Lovers and Liars Trilogy by Sally Beauman
There was a brief silence. Gini wondered if he ever let anyone past these defenses of his. She hoped, for his sake, that he did. She leaned forward.
“Why are you using lawyers in England?” she asked gently.
“My wife has sold her house in Paris. She wants to return to live in England, with Marianne. I would prefer it if she did not do that….” He left the rest of the explanation unfinished, and Gini, who could finish it in any case, and who could now read quite clearly the pain at the back of his eyes, did not prompt him further.
“I see,” she said just as the waiter arrived, bearing their food.
It was ill cooked. Pascal looked down at their plates with a very French expression of mingled outrage and despair. “Shall I send it back?”
“No, leave it. It’s not worth it.”
“You’re right. The hell with it. We’ll eat it and go. …” He glanced down at his watch. “Over an hour. You think Appleyard intends to keep this appointment?”
“It’s still possible,” she replied in a placatory tone. “With Appleyard, you never know.”
They ate for a while in silence, then by silent mutual consent pushed their plates to one side. Pascal ordered coffee and lit a cigarette. The period of silence seemed to have restored his temper. He gave her a wry glance.
“All right. Now I’ll listen. All my attention. You were telling me about Lise and her clothes. Go on.”
“Very well.” Gini opened her notebook again. “The question of Lise’s clothes bothered me—why Chanel? So I called an old acquaintance of mine who works for The Washington Post, on the style section. What she told me was interesting. Very interesting. I wish I’d spoken to her earlier.” Gini leaned forward. “First, the minor things. The clothes. Apparently, Lise Hawthorne always used to wear French couture….”
“The wedding dress?”
“Precisely. Then, two years into their marriage, Lise had a change of heart. According to Washington gossip, John Hawthorne read her the riot act. He said French couture was just fine for the Ivana Trumps of this world but not for a senator’s wife—or a future Democratic candidate’s wife, for that matter. From then onward Lise Hawthorne toed the line. On public occasions, that is. In private, at home, she continued to wear the clothes she preferred. French, Italian, whatever. Couture was too public, so she made do with ready-to-wear. For the last three or four years, her pet designer’s been Karl Lagerfeld—his collections for Chanel.” Gini paused. “It’s a very minor deception, not important at all—except there are other ways in which Lise Hawthorne may not be quite the woman she seems. There has been gossip about the Hawthornes, Pascal. So far, it’s been confined to Washington dinner parties, and a lot of it is pure supposition.”
“Gossip about Hawthorne himself, you mean?” Pascal said quickly. “Not the monthly appointments surely? Damn, damn…”
“No. Relax. Nothing like that. According to my friend—and she’s not the most reliable source in the world—people have been saying Lise is ill. Apparently it started some time back. After the younger child, Adam, had meningitis. Around the same time, the word is Lise had a miscarriage—” She stopped and looked at him curiously. “Pascal, is something wrong?”
“No. No.” He passed his hand across his face. “Nothing. It’s very noisy in here. Go on.”
“Well, after the miscarriage, Lise came close to a nervous breakdown. This was around four years ago.”
“Four years?” Pascal’s expression was now intent. “Exactly when those Sunday appointments began—according to Jenkins, that is.”
“Exactly.” Gini tapped the notebook. “So, you can imagine. I started listening very closely indeed. I prompted—discreetly. It wasn’t difficult. My friend’s a great gossip. She said it was the talk of Georgetown for a while. Then it quieted down. But apparently Lise refused to sleep with Hawthorne after the miscarriage. Totally refused, and went on refusing. Separate bedrooms. One of the maids told another maid. You know how it is.”
“I do.” Pascal grinned.
“But—and this is interesting—Hawthorne accepted it. Or so people say. Apparently, once the word got out, there were plenty of women hell-bent on consoling him. Well, you’d expect that. He’s powerful, influential—and he’s an exceptionally handsome man.”
“So you’ve said. Several times.”
“Well, he is, Pascal! You can’t ignore that. It’s a factor. …Anyway. The women were disappointed, according to my friend. They made their offers and Hawthorne turned them down.”
