“No way. Not this baby. I eat like a horse, always have—and I never gain a pound. Life’s unfair….” She paused, took one of the cigarettes Pascal offered, then looked at him in an assessing way. “Pascal Lamartine. I’ve heard of you. You took those Sonia Swan pictures, right? And those ones of Princess Stephanie, back in the summer last year?” She made a face. “Heck, if I’d known it was you chasing me, I’d really have run a mile.”
“This is rather different,” Pascal said quickly. “Not necessarily a news story as such….”
“Oh, come on.” She grinned again. “I’m not that dumb. That woman from the News in London—what’s her name? Gini?—she must have left a zillion messages. She calls Milan, she calls Rome, she calls the agency. And I don’t think she wants to arrange a modeling session, right?”
“No, she doesn’t. And neither do I. We want to ask you about some parcels. Four parcels to be exact. You delivered them to a courier office in London, one week ago today.”
There was a silence. Lorna Munro drew on her cigarette. Her blue eyes fixed themselves on his face. She made no reply.
“You’ve been identified for us,” Pascal continued. “By the woman at the courier office. I suspect you were meant to be identified. If you hadn’t been, I think they’d have hired someone less memorable to deliver those parcels.”
“You think I’m memorable? That’s nice.” She gave him a flirtatious glance.
Pascal responded with gallantry. He said, “Very beautiful women usually are.”
Lorna Munro was not stupid. The compliment made her smile. “Come on, you can do better than that. Don’t pretend to be interested when you’re not. I can always tell when a man’s really interested. It takes me five seconds. I just look in their eyes….” She frowned thoughtfully. “So, you’re not interested in me, but you are interested in those parcels? You came all the way here to Paris, just to ask me about those?”
“No, I didn’t. I was in London, working with Gini. But I’ve been in Paris since yesterday. My daughter’s ill.”
“Hey, I’m sorry.” She seemed genuinely concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“Scarlet fever, the doctor says. She’s only seven. Yesterday she was in a bad way. Today—well, she’s better. Picking up. I just left her now.”
“You have a picture? I like kids. I’ve got four sisters myself. The youngest’s your daughter’s age.”
Pascal drew out his wallet and passed her a photograph. Lorna Munro smiled. “Oh, she’s cute. What a lovely face. She takes after her father, I can see that. What’s her name?”
“Marianne.”
“Well, tell her from me to get better quickly, okay? Oh, here’s the food at last.”
The waiter laid the food before her with silent admiration. Lorna Munro began to eat rapidly, and with evident enjoyment. Pascal sipped his black coffee and waited. He could see she was assessing him, deciding what to say, perhaps deciding whether to lie. “Okay,” she said eventually. “Tell me this first. Suppose I admit I delivered those packages, so what? Delivering packages isn’t a crime.”
“No. It’s not.” Pascal met her gaze. “You don’t have to answer my questions. But I hope you will. You see, one of those parcels was sent to me—as you’ll know. Another went to Gini—as you’ll also know. What you may not know is what was inside them.”
“Oh, my God.” She stopped eating. “Not drugs?”
“No. Nothing illegal. In my case, a glove. In Gini’s case, a pair of handcuffs. No message. No note.”
“Handcuffs? To a woman?” She frowned. “That’s not nice.”
“Exactly.” Pascal paused. “So, someone has been playing a little joke, we think, Gini and I. We’d like to find out who that was…and why.”
There was another silence. Lorna Munro continued to eat her meal. When she had finished, she pushed her plate aside and accepted another cigarette. She watched its smoke drift for a while, then turned back to Pascal, as if she had made up her mind.
“Okay. For what it’s worth, I’ll tell you what I know. Handcuffs—that’s not funny. I’m surprised. He seemed like such a regular guy….”
“Who did? It was a man who gave you these parcels?”
“Slow down.” She smiled. “I’ll start at the beginning, right? It starts in New York. You won’t know him, I guess, but there’s a man there I know, he’s like some kind of tipster for gossip columns. Name of Appleyard.”
“Johnny Appleyard?”
“Right. One of the parcels was addressed to him.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “If you know this much, I guess you know that too.”
“You’re right.”
“Okay. A few weeks back, before Christmas, I ran into Appleyard at a party in SoHo. I’d met him once or twice before—I didn’t know him exactly, just enough to say hello. He’s the kind of guy I avoid like the plague, usually, because he’s on the lookout for scandal ninety-nine percent of the time. And he’s everywhere, you know? Restaurants, gallery openings, theater first nights—you name it, Appleyard’s there. He hangs around the agency, snoops on photo sessions, gossips with the makeup artists. He gets a lot of stories, models, their private lives. …” She paused. Pascal said nothing. It was obvious to him Lorna Munro had no inkling that Appleyard was dead. “So, as I say, I ran into him that night in SoHo….”
“Can you remember the exact date?”
She frowned. “Yes, I can. I was flying home for Christmas the next day, so it must have been the night of December twenty-third.”
Two days after McMullen disappeared, Pascal thought. He said, “Good. Go on.”
