The Lovers and Liars Trilogy
Lovers and Liars
Danger Zones
Sextet
Sally Beauman
Contents
Lovers and Liars
Prologue: Four Parcels
PART ONE: Four Deliveries
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
PART TWO: An Investigation
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Danger Zones
Prologue
Part One England
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part Two Europe
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Sextet
INTERVIEW
Chapter 1
HALLOWE’EN
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
BONFIRE NIGHT
Chapter 7
FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
TWO LETTERS AND FOUR FAXES
Chapter 12
THANKSGIVING
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
ADVENT
Chapter 17
About the Author
Lovers and Liars
Sally Beauman
To James; with love and thanks
also to my friends Carlos, Alexis, Howard, and that great games-player, Mr. Mackenzie.
Contents
Prologue: Four Parcels
PART ONE: Four Deliveries
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
PART TWO: An Investigation
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Prologue
FOUR PARCELS
THE MAIN LONDON OFFICE of ICD—Intercontinental Deliveries—is off St. Mary Axe in the City. A century ago, there was a dank, overcrowded cluster of houses around the courtyard site. They included a boardinghouse for sailors, a brothel, and a public house that sold gin at twopence a glass. But that was a century ago, before City land values rose to their present heights. ICD’s head office was now on the fifteenth floor of an elegant temple of steel and glass.
From this office, true to the company name, five continents were linked. An expanding fleet of planes, trucks, vans, and motorcycles insured that urgent parcels and documents were delivered promptly by uniformed courier all over the world.
In the summer of 1993, a new employee was hired to adorn ICD’s recently redecorated reception area. The position was advertised in The Times. The successful candidate was a twin-set-and-pearls girl named Susannah. She had a diploma in flower arranging from a Swiss finishing school, a generous dress allowance from her businessman father, and an accent like the finest cut-glass.
Had Susannah’s assets been purely decorative, subsequent events might have turned out very differently. But she proved to be intelligent, and a fast, efficient worker with good word-processing skills. More important still, Susannah had an excellent memory. Unlike most witnesses, her recall of events was unwavering and sharp.
This was to prove important, for it was Susannah, early in January the following year, who took delivery of the four identical parcels, and Susannah—returning to the office after the extended Christmas and New Year break—who at nine-thirty in the morning took their sender’s odd and crucial first call.
It was a Tuesday morning. It was threatening snow outside, and the City was still quiet. Susannah expected business to be slack. The New Year’s celebrations had fallen on a weekend, so the previous day, a Monday, had been a holiday too. An extra day’s escape from office tedium. Susannah yawned and stretched. She was not complaining; the long weekend had given her an extra morning on the ski slopes at Gstaad.
She made herself some coffee, greeted a few late arrivals who worked backstage in accounts, arranged the fresh flowers she always had on her desk, and in a desultory way flicked through the pages of the December Vogue.
Her mind was still on the ski slopes, and a certain stockbroker she had met who took the worst of the black runs with fearless skill. He had been at Eton with her elder brothers, and a fellow guest at her chalet. She wondered whether, as promised, he would call her to arrange lunch. When the telephone rang at one-thirty, she felt a sense of pleased anticipation—but it was not her stockbroker. A woman’s voice. Business, then. Susannah checked her watch, and logged the call.
Most ICD deliveries were requested by female secretaries, so there was nothing unusual about this call initially—except the caller’s voice, which was low-pitched, English, harmonious, with an accent very similar to Susannah’s own. Susannah would have denied fiercely that she was a snob had anyone ever accused her of such a thing, but she was certainly aware, as is everyone English, of the subtle telltale modulations of accent. She responded at once to the fact that her caller was one of her own peer group—and this was to prove useful. There was, however, something odd about the caller’s manner. It was exceptionally hesitant, even vague.
“I wonder,” said the voice, as if this were the most unlikely request to make to a courier company, “if you could possibly arrange hand delivery of four parcels?”
“Of cours
e,” Susannah said. “The destination of the parcels?”
“One must go to Paris,” said the voice, “and one to New York—”
“City or state?” Susannah interrupted.
“Oh, city. Yes. Manhattan. Then one is within London, and the fourth must go to Venice….” The voice sounded apologetic, doubtful, as if Venice were a village in Tibet, or some Arctic Circle settlement. There was a breathy pause. “Will that be possible?”