Pascal gave an impatient gesture. “You mean he’s supposed to have been celibate? For four years? Come on, Gini.”
“Well, it may be gossip, but I suppose it is just possible,” she replied. “Male celibacy isn’t exactly unknown. There are monks, priests, for instance….”
Pascal smiled. Reaching across the table, he touched her hair. One strand had become loosened. He smoothed it back into place. “Gini, Gini,” he said in a kind tone. “Think a little. Priests take a vow. That’s rather different, you know. Most men—four years is a long time. Four months would be quite a long time.”
Gini crimsoned. She looked away. In a flat voice she said, “I suppose so. I do know that. It’s just…”
“Gini.” Pascal took her hand. “I’m not making fun of you. But we look at this from two different perspectives, you and I. That’s inevitable. I’m a man, you’re a woman. To me”—he hesitated—“to me that’s an interesting story, but it’s absurd. I don’t believe it for a second. If that’s what Lise Hawthorne did, then sooner or later Hawthorne would have gone to another woman. Not for love necessarily. Just for sex. Men find it easy to make that distinction. Believe me. I know.”
Gini pulled her hand away. “I know it too,” she began quickly. “And you’re wrong. Women can do precisely the same. They can make that—distinction, as you call it.”
“They can?” Pascal continued to watch her closely. “I’m not sure I agree with you, but there’s no point in arguing about it. And this story you heard…” He frowned. “It’s rumor, but it’s a very suggestive rumor from our point of view. Maybe these Sunday meetings were Hawthorne’s solution. It could be.”
He turned away to scan the room, then checked his watch. “It’s nearly ten,” he said. “Let’s get out of here, give up on Appleyard.”
Gini looked back down at her notebook. She felt safer when she looked at the notebook. Words and phrases she had written down jumped out at her. Miscarriage; separate bedrooms, then a direct quote from her friend: Darling, the word is—no sex for four years.
Suddenly she felt disgusted with herself, with her own questions. Was this the journalism she had foreseen for herself, this prying into someone’s marriage, this spying on another person’s most private emotions, actions, and thoughts? Quickly she turned the page, then looked up at Pascal. “No,” she said. “Let’s wait. Give Appleyard ten more minutes. We have time. There’s just one last thing I found out today. This isn’t rumor or gossip. It’s fact.” She paused. “You know those faxes that came through to my apartment this evening?”
“Yes?”
“They were from another friend. He works out of Oxford now, for The Oxford Mail. The Hawthornes’ country house is less than fifteen miles from Oxford….”
“So?”
“So, look at the timing on this. That suit was requested from Chanel, by telephone, on the morning of Friday, December thirty-first. Right?”
“Yes. According to the manager.”
“And the manager was convinced it was Lise herself calling. He’s met her, knows her voice. All right, she has a very distinctive voice. But as Katherine McMullen said to you, voices can be changed, accents can be changed. Now, maybe it was Lise calling. On the other hand, maybe it was someone imitating her, and doing it very well. Think, Pascal—the manager at Chanel said that Lise told him she needed that suit because if she liked it, she was going to wear it the following day—New Year’s Day. She intended to wear it to a very special lun
“I begin to see…” Pascal leaned forward. “Naturally, the manager was delighted….”
“Over the moon. But, Pascal, it was a lie, and a very stupid lie too.” She tapped her notebook. “There’s one advantage to working on a story about well-known people. It’s easy to check their movements. So I did. I checked where Lise and John Hawthorne were for that four-day period. Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and the Bank Holiday Monday—”
“They weren’t invited to luncheon at Chequers?”
“Well, if they were ever invited, they didn’t go. Lise was in Oxfordshire at their country house. Don’t you remember, she mentions on McMullen’s tape that she’s going there the following week? She did. She went down there two days before Christmas, and she stayed there until the Wednesday after New Year. She had tea in London with Mary that afternoon when she returned. Mary mentioned it to me.”
