And here, in this top drawer on the left—what would you expect to find there?”
“Oh, God, I don’t know….” Gini glanced over her shoulder. Outside it was still raining heavily. The light was gray and thick. The silence was unnerving.
“Look, Pascal—let’s go. I don’t like this. We shouldn’t be here, searching through someone’s personal belongings. It doesn’t feel right.”
Pascal ignored her. His face was now pale and intent. “Just tell me what you’d expect to find in this top drawer.”
“Oh, very well. Underwear. Socks, maybe. Something like that.”
“Exactly.” Pascal gave a small, tight triumphant smile. “You were right the second time. Socks. That’s what you might expect to find—and so, when you did, you might not investigate too closely. If you were in a hurry, you’d move on, look somewhere else….”
“You mean you think this apartment was searched?”
“I’m not sure. I think McMullen expected it to be searched, so he cleared it out—with military precision—before he left. Only, as it happens, he left something behind. Look.”
Pascal opened the top left-hand drawer. Inside it, as Gini had predicted, was pile upon pile of socks: dark gray socks, black socks, socks that matched the conservative suits and the image she was building of a conservative ex-army man.
Pascal reached into the drawer and took something from it, a scrap of black material. He held it out to her; Gini stared at it blankly. It was a glove, a woman’s glove, made to be worn in the evening, for it was long and would reach from elbow to fingertips. It was made of the finest black kid.
“So it’s a glove,” she began. “A woman’s glove. Some girlfriend probably left it behind. Maybe it’s Lise’s glove, and he kept it for sentimental reasons, and—” She broke off as the memory came back to her. The girls are provided with a costume, with long black leather gloves. They are never permitted to touch Hawthorne, except with a gloved hand….
“Oh, my God! Pascal…”
“Precisely.” Pascal’s face was pale with excitement. “But there’s more than that. This is a very special kind of glove. Highly memorable. Look closely. Smell…”
He held the glove close to her face. Gini recoiled. The glove smelled of a heavy musky perfume, but also something else. She could not be certain, but it might have been blood. She took a step backward.
“It smells foul….”
“I know. Not a smell you’d forget. Also, if you touch it”—he guided her hand to the soft leather—“you see? As if it had been oiled?”
Gini gave a small shiver. She glanced over her shoulder. Somewhere on this floor, muffled by thick walls and corridors, a door closed. She touched Pascal’s arm.
“Pascal, I don’t like this. We’ve been here more than half an hour now. Let’s go.”
“Fine. I agree. There’s nothing else here anyway. I’ve been through everything. But this”—he held up the glove, then pushed it into the pocket of his jacket—“this, we take with us.”
“One right-handed glove? Why? It doesn’t prove anything, not for sure—”
“It tells me something. Something I don’t understand…Come on.” He gripped her arm firmly and led her back toward the fire-escape window. Gini was about to argue; then, looking down, she saw the waters of the rising tide gushing below. She climbed out of the window. The wind gusted; a squall of rain washed against her face.
They descended the fire escape, negotiated the now-fast-flowing water, and regained the safety of the alleyway steps. Gini turned to him.
“Okay,” she said. “Explain. What does that glove tell you? I want to know, Pascal. I want to know now.”
“It tells me there are connections here—connections I don’t understand.”
He looked down at the gray of the Thames. The water sucked at the shingle. His face was troubled. Gini caught his arm. “I have the pair to this glove,” he went on, frowning. “Identical in every way. The same smell, the same texture, the same faint creases on the palm…”
“You have its pair?” Gini stared at him in astonishment. “But how can that be?”
“It was sent to me—anonymously.” Pascal’s voice was grim. “It arrived yesterday, in Paris, by special courier. In a neat brown paper parcel. The address was stenciled. It was fastened with string, and—what’s the matter?”
“Just one little question.” Gini’s skin had gone cold. She raised her eyes to his. “Did the sender use sealing wax—red sealing wax?”
Chapter 11
“DAMN,” GINI SAID. “DAMN, damn, damn…”
She slammed down the telephone receiver. From across her living room, Pascal watched her. He was holding the pair of handcuffs she had been sent. In a thoughtful way he weighed them from hand to hand.
“They won’t cooperate?”
“Won’t or can’t. The woman who took delivery of the parcels isn’t there this afternoon. Her mother’s ill apparently, so they let her go home. She’ll be back first t
“Can’t someone else help? It must all be on computer.”