“Well, Appleyard came up to me at the party, said he’d heard I’d just been signed by Models East, congratulated me….I could tell he was leading up to something. Eventually, he came out with it. Would I be free to take a modeling job—an unusual one—in London? I’d need to be there just two days, Monday, January third, and Tuesday, January fourth.
It was an easy job, and well paid. …” She hesitated. “I almost said no. Any modeling job that came via Appleyard spelled trouble. Then he mentioned the money.”
“It was generous?”
“Oh, sure.” She gave him a glance. “Twenty thousand dollars in cash, no percentage to the agency, no questions asked. Plus a first-class air ticket each way, overnight accommodation at Claridges, no less—”
“Claridges?”
Lorna Munro grinned. “Funnily enough, that’s what swung it as much as the money. I’ve never stayed in a place that grand—and I thought, this doesn’t sound so sleazy. …So I listened some more.”
“Did Appleyard explain what you’d have to do?”
“Sure. He said no photographs were involved. All I had to do was turn up in London, wear some classy clothes, and pay a visit to someone on the Tuesday morning. He said it was for a friend of his, a kind of elaborate practical joke this friend wanted to set up.”
“You believed him?”
“Not really, but in the end, I decided to give it a try. After all—twenty thousand dollars, that’s a lot of money. I’m not averse to that. I can be a material girl.”
“You don’t look it. You don’t sound it. …”
“Nice of you to say so.” Loma Munro smiled. “Let’s say I’m realistic, then. If I’m lucky and I work hard, I can make a good living at modeling for what—the next ten years? After that, you’re starting to go over the bill. So you make what you can, when you can. I told you, I’ve got four sisters, a mother and a father getting harder up every year. I don’t plan for us all to stay poor.”
Pascal’s liking for Lorna Munro grew. He liked her directness, and he liked her smile. He lit another cigarette for her, then leaned back in his chair. “All right,” he said. “Go on. You flew to London….”
“I flew to London. Went to Claridges, and there was a suite reserved for me. How about that? Flowers, fruit, champagne in an ice bucket. I thought, whatever happens, this joker friend of Appleyard’s has style. I had a return airline ticket. I th
ought, so things go wrong, I can always just cut and run, no problem. As it happened, it couldn’t have been easier. And nothing went wrong.”
“Who made contact with you in London?”
“An Englishman. He called Monday around noon. He came to the hotel later that afternoon. He brought a Chanel suit with him, shoes. I tried them on. That was the only problem, I’m so skinny, the suit was loose, too large.”
“Did the man give you a name? Can you describe him?”
“He said his name was John Hamilton. I didn’t ask for ID. He was very English—kind of stiff-upper-lip, you know? About five ten, slim build, fair-haired, well-dressed, polite. Pretty formal in manner. Forty-something. As I said—a regular guy.”
“Was this the man?” Pascal had two photographs ready. One of McMullen and one of John Hawthorne. He passed across McMullen’s photograph first. Lorna Munro examined it carefully.
“It looks like him. Yeah, I guess so. It’s difficult to tell when he’s dressed like that He looks younger here. …Yes, I’d say that was him.”
Pascal stared at her. “You’re certain?”
“Yeah. Now that I look at it closely. It’s him.”
Pascal replaced the photographs in his pocket. This meant revising many of his previous ideas. He leaned forward. “So, did he explain what he wanted you to do?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “In detail. He went over and over it, where I had to go, what I should say. Like some goddamn military briefing…He gave me these names and addresses I had to learn. I said—if I’m posing as your wife, shouldn’t I wear a wedding ring? He said no.”
“Did you believe it really was a practical joke?”
“It could have been. That’s what he said. Frankly, I didn’t much care. Anyway,” she paused, “he came back the next morning with the most incredible fur coat I ever saw in my life, and these unbelievable pearls. The coat was to hide the fact that the Chanel suit didn’t fit too well—he had it all figured out. There’s not much more to tell really. He had a cab waiting downstairs. He drove with me to that courier place, waited in the cab downstairs. I took the packages in, did my number….” She grinned. “Back to Claridges, say farewell to the pearls and the coat. Collect twenty thousand dollars. Go home.”
“You sound as if you enjoyed it”
“Sure. I did. I liked Hamilton. I thought it was fun. No harm done.” A shadow crossed her face.
“Was I wrong?”
“I’m afraid you were.”
“I thought so.” She gave him a shrewd glance. “More than just sending some unwelcome handcuffs, right?”
“Yes. More than that.” Pascal hesitated. “You haven’t discussed this with anyone?”
“No. Only you. Hamilton said not to. So did Appleyard.” She glanced at him again. “You look kind of grim, you know. Is this dangerous in some way? Am I in danger? Are you?”
Pascal signaled to the waiter to bring the bill. He was not sure of the answer to that question, but he was unwilling to say so.
Loma Munro frowned. “Great. I’m not all right, in other words. And neither are you.”
“No, no.” Pascal rose and paid for their meal. Loma Munro also rose; together they walked out through the glass-enclosed forecourt of the café onto the sidewalk of the Rue Bonaparte and into the rain.
