Lovers and Liars Trilogy (68 page)

Suzy gave a smile of derision. “Sure. Except I didn’t come. I faked it. The same way I always do. Most men can’t even tell when they’re in up to the hilt banging you. Just watching there’s no way he could know.” She shrugged. “I cheat on the deal, okay? They think they can buy me, but they can’t. Collect fifteen hundred quid, good-bye sir, and screw you.”

Gini ignored the bitterness of tone. She said, “And this man—apart from that one sigh, he never moved, never spoke, all the while?”

“No. Not once. It worked for him though….” Suzy shot her another glance of bitter amusement. “The second it was over they couldn’t wait to get me out of the room. The woman—her eyes were shining, her face was flushed. She was so turned on, she was shaking. She practically threw the money at me. I knew what was going to happen the second I left the room. And I was right.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I listened outside the door. I could hear them clearly. At least, I could hear her. She was all over him, asking for his cock, telling him how big he was, how hard he was. Right then she didn’t sound so sweet and demure.”

“Then you left?”

“A minute or so later. I wanted to see if he’d speak. But he didn’t, even then. She was going completely crazy. Then I heard him hit her really hard.”

“You’re sure he didn’t speak?”

“No. Not a word. Just slapped her. It sounded like he slapped her across the face with the flat of his hand. She cried out. Then there was a thump, like she’d slumped back against the door. Then there was silence.” Suzy shrugged again. “He was fucking her, I think. The way she asked him to, maybe. Which was up against the wall.”

There was a long silence. Gini returned to her chair. She sat for a while, looking at Suzy. Finally she said, “Suzy, this really happened? What you’ve told me is true?”

“Every word.”

“I want you to think really carefully. The woman—you’re sure she was blond?”

“Totally sure.”

“Could she have been wearing a wig of some kind?”

“I don’t think so. It looked like her own hair.”

“And she never removed the dark glasses?”

“No.”

“Can you describe her voice?”

“I told you. Soft. Polite. Careful—like she was reciting a part. English, very. Posh.”

“You’re certain English? Not a trace of anything else? How about after you left the room?”

“No accent, unless you call rich an accent English. Boarding school and ponies. Upper bleeding class.”

“Anything else you can remember? About the way she was dressed, maybe? Was she wearing gloves, for instance?”

“No.”

“What rings was she wearing? An engagement ring? A wedding ring?”

“No rings. Bare hands.”

“What about the man? Can you remember anything else about him? Think, Suzy.”

“I told you. He was sitting in the shadows. Dark suit, dark overcoat, white shirt—no different from a thousand other men.”

“Was there anything in the room that struck you? A suitcase, maybe? Cigarettes, books, magazines…”

“Nothing. The door to the bedroom was closed. The room just looked like a posh hotel room.”

“What name were you given for the client?”

“Hastings, I think. That’s right. John Hastings.”

Gini frowned. John Hawthorne; John Hamilton, McMullen’s alias for the meeting with Lorna Munro; now John Hastings. Again she had the feeling Pascal had described—that she was being manipulated, that a coincidence of initials was intended to imply a connection. A connection that might mislead. She opened her purse and took out three photographs. The first two were of McMullen and of Hawthorne, the third was of Lise. She passed the first two across to Suzy.

“Could either of those men be Hastings?”

Suzy looked at the pictures. She showed little interest and no signs of recognition. Gini could tell that Hawthorne’s features meant nothing to her; presumably she took no interest in politics for she seemed totally unaware that one of these pictures was of a well-known man. She shrugged.

“Either one could be Hastings—or neither,” she said. “They’re around the right age. They both have fair hair. So do hundreds of other men.”

“Okay.” Gini passed the third picture across. “Allowing for the difference in hair color, obviously. Is there any resemblance to your woman there?”

The photograph of Lise, taken from the picture archives at the
News,
was in black and white. It was the most anonymous picture of Lise she could find. She was, for once, not surrounded by adulatory crowds. She had been photographed on a sidewalk, about to get into a car. As Suzy took the picture, she gave a small gasp of surprise. Politicians might not interest her, but fashion evidently did, and it was obvious she recognized Lise at once. Lise’s features, reproduced in countless women’s magazines, had brought her popular celebrity, of course. Suzy looked down at the photograph in a reverent way; she remained silent for some while. When she looked up, her expression was hard and suspicious.