“Of course it’s on computer. ICD is a huge firm. But this Susannah has to give her authorization, apparently. All transactions are confidential. We’ll have to go down there, Pascal. Tomorrow. I can tell we’ll get precisely nowhere on the phone.”
“That’s okay. I’ll go down there, first thing—”
“We’ll go down there,” Gini said a little sharply. “We’ll both go. I want to talk to this Susannah as well.”
“Sure.” Pascal hesitated, then glanced away; Gini frowned. They had returned here, to Islington, straight from McMullen’s apartment. It was now past three in the afternoon, and the wintry light was fading. Gini’s clothes were still soaked, but she couldn’t be bothered to change them. She could still feel it, that adrenaline rush, the sensation that one more phone call might bring a vital lead they needed. She couldn’t understand Pascal’s reaction: Surely he felt this too?
He gave no sign of it. Indeed, from the moment she showed him the handcuffs she could sense a change in him, a withdrawal, a slowing-down.
She looked at him uncertainly. There was something he was keeping from her, she felt sure of it. He was still standing, holding the handcuffs. All the energy and drive of the morning seemed to have left him. For the past hour, while she explained, and telephoned, he had remained silent and thoughtful. Now he looked up, with a frown.
“You should change your clothes, Gini—take a warm shower. You’re soaked through. There’s nothing more we can usefully do now anyway. We’ll just have to wait. And that’s no bad thing. It gives us time to talk this over, think it through.”
“Pascal, is something wrong?”
“Wrong? Wrong?” He gave her an odd glance. “Oh, no, there’s nothing wrong. Someone sends you a pair of handcuffs. It’s the most normal thing in the world….”
“So? They sent you a glove. There’s a direct link to McMullen. It has to be some kind of signal, some kind of clue. Four parcels were sent out altogether, the courier told me. One to you, one to me—and two others, which both went abroad. Don’t you see, Pascal—if we can just find out who sent them, where the other two went…It has to be a lead. It just has to….”
“Oh, I agree. We’ve been handed it on a plate. And I don’t like that at all.”
“So it’s too convenient, too pat—who cares? We still have to check it out. As soon as we can—”
“Who cares? I care.” He gave her an angry glance. “And if you thought for a second instead of flying off the handle like this, you’d care too. Do you usually work like this—it’s your method, is it—to act first and think afterward? Well, it isn’t mine. Just slow down.”
Gini started on some quick sharp reply, then stopped herself. The accusation stung, particularly coming from Pascal. Also, there was some truth in it, as she knew. She could be impetuous when she worked. Sometimes that had paid dividends, but not always: It could lead to errors, to trouble as well.
Her father had always said that the secret of journalism was detail, a passion for detail: “I check,” he used to say, “then cross-check, then cross-check again. I put the pieces of the puzzle together very slowly and very carefully. Then, when I’ve got every piece in place—every piece, mind you, not just some of them…Well, then I’m home and dry. That’s the good part.” He grinned. “That’s when I nail the lying bastards to the wall.”
She felt herself color, and looked away. Both her father and Pascal were right. In a careful voice, avoiding Pascal’s eyes, she said, “Sure. Maybe you’re right. I can rush at things. Go too fast. I do know that….”
Pascal seemed to ignore the implicit apology. He shrugged. “When we’re starting out,” he said, “we all do….”
Gini swung around to look at him. There was a small loaded silence.
“Starting out?” she began. “I’m not starting out, Pascal. I know I haven’t reached your exalted heights, but I have been a reporter for nearly ten years. I’ve worked on some big stories. I’m not a schoolgirl now. For God’s sake…” She felt a sudden spurt of anger. “I’m not some kid out of journalism school, Pascal. I’m twenty-seven years old.”
“It’s not likely I’d forget your age.” His face, too, had become set. “I’ve every reason to remember it, given past circumstances.”
“I don’t believe this….” Gini rose angrily to her feet. “Do you have to bring that up now?”
“I didn’t bring it up,” he snapped. “You did. And in any case, you misunderstood. When I said starting out, I wasn’t suggesting you lacked experience. I meant starting out on a new story, that’s all.”
“The hell you did. Don’t lie. You were patronizing me. You were putting me down.”