Lorna Munro shivered, and wrapped her coat more tightly around her. The streetlights were on now, the rush hour just beginning; the daylight was starting to fail. The model braced herself against the wind, then smiled and turned back to Pascal.
“Well, it can’t matter that much,” she said. “All I did was deliver a few parcels. Still, I’ll keep my mouth shut from now on.”
“It might be a good idea.”
“And avoid Appleyard.” She laughed. “Well, I hope I was some kind of help. I have to get back to my hotel now. I fly back to New York tonight. Nice meeting you, Pascal.” They shook hands. Lorna Munro turned away, then turned back. “Hey, one last thing. When I’m famous, don’t creep up and take pictures by my swimming pool, okay?” She grinned. “Let me know in advance. Come right in the front door….”
“I’ll do that,” Pascal replied, and raised his hand in farewell.
Lorna Munro stepped off the sidewalk to the edge of the traffic streaming along the boulevard. She looked to right and left, saw the lights change at the St. Germain intersection, and began to cross. Watching her, Pascal was certain she never saw the car.
It came out of the stream of traffic to his right and accelerated fast. By the time it reached the red light and the intersection, it was traveling at around fifty miles an hour. A black Mercedes sedan with tinted glass, it hit Lorna Munro sideways on, and tossed her body ten feet in the air. She landed across its hood, skewed, then was thrown to the ground.
A cacophony of horns filled the air. Pascal saw other passersby on the sidewalk freeze, as he froze, and stare. The Mercedes sped fast across the intersection and disappeared down the boulevard with screeching tires. Its driver never once touched the brakes; there was no time even to read the license plate. One second it was there, the next it was gone.
Pascal began to run forward into the boulevard. His limbs felt heavy and slow with shock. It seemed to take an immense time to travel twenty yards.
Lorna Munro must have been killed instantly, he knew that as soon as he reached her. Her neck had been broken, perhaps her spine. She lay on her back on the road, in a cluster of gathering people, her beautiful face unmarked, and her blue eyes gazing up at the sky.
A man checked for a pulse at her throat, then shook his head. Pascal hesitated, then turned aside and pushed his way through the crowd. Other witnesses would have seen the car. He could be of no further use here. Police inquiries would hinder, not help her. He stopped. He could still hear her voice, and the frank optimism with which she’d spoken of her future plans.
She’d had less than half an hour to live at the time. He leaned against a wall and pressed his face against its grime. He looked at the question, and then looked at it again: If he had not contacted her, would Lorna Munro still be alive?
Chapter 23
“WHO ELSE KNOWS ABOUT the Hawthorne story?” Gini said to Nicholas Jenkins.
They were in the back of Jenkins’s chauffeur-driven Jaguar. The car, one of the perks of Jenkins’s job, was speeding south to the Savoy through wet streets. Jenkins seemed distracted and on edge.
“Come on, Nicholas. Someone else knows. Who? Daiches?”
“Will you give me a break? How many times do I have to say it? You, Lamartine, me. That’s it.” He stopped, then glanced at her sharply. “Why?”
“Because I’m getting the strong feeling someone does know, Nicholas. They knew before you even assigned Pascal and me to this.”
“Crap. You’re getting paranoid, Gini.”
“Look, Nicholas, just give me a straight answer, will you? Does Daiches know?”
“No, he bloody well does not. I know Daiches likes to imagine he’s rather better informed than God, but I have news for him. He isn’t.” He glanced at her again. “Why, was he fishing?”
“Not exactly. He made a few remarks about this dinner with Hawthorne tonight.”
“So? I don’t blame him. I made a few myself. Since when have you been so pally with our illustrious proprietor? Hand-delivered invitations—”
“Never mind that now, Nicholas. It’s not important. This is. If Daiches doesn’t know, did Johnny Appleyard? Had you heard any rumors about Hawthorne from Appleyard? Nicholas, did Appleyard give you this tip?”
“I don’t believe I’m hearing this! How many times do I have to spell it out? This is my story, one hundred percent. It has nothing to do with fucking Appleyard, God rest his soul and all that. This was my lead, via my source, and it’ll be my fucking exclusive if you and Pascal come up with the goods. If you actually make some progress. Are you making progress?”
“Yes, Nicholas, we are. I worked all damn weekend on this.”
“So? Big deal.”<
br />
“And what’s more, it’s a much bigger story than we originally thought.”
“It is?” Interest gleamed in his eyes, then he raised a finger to his lips. “Save the details for later.” He glanced at the glass screen between them and his driver. “After dinner, I’ll drive you home. We can talk then.” He stared out the window at the passing streets. Then he seemed to make an effort to improve his own mood; he turned back to her with a smile. “This should be useful anyway,” he said. “Gives you a chance to see Hawthorne’s public persona. …I must say, Gini, you’re looking very pretty tonight. It makes a change to see you in a dress.”
He eyed her legs as he said this. Gini put another three inches of leather seat between them. The car was slowing. Jenkins peered through the window again.
“Oh, I don’t believe it. What the fuck!”
Approaching Kingsway and Covent Garden, they came to an abrupt halt. Ahead of them, through