She paused. “Pascal. Take a look at the faxes when we get home. Lise’s movements were extensively documented in the local press the entire New Year weekend. On Friday evening she and Hawthorne went to a local New Year’s Eve ball given by their Oxfordshire M.P. On Saturday Lise went hunting—she rides with the Vale of the White Horse hunt. On Sunday she and Hawthorne attended a special mass at their local church—they donated the funds for its new roof. On Monday she held a massive party at their home, and on Tuesday—”
“The day Lorna Munro delivered those parcels—”
“Precisely. On that day Lise was still in Oxfordshire. She visited a children’s home in the morning, and a hospice for cancer victims that afternoon.” Gini paused. “Pascal, she wasn’t in London at all. She wasn’t at Chequers. And I don’t think that was Lise on the telephone either. Someone else called Chanel.”
Pascal frowned. “It’s not conclusive,” he began.
“I know it’s not conclusive! But there’s just one more interesting fact. Lise may have been in Oxfordshire throughout those four days. But her husband wasn’t.”
“He was in London some of the time?”
“You bet he was in London. It’s an hour’s drive from Oxfordshire, that’s all. He was here, and at highly significant times. He was in London on Friday, because he spoke at some industry lunch. And he was back in London on Tuesday, when those parcels were delivered. Another luncheon appointment. With the prime minister. At Number Ten.”
“You’re certain?”
“Certain. It was a large luncheon for a visiting head of state. The guest list was reprinted in full in The Times.”
Pascal gave her a sharp glance. “Were wives included?”
“Yes, they were.”
“And yet Lise Hawthorne chose not to attend? How very interesting…” He frowned. “I don’t understand, Gini—I don’t understand any of this. Let’s rule Lise out—just as a working hypothesis. Let’s say she knew nothing about those parcels—” He paused. “But then why should John Hawthorne have anything to do with them either? Don’t you see, it makes no sense. Why do something designed to lend credence to that story about the blondes? It’s the last thing he’d do.”
“I agree. But he was in London at the key times.”
Pascal gave a sigh, and rose. “Never mind,” he said. “You’ve done well. Everything helps, Gini. Every tiny bit of information we can find. We’re still not close enough. We’re still too much in the dark.” He drew back her chair for her, and Gini rose.
“So, we’re giving up on Appleyard?” she asked.
“Yes. We can’t waste any more time.” He took her arm. “Let’s go and see the Hawthornes for ourselves.”
He steered her past the crowded tables. Just beyond the alcove where they had been seated was a particularly boisterous group of Americans: four dark-suited men and a bevy of redheads and blondes. As they passed, one of the men lurched to his feet, almost knocking Gini over.
“Where’s the john?” He was demanding loudly. “Just direct me to the goddamn john. …”
Pascal gave him a look of distaste and moved between them to allow Gini through. They found their waiter finally, paid the bill, and began to make their way through the maze of little rooms to the exit There, the headwaiter stopped them.
“Mr. Lamartine? Mr. Appleyard sends his apologies. He’s been unavoidably delayed.”
“It’s a pity you didn’t inform us of that earlier,” Pascal began, then he stopped. Gini felt him tense. “My name was mentioned?” He turned back to the headwaiter. “The meeting was arranged with Ms. Hunter here. …”
“Lamartine was the name I was given, sir. Mr. Appleyard’s assistant only just phoned. …Oh, and he said you’d be needing this, sir. He sent it round by cab for you. It just came.”
He handed Pascal a small package. Pascal drew Gini outside. He walked a little way along the street, and then opened it. Inside was an audiocassette tape. Pascal held it up to the light from a streetlamp. Across the road, a man entered a doorway, hesitated, then rang one of its bells. In an upstairs room above him, a light came on. A buzzer sounded; the man entered, and the door closed.
Pascal said, “This isn’t an ordinary tape, Gini. Look. It’s too short. …Damn. Damn.”
“We’ve been set up, haven’t we?” Gini began slowly. “I don’t think Appleyard sent that fax.”
“Neither do I. And I don’t think he sent this either.” He glanced down at her. “We’ve just done something very stupid. We’ve sat in a restaurant of someone else’s choosing for over two hours. We’ve spent two hours going over this story. What we do know, what we don’t know…How could I have been so stupid? Damn, damn!” With a furious gesture he began to walk rapidly away. Gini hurried after him.