“What is this? What’s going on? I know this woman—obviously I know her. Who wouldn’t? It’s Mrs. Hawthorne.”

“That’s right. The U.S. ambassador’s wife.”

“I know that. I’m not a fool. I’ve even met Mrs. Hawthorne.”

“You’ve met her?”

“Don’t sound so bloody surprised. I met her last spring. In a children’s hospital ward. My youngest was very ill last year. She nearly died. She had to have dialysis. You know who donated the money for the machine? Mrs. Hawthorne. I was one of the parents there when she did her hospital tour. You ought to be bloody ashamed of yourself, you ought—”

Her voice had risen. She stood, and moved toward the door. “I
talked
to her! She sat by my daughter’s bed, and we talked. She’s got two children of her own. She was lovely to me. Really kind. And she wasn’t doing some Lady-Bountiful act either. I could tell she really cared.”

Gini knew that any confidence Suzy had placed in her was irretrievably gone. The hostility blazed from her.

“So Mrs. Hawthorne and the woman in the hotel room,” she said quietly, “they couldn’t possibly have been the same woman?”

“No. They bloody well couldn’t. They were nothing alike. I
told
you! The hotel woman was English. She was younger than Mrs. Hawthorne. She had blond hair. …What’s fucking wrong with you? Sodding journalists. And I thought you were okay. …I must want my head read. You’re just another bleeding muckraker, that’s all.”

She opened the door and looked back with one last angry glance. “What is it with you people? You have to do it, don’t you? Drag every poor fucking sod down in the mud. And I thought
I
was the whore. …Pay you well, do they? Well, screw you—you want to wreck an innocent person’s life, you do it without my help. Just don’t fucking contact me again, you understand? You or your friend!”

When Pascal returned, his manner was tense and cool. Gini recounted this conversation. Pascal listened carefully.

“It’s not conclusive,” he said finally. “The man could have been Hawthorne or McMullen. The woman could have been Lise, I suppose, if she can change accents. Or, more likely, one of Hawthorne’s blondes. What do you think? An audition of some kind? A rehearsal? It sounds like one of those.”

“Both, maybe. Some kind of preliminary to the Sunday meeting? There must be a connection, Pascal. Black gloves, silence, rules.”

“That, or we’re supposed to see a connection, to imagine one.”

“I think it has to be one of Hawthorne’s blondes. Going through some tryout before the Sunday assignation. This meeting was two or three days before the December Sunday, remember? Maybe Hawthorne was deciding which woman to hire—Suzy or a blonde with an upper-class accent and a two-thousand-pound Hermès bag.”

“And he opted for the more expensive product?”

“Presumably.” Gini frowned. “It’s odd, though, the way Suzy described her, so sweet and polite—it made me think of Lise. I started to wonder. You remember what McMullen told us? How Hawthorne showed those pictures of blondes to hire and asked her to choose. Maybe Hawthorne does more than just describe these events to his wife. Maybe he compels her to get involved.”

“You mean he makes her audition the girls? Gini, come on.”

“I know. I know. But the way Suzy described her, the woman was reciting a part. Something scripted. Playing a role.”

“Suzy also made it clear the woman enjoyed it,” Pascal said dryly.

“That’s true. But Lise’s behavior is so odd anyway, so unpredictable—and she is on medication. She takes tranquilizers. Maybe she takes other stuff as well. Maybe Hawthorne
persuades
her to take other stuff.”

“Once a month? Just prior to the Sunday he slips his wife something that transforms her into a procuress? Gini—”

“Okay. Okay. I agree. It’s absurd. Anyway, Suzy was definite. The blonde in the hotel wasn’t Lise.”

Pascal gave a sudden dismissive gesture. “Even that proves nothing,” he said. “You said yourself—Lise Hawthorne is auditioning to be a saint. Well, that’s how Suzy saw her, as an angel of mercy at a hospital bedside, ministering to a sick child. A heroine, if you like. People need heroes and heroines. They need to cling to their illusions.”

An edge had come into his voice. “Speaking of which,” he added, “you’re due to see your father shortly. Gini, we should go.”

“G
INI, COME IN,” MARY
said, ushering her into the hall. They both paused in the doorway, looking down into the street outside. There, Pascal gunned the engine of his motorbike. He pulled away fast, without any gesture of farewell.

“He’s coming back to get me around eight,” Gini said. Mary sighed and closed the front door.

“One moment, Gini,” she said, “before you go in. There’s something I want to say.”

The door into the studio was closed, Gini noted. Mary’s kind features wore an expression of bewilderment. She put her hand on Gini’s arm.

“Gini, I don’t understand exactly what’s going on. But one thing is clear: You and Pascal Lamartine have been working on an investigation, a story on John….” She shook her head sadly. “Gini, how could you deceive me in that way? You must have known when you came to my party. You came here under false pretences. John is one of my closest friends. How could you, Gini? It’s so unlike you.”

Gini’s face became set. Slowly she removed her coat. “I see,” she said. “Then that
is
why I’m here. I might have known.”

She felt both angry and sad. Her arrival had been preceded by another argument with Pascal. He had been very close to losing his temper, and so had she. The past hour had been one of mounting irritation between them, with both of them edging toward a confrontation, then edging away. It had left her nervous, and miserable, and this confirmation that Pascal had been correct in his assessment of her father’s motives made her feel worse. For a moment her instinct was just to walk out there and then, not to see Sam Hunter at all. Perhaps some of what she felt could be read on her face, for Mary looked at her closely, and then sighed.

“Oh, Gini, what a horrible mess. Listen, never mind that now. That’s not the main issue, I know. It’s just that it hurt me, Gini, and…anyway,” she hesitated, “do watch what you say. Sam’s in a foul mood. He’s been working himself up for hours. I’ve been trying to calm him down, but there is a limit. He’s on the second bourbon already, and you know what he’s like when he drinks. I thought it was better to keep this brief. Sam has a dinner with his publisher later. I’m going too. So it’ll be only an hour, darling, an hour and a half at most. But do watch your tongue. Try to stay off the subject of Pascal Lamartine, for heaven’s sake.”

She broke off; her face crumpled. Gini saw that she was suddenly very close to tears. She felt a rush of affection and guilt. She put her arms around Mary and hugged her. If her father had been building up to this meeting, she could imagine what Mary had been through this afternoon.

“Oh, Mary,” she said. “I’m sorry. I will explain it all to you eventually. Don’t get upset. This isn’t your fault, any of it. It’s not fair for you to be in the middle of it.”

“But I
am.
” Mary’s hand waved, a sad, helpless gesture. “I haven’t been honest with you either, Gini, and I should have been. I knew about Beirut all along. I knew who Pascal was. I should have admitted it. I
hate
all these lies.”

“Mary, that doesn’t matter. I don’t mind. I’m even glad. Truly.”

She broke off.

From the room beyond came the sound of movement, a chair being pushed back. Mary looked quickly at the closed door, then back at Gini. With a small, agitated nod of her head, she went on.

“Gini, it’s not just that. Sam blames Pascal for all this, of course, and I want you to be prepared for that. But…”

She hesitated again. An almost guilty expression crossed her face. Gini looked at her, puzzled, then glanced back at the closed door. From beyond it came the sound of her father’s voice. There was a pause, then more quietly another man replied. Gini tensed.

“Who’s in there with him?” she began in a low voice. “Mary, he isn’t alone. What’s going on?”

Mary gave her a silent and unhappy look. She did not need to answer the question, for at that moment there were footsteps, then the door was thrown back. Sam Hunter stood there, glowering. He had a full glass of bourbon in his hand. Beyond him, leaning against the mantelpiece, was the figure of John Hawthorne.

“So.” Her father glared first at Gini, then at Mary. “Are you coming in here? Or are you going to spend the rest of the goddamn evening whispering in the hall?”

He might have continued in that vein, but Mary took charge. Steering Gini by the arm, she led her past Sam and into the room. John Hawthorne acknowledged her arrival with a brief nod, but said nothing. Mary turned and faced Sam.

“Now, let’s just get one thing clear, Sam,” she said in a quiet, firm voice. “This is my house, not yours. If you’re going to start shouting and blustering, then you can leave, because I won’t put up with it, you understand? This isn’t easy for me, or Gini, or any of us. I agreed to all this on one condition. You say what you have to say. John says what he wants to say. Both of you give Gini a fair hearing, and then we all leave. But I will not have this degenerating into one of your brawls, Sam. So you can just sit down and calm down. If we’re going to do this at all, dammit, we’ll do it in a civilized way.”