“I damn well was not.” His eyes glinted with anger. “You’re jumping to conclusions again. You’re getting things wrong. Look, Gini, if we’re going to work together—”
“If? If?” She took a step toward him. “I was damn well assigned to this story. No ifs and no buts. If you don’t like that, Pascal, too bad because—”
“Jesus Christ!” Pascal began to swear, at length, and in French. They were now only a few feet apart. The warm air in the room was acrid with sudden anger. Gini felt flushed and hot, almost blinded by resentment, and a horrible weakening distress. She never wept—it was years since she had wept—but she could feel now that tears were close.
She was about to launch herself on some new angry reply when something in his eyes stopped her. The anger fell away. She gave a small resigned gesture, and to her surprise Pascal suddenly took her hand and drew her toward him. He, too, was no longer angry, she saw. There was sadness and bewilderment in his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “We’re arguing about the past, aren’t we, Gini? Not this story at all. We’re fighting about something that happened twelve years ago.”
Gini gave a sigh, and looked away. “Yes. You’re right. I guess we are….”
“We mustn’t do that. Gini.” His hand tightened its grip. “Look at me. If we let that happen…. We mustn’t make that mistake….”
“I know that. I know that. It’s just sometimes…Pascal, it’s not so easy to put it aside, to forget…”
“I know that too. It spills over, and then—” His tone was gentle now. “Listen, Gini. You’re right—that time it was my fault. I expressed myself badly. I’m not used to working with anyone else, I expect. I’ve been a loner too long. I get irritable and impatient. But there is a reason, Gini, can’t you see that? You’re a woman—no, listen to me. You’re a woman, living alone, and someone’s sent you an anonymous gift. A pair of handcuffs. Now, that may not alarm you, but it alarms me.” He looked down at Gini as he said this. He watched as color came and went in her face, and her expression changed, as if within her a short and painful struggle took place.
“I’m not used to that,” she answered at last in an odd, stiff voice. He could hear pride and pain in her tone. “I’m not used to someone’s being protective, maybe it’s that. I usually work alone, and I live alone. There’s no reason for anyone to care where I go, what I do, what time I get back. I guess I’ve made a fetish of that. And then—” She broke off.
“Tell me,” Pascal said.
She raised her head to look at him. An odd, pinched expression had come over her face.
“Oh, nothing…” She made an attempt to sound dismissive. “My father always said women couldn’t be independent, the way a man could. I used to think I’d prove him wrong. Maybe I have proved him wrong. I’m different, Pascal—I’m not the girl you used to know.”
“I’m not so sure of that.”
“I am. I was so weak then, so stupid. I rushed into things. I let my heart rule my head.”
“That’s not always a sin, is it?”
“Maybe not. Just a part of growing up. Anyway”—she released his hand, and stepped back—“I’m different now, Pascal. I can ta
“You do?” Pascal looked at her curiously. “Why is that?”
Gini smiled suddenly. “Oh, I guess because I’m afraid I’ll get to like it. Depend on it—”
“And that would be a bad thing?”
“Judging from past experience, yes.”
“I see.” Pascal frowned, then he too smiled. “Well, if it helps, think of it as a weakness on my part. My French upbringing, an irresistible impulse to be gallant. I’d be protective to any woman, in these circumstances. It’s my age—it’s a sort of generalized complaint I suffer from.”
There was a silence. Gini, looking back at Pascal, saw an expression she could not interpret cross his face. Abruptly, he moved away from her. When he next spoke, his voice was much more brisk.
“So,” he said. “That’s cleared the air, I hope? Maybe if we make a few rules? No references to the past. If my protectiveness gets out of hand, you rein me in. Meantime, I still think you should change those wet clothes. While you do that, I’ll make us some coffee. Then we’ll sit by the fire and talk this story through, yes?”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“Fine. Now, think this over. There’s one peculiar thing, something that especially puzzles me.”
“Yes?”
“Take a look at the timing on this. We were assigned to the Hawthorne story yesterday morning. That same morning we each received a parcel. Who knew we’d be working on the story?”
“Nicholas Jenkins.”
“Who else?”
“No one. Until I went into his office, even I didn’t know. And neither did you.”
“Yet someone else did know, don’t you see that, Gini?” Pascal frowned. “They must have known. They sent out those parcels twenty-four hours before we were even briefed. They laid out a trail for us before we even started work. It can’t be coincidence. Someone else knew we’d be working together on this. Can you explain that? Because I certainly can’t.”