“Absolutely. No problem.”
“How wonderful.” The voice sounded greatly relieved. “How clever. The thing is…the four parcels must be delivered tomorrow morning, without fail.”
Susannah’s manner became a little less warm. She began to suspect that this female caller was putting her on. “I can guarantee that,” she replied crisply. “Providing we take delivery before four this afternoon.”
“Oh, they’ll definitely be with you this morning.”
“Would you like me to arrange pickup?”
“Pickup?” There was a hesitation, then a low laugh. “No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll bring them over to your office myself. They’ll be with you by eleven. …”
By now Susannah found the woman’s approach distinctly odd. Urgency mixed with such vagueness was unusual. The woman sounded spaced out, or perhaps under some terrible pressure. Susannah began to run down the details on her checklist, at which point—or so she would later claim—the woman became evasive.
“Size of parcels?” Susannah said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Size. You see, if they’re especially large or heavy, I need to make special arrangements.”
“Oh, they’re not large.” The woman sounded reproachful. “They’re light. Quite light. Not heavy at all…”
“Contents?”
“I don’t understand. …”
“We need to attach customs declaration forms for the three going abroad,” Susannah explained. “Because of narcotics regulations, mainly. So I need an indication as to contents.”
“Oh, I see.” The voice sounded amused. “Well, I’m not sending cocaine, and I don’t think I’d use a courier company if I were. …Still, I do see the problem. Contents…yes. Could you put ‘gifts’?”
“I’d need to be more specific, I’m afraid. …”
“Of course. Birthday gifts?”
Susannah set her lips. “More specific still. Confectionary. Books. Toys—something like that.”
“Oh, that’s easy, then. Birthday gifts—articles of clothing. Put that, please.”
“On all those going abroad?”
“Yes.” There was a pleasant laugh. “Odd, isn’t it? All my closest friends seem to be Capricorns….”
Susannah made a face at her computer. She began flashing up details of flights and courier runs. Watching figures and times, she began to run down the remaining queries: address of sender, addresses of recipients, preferred method of billing. The voice interrupted.
“Oh, that can all be dealt with when I bring the parcels in.”
“Fine. But will you want to pay by check or credit card? I can take the details now—”
“Cash,” the voice interrupted, suddenly firm. “I’ll pay in cash. When I come in.”
Cash settlement was very unusual; it was at this point that Susannah’s doubts really began. She said, “Fine. If I could just take a name and contact number…”
“I have to go now,” said the voice. “Thank you so much. You’ve been tremendously helpful.”
Then, without further clarification, this odd woman hung up the phone.
Susannah was left feeling irritated. She suspected she had heard the last of this transaction. She did not expect the woman caller to materialize. She did not expect ever to set eyes on these four parcels. A time-waster, she decided. But she was wrong.
At eleven A.M. precisely, the lobby doors swung back, and one of the most beautiful women Susannah had ever seen walked into the reception area. Susannah was at once certain that she must be a model, although she did not recognize her. She managed not to stare, but so exquisite was this woman, so perfect and so costly every detail of her dress, Susannah was transfixed. She was, later, able to furnish an exact description—as perhaps had been the intention all along.
The woman was at least five feet ten inches tall, and enviably slender. Her hair, cut short, was that compendium of gold and silver achieved only when nature has been aided by an expensive hairdresser. She needed, and wore, no makeup. Her skin was tanned, her eyes sapphire blue, her teeth perfect, and her smile warm. Around her wrist, just visible, was a gold Cartier tank watch on a green crocodile strap, which Susannah at once coveted. She was wearing the most beautiful fur coat Susannah had ever seen in her life, a coat that made Susannah revise all her pious beliefs about protecting small furry animals: this coat, full length and luxuriant, was sable.
Beneath the coat the woman wore Chanel head to foot. On this point Susannah was later adamant It was a suit of soft beige tweed, featured in the very issue of Vogue now on her desk. Susannah could point to the page on which it was modeled, and she could explain that all the accessories were identical too, from the classic impractical two-tone sling-back Chanel shoes to the double strand of real matched pearls. There they were around this amazing woman’s throat—and there they were on the page of the magazine, with a caption detailing their source (Bulgari) and their cost (a quarter million).
Under her arm the woman carried four small parcels of identical size and shape, packed in an identical way, but of varying weight. The handover was swift. The details were logged on Susannah’s computer and could later be recalled. This was the information they gave:
Name and address of sender:
Mrs. J. A. Hamilton
132 Eaton Place
London SW1
Telephone—071.750.0007
Names and addresses of recipients:
1) M. Pascal Lamartine
Atelier 5
13, rue du Bac
Paris 56742
2) Mr. Johnny Appleyard
Apt. 15, 31 Gramercy Park
New York, NY 10003
3) Signor James McMullen
6, Palazzo Ossorio
Calle Streta
Campiello Albrizzi
Venice 2361
4) Ms. Genevieve Hunter
Flat 1, 56 Gibson Square
London Nl
The total delivery charge was £175.50. The required notes were peeled from a brand-new Vuitton wallet; the fifty-pence piece was taken from a brand-new Vuitton change purse. With polite, low-voiced thanks, the sender left the ICD office ten minutes after she arrived.
Later, when it emerged that this transaction was not all it seemed—one of the recipients was already dead, and none of the recipients had birthdays in January—Susannah was not surprised. There had been, she said, a number of odd inconsistencies.
In the first place, the woman in the sable coat had claimed to be Mrs. J. A. Hamilton but she had worn no wedding ring. In the second, she claimed to be the person who had telephoned earlier, and this was patently absurd. The woman on the telephone had been English, very English indeed; the beauty in the sable coat had been American.
“Which was strange,” Susannah said, frowning. She turned away from her two questioners to look out of her window, her gaze resting on its view of City towers and spires.
“Why strange?” The first of her questioners prompted her.
“Because the discrepancy was unnecessary,” Susannah replied. “It was as if she knew—”
“Knew what?” The second questioner asked.
“Knew that I’d be asked about the transaction,” said Susannah. “Don’t you see? That amazing coat, those clothes. Two different women claiming to be one and the same. Whoever she was, she wanted to make sure that I remembered. …” She paused. Her two questioners exchanged glances.
“Why would she want to do that?” Susannah asked.
PART ONE
&nbs
p; FOUR DELIVERIES
Chapter 1
PASCAL
THE PACKAGE WAS DELIVERED shortly after nine. Pascal Lamartine, running late for his meeting, signed for it, shook it, and put it down on the breakfast table. No urgency: he would open it later. Meanwhile, he was trying to do several things simultaneously—make coffee, pack, check his camera cases, and, most difficult of all, persuade his daughter, Marianne, to eat her breakfast egg.
Packages, to Pascal, came in two categories. If they were flat, they contained photographs and might be urgent; if they were not, then they were usually something unimportant, promotional materials sent out by a PR firm. His daughter, Marianne, aged seven, saw things differently. To her, parcels signified Christmas or birthdays; they signified pleasure. When Pascal had completed his packing, and made the coffee, he returned to the table to find Marianne had the parcel in her hand. The egg—unappetizing, Pascal had to admit, but then, he could not cook the simplest things—was being ignored.
Marianne examined the parcel. She fingered its string. She fixed her father with an expectant gaze.
“A present,” she said. “Look, Papa. Someone’s sent you a present. You should open it at once.”
Pascal smiled. He concentrated on the task of mixing a perfect café au lait, Marianne-style. The drink had to be milky and sweet. It had to be served in the traditional French way, in the green pottery bowl his mother had given Marianne, a bowl she adored, which had an orange china rooster perched on its rim. The bowl then had to be positioned on the table so the rooster faced Marianne. His daughter had a passion for finnicky detail that sometimes worried him. Pascal feared that it might be a by-product of his bitter divorce. He stirred in three sugar lumps, and passed the bowl across to her. He looked at it sadly. The bowl, three years old, slightly chipped, was a relic: His mother had been dead almost a year.
“I’m afraid it won’t be a present, darling,” he said, sitting down. “No one sends me presents anymore. No doubt it’s because I’m so very very old. …” He hunched his shoulders as he said this, and stooped his tall frame. He pulled a long, melancholy face, and attempted to convey extreme decrepitude. Marianne laughed.
“How old are you?” she said, still fingering the parcel.
“Thirty-five.” Pascal resisted the temptation briefly, then lit a cigarette. He sighed. “Thirty-six this spring. Ancient!”