Lovers and Liars Trilogy (60 page)

“Was it? I don’t recall. He took blood tests. I wanted proof of what they were doing to Lise. He was horrified. I have his name and number—I knew you’d need it. It’s here.” He took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and passed it across. Pascal glanced at it then put it away without comment.

“Go on,” he said.

“Obviously”—McMullen’s manner became more hesitant now—“it affected Lise’s behavior, that cocktail of drugs. I could see it affecting her as the weeks went by. It made her forgetful. Sometimes I’d talk to her, and she’d be nervous, febrile, very strung out, talking too fast. At other times I could hardly get through to her at all. I would manage to meet her, and”—his face contracted—“it would be like talking to an automaton. As if she were in a trance. I can’t tell you how appalling that was. But there was nothing I could do. I had to wait. We had to be able to prove Hawthorne actually met those women every month, the way he said he did. I thought, maybe, if we could just trace one of those women, persuade her to talk,
pay
her to talk if necessary, that would be enough. But Nicholas Jenkins wouldn’t agree. He said if we could get that testimony, fine—but it wasn’t enough. If it came to a court case, and it could, that kind of witness was too unreliable; call girls always went down badly with juries. The lawyers at the
News
wouldn’t even pass the story for publication on that basis. There would have to be more. The meetings had to be documented, photographed—” He paused, and looked at Pascal. “That’s when he suggested using you.”

“Really?” Pascal gave him a long, measured look. “It was Jenkins who originally suggested my name?”

“I think so.” McMullen gave a quick, dismissive gesture. “I forget now exactly who mentioned you first. I knew of your work, in any case. When I was in the army, I’d seen your war photographs. I’d admired them. I knew very vaguely of the kind of work you did now….”

He broke off. Pascal said nothing more. Gini watched McMullen closely. He had, she thought, just told his first lie. Up until then she had been convinced that everything he said he deeply believed to be true. Yet he lied about something minor, almost irrelevant. Why?

McMullen looked at his watch again. He rose to his feet, adjusted the heater, replaced the whisky bottle on its shelf. He turned back to look at them.

“So,” he said in a new brisk way, “that brings you virtually up-to-date. I was waiting for Lise to discover the address of the house Hawthorne intended to use next time. He said nothing in October, nothing in November. Oh, he discussed the women—what he liked to make them do, how he’d selected them, from where—”

“How did he do that?” Gini asked. She sprang the question, and McMullen fixed her again with that slow blue stare.

“I thought you might have discovered that. By now.”

“Possibly. But I’d like to know your version.”

“He used agencies, and contacts of his own. He had them send round photographs. At least, that’s what he told Lise. Neither she nor I know if that is true. He showed her some pictures once, of some of the girls. He asked her to select one of them for him.” His voice was ice cold. “That was fairly typical of the way he operated. He hit Lise when she refused.”

“Did he often do that?” Pascal asked coolly. “Was physical violence often used?”

McMullen flushed scarlet. “Yes, it damned well was. Do I have to spell out what he’s put Lise through? It sickens me even to think of it. If you think I’m going to be cross-examined on that sort of detail…I won’t be. It disgusts me. You understand?”

“It isn’t irrelevant,” Gini said quietly. She glanced at Pascal, who nodded. “Neither of us wants to press you on this. But you have to understand, all this is hearsay. All right, maybe that doctor can confirm that Lise was on a regimen of different drugs. But even that in itself isn’t conclusive. You must see, the central difficulty here is lack of proof. Lise could have administered those drugs herself, quite willingly. We only have Lise’s word for any of this—the former infidelities, Hawthorne’s physical and mental cruelty, even the stories of his sexual encounters.” She paused. “We’ve been working on this for just over a week now, and we’ve put together a lot of evidence. But most of what we have is circumstantial. We still have no absolute proof that Hawthorne actually did make monthly appointments with these blondes.”

There was a long silence. McMullen was very angry, she could see, and fighting to control that anger. He gave her a cold, hostile look.

“I see. You’re calling Lise a liar, in other words?”

“No. I’m not calling anyone a liar. I don’t doubt for a moment the sincerity of what you say. But you must surely see—”

“No, I do not see,” he interrupted, his voice rising. “You’re here to provide the proof, to document those meetings. That’s your damn job, not mine. Lise can do nothing. She’s a virtual prisoner now.
I’m
a virtual prisoner. I can’t stay in one place for any length of time. I have to keep moving on. I have a few friends to help me—” he broke off. “Like the person you spoke to today. I cannot risk using a telephone. I have to watch my back all the time. …I
tried
to contact you before—you do realize that, do you? Not the postcard I sent—I actually risked coming to your flat late at night.”

“Three days ago? That was you?”

“Yes. It was. I came to the front of your house. The lights were still on….” He hesitated. “And there was someone else there, moving around at the rear of the house. I could hear them. I had to leave. I’ve tried my damnedest to help you both on this, but there’s a limit to what I can do. For Lise’s sake, I have to stay alive.” His voice had now become heated; Pascal slid his next question in under this angry and indignant tirade.

“In that case,” he said, “why come here, so close to Hawthorne’s country home. Isn’t that a little unwise?”

The question brought McMullen up short. He gave them both a hard look. “I’m careful. This suits my purposes. I have friends nearby. Will you excuse me a moment?” He checked his watch again as he said this, and moved swiftly to the outside door. He went out, without further explanation, and closed it behind him.

In silence, Pascal and Gini looked at each other. She said in a low voice, “Do you believe him, Pascal?”

Pascal glanced toward the door. He was listening intently for sounds outside. He gave a noncommittal gesture. He said very quietly, “I’m not sure.”

“He’s very volatile.”

“Yes. And very tense. But that isn’t surprising, in the circumstances.” He frowned. “I’d like to know why he’s so anxious about the time. What’s he doing out there?”

“God knows. I can’t hear a sound.”

“I can.” Pascal raised a finger to his lips. “He’s just outside the door now.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Play it by ear, Gini. We know one thing. He hasn’t finished. There’s more.”

When McMullen returned to the room, it was at once evident that he had calmed. His manner was now much as it had been when they’d first arrived—brisk, cold, and impersonal. He made no further pretense of including Gini in any of his remarks. He ignored her completely, and addressed himself to Pascal.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “There was something I had to check. I’ve had time to think, as well. I realize, I should have shown you this at once, before I began speaking about Lise.”

He crossed the room, bent, and deftly unlaced the army rucksack. From it, he took out a heavy folder. He straightened, and looked directly at Pascal.

“I should have realized,” he continued. “I value discipline. I’m so used to military discipline that I can forget there are other kinds as well. Journalists have their own disciplines. You have them. I’ve seen the results in your case—and as I said, I admire them. I saw the pictures you took in the Falklands War, and you captured what it was like out there.” He paused, and gave an ironic gesture. “You’re very good at photographing hells….”

Pascal gave him a sharp glance. “You served in the Falklands? With the Parachute Regiment?”

“I’m sure you’ll have already checked that. Not with the Parachute Regiment. No.”

His jaw clenched, and they could both see that any further probings into McMullen’s military career would go unanswered. He opened the folder. “Because you’re very good at that,” he continued, “I’d like you to look at these pictures. They were taken in Vietnam twenty-five years ago. Before your time.”

He moved across to the table and began taking a series of black and white photographs from the folder. He laid them neatly down on the table, like playing cards, with as little emotion as if he had been dealing cards. Pascal moved across. Gini half rose, hesitated, then sat down again in her chair. Both men now had their backs to her.

“The name of this village was My Nuc,” McMullen continued in the same flat, efficient tone. “This is what was left of it after John Hawthorne’s platoon withdrew. Before they arrived, fifty people lived in that village. All of them noncombatants. Most of them were women and children. There were some elderly men. This gives you an indication.”

He continued to slap down pictures on the table. “One middle-aged woman and one twelve-year-old boy escaped and survived. The other forty-eight were all killed. The village huts were burned. Even the babies were killed. This girl here…” He put down another picture.

“She was the sister of the woman who escaped. Before they did that to her”—he pointed down at the picture—“she was raped fifteen times. Every man in the platoon took his turn. The sergeant was Frank Romero. He found a novel way of holding her down. He drove those pegs through her ankles and her hands. John Hawthorne stood next to her and watched. He was the senior officer there, he was in command, so I imagine he could have gone first, had he wanted to do so. He didn’t He chose to go last. When it was over, she was half dead anyway. You see how dusty the soil is? Well, that’s what they used next. They filled her nose and her mouth with sand. Then they finished her off with a shot in the back of the neck. While they did that, John Hawthorne watched, the whole time.”

McMullen moved off a little way. Pascal continued to stare at the photographs. Gini did not move.

“I know you’ll have witnessed similar obscenities,” McMullen continued, his voice still flat and quiet. “They happen, in war. When they happen, there are disciplinary systems designed to deal with them. But in this case, no disciplinary action was taken. There was no court-martial, nothing. But that’s not surprising, because no accusations were ever made. Hawthorne’s platoon was finally air-lifted out from a place three miles away. Those actually there were the only people who knew what had taken place at My Nuc—and as long as they remained silent, they were safe. If any evidence was ever discovered on the ground, it could always be blamed on the Vietcong. Originally, there were forty men in that platoon, together with one journalist. But they’d been cut off, and under heavy fire for days. By the time they moved in on My Nuc, the journalist was still alive, and so were fifteen other men, including Hawthorne and Romero. The last two are still alive, obviously, and the journalist is too. But would you like to know what happened to those thirteen others? I’ll tell you. Five of them were subsequently killed in action. That left eight. All eight returned to America in due course, and within a short time of their return, every one of them died. Some of them survived a few months back home, and a couple of them survived for over a year. But they all died eventually. An automobile accident in Louisiana, an overdose in Washington State, one died in a shooting incident in a gas station, another from a faulty blood transfusion, one drowned. Not one single one of them died from natural causes. They died in California, Missouri, New Jersey…you can check. All their details are in this file.”

He put the folder down on the table next to Pascal.

“What does that suggest to you? That Hawthorne and Romero both lived—and the rest all died? It suggests to me that Hawthorne and his ever-protective father lived up to their reputations for efficiency, and that John Hawthorne reaped the benefit. That I cannot prove. But this”—he gestured to the photographs—“
this
can be proved. Hawthorne’s was the only unit in that area at the time. And the woman and the boy who escaped would testify. They saw this happen. They are still both alive.”

Pascal heard emotion begin to break through in McMullen’s voice. He continued to look down at the pictures, which indeed were similar to others he had seen in the past, and to others which he himself had once taken: They were close, very close, to the images that rose up in his dreams. He felt a profound pity for McMullen then, to have nursed and pursued this all these years.

He looked across at him. “Tell me,” Pascal said quietly. “What is your connection with this?” He gestured to the pictures. “You can’t have been more than twenty when this happened, and you can’t have been in Vietnam.”

It was not the most honest of questions, given the information he already had, but McMullen seemed unaware of that. He was gazing away across the room.

“It was 1968. I was eighteen,” he said. “That year I was in Paris first, then Oxford. The raid on My Nuc actually happened while I was at Oxford. My first term.”

“And your connection? There must be one?” Pascal said gently.

McMullen’s mouth tightened. He jerked his face away. “I knew the woman in those photographs. The woman Romero killed. I had never met her sister—the one who escaped. But I was able to make contact with her, later, in later years.”

“Would you like to tell me how you knew the woman here?”

“No. I wouldn’t. I don’t want to discuss it anymore.”

“All right. Then would you like to tell me who took these photographs?”

“His name is in that file. He is Vietnamese, obviously. It was his job to document that kind of atrocity. His unit arrived there two days after Hawthorne’s platoon pulled out. He’s still alive also. He now lives in Ho Chi Minh City.”

“There were other witnesses?”

“To the aftermath? Yes. Their names are also there.”

“Have you made any attempt before to make this allegation public?”

“Yes. I have. I wrote to several American senators, toward the end of the war. When the war was over, I made one further attempt. I approached a newspaper.”