“Slow down,” she said. “Pascal, slow down. You’re tired, I’m tired—all right, we made a mistake. But think—it was very noisy back there. It would have been hard to pick up our conversation, surely.”
“Maybe, maybe. It’s too late now anyway.” They had reached her car. Pascal waited impatiently while she unlocked it. Before she got into her seat he had inserted the cassette in the tape deck.
“Get in,” he said. “Hurry up. Close the door.”
As soon as she had done so, Pascal pressed Play. They sat there in silence. The tape hissed. There was silence on it for several seconds, then the breathing began. First heavy breathing, then pants, then groans. Gini’s skin went cold. Beside her, Pascal gave a low exclamation, glanced at her, and reached for the tape deck.
“No.” Gini stopped him. “We’ve been sent a message. Let’s hear what it is.”
“I can already hear what it is,” he began angrily.
“So can I, Pascal.”
“Is he alone?”
“If he isn’t, he has a silent partner.”
“They are silent,” Pascal said in a grim voice. “That’s the rule. As we know.”
The tape lasted seven minutes. The man achieved climax, without words, after five. There was then a silence. At six and a half minutes, just before the tape ended, a woman screamed.
Pascal reached forward, removed the tape. He glanced at Gini.
“You’re all right?”
Gini was not all right, but she had no intention of saying so. She let in the brake and pulled away.
“I told you before,” she said when they were several streets away. “Someone’s trying to frighten us off. The hell with that. We’ll carry on the way we planned. We’ll go to this party. You concentrate on Lise, I’ll talk to Hawthorne. We’ll switch over if there’s time.”
She could feel his tension and unease. It was a while before he replied.
“Just be careful,” he said finally. “Be very careful what you say.” He glanced toward her.
“That break-in, the parcels, this missed appointment, this tape. Someone is two steps ahead of us all the time.”
“Hawthorne?” She glanced across; Pascal’s face was turned to the window. He was staring out into the wet darkness beyond.
“Maybe,” he
Chapter 17
THE DINNER HAD GONE well. The pheasants were excellent, the pears and the chocolate mousse delicious. It was now ten-fifteen, Gini would be here soon and Mary was in the process of weeding out the bores, a process at which she was skilled. Two were now departing; two more remained in the drawing room, but she could see that John Hawthorne, as adept as she was in this respect, was maneuvering them toward the hall, where a dour Bulgarian first secretary and his wife were being helped into their coats by the American security man stationed there. The new thug, Mary thought to herself, Malone—yes, that was his name—was proving highly useful. The Bulgarian shook her hand.
“Lady Pemberton,” he said, “such a very excellent evening.” His English was good; his wife’s less so.
“The pheasant birds,” she said. “These I will have enjoyed.”
“A most interesting conversation with Ambassador Hawthorne,” the Bulgarian went on. “He was fully cognizant of our latest export figures. A most well-informed man.”
“Isn’t he?” Mary said, with animation, edging him toward the door. The Bulgarian was one of the guests invited at John’s behest. During the requisite ten minutes she had spent in conversation with him, he had explained, at length, Bulgaria’s iron ore industries. Mary opened the door.
“Such a pity you can’t stay. So very nice to have met your wife. Of course. Of course. Absolutely! Good-bye…” Mary closed the door and raised her eyes heavenward. Beyond her, this new man, Malone, gave a smile.
“Two more to weed out, ma’am?” He nodded toward the drawing room.
Mary gave this new thug an appraising glance. Thug, she decided, was in this case most definitely not the appropriate word. Though Malone was six feet five, crew cut, and huge, he appeared to have a sense of humor. This was unprecedented. She looked at the broad shoulders, at the regulation dark suit. She wondered in passing if these men of John’s were actually armed. What did the bulge of a shoulder holster really look like? Could you detect it? Or, if they carried weapons, did they conceal them elsewhere? In their trouser waistbands, perhaps, she thought vaguely. Too ridiculous, she decided, and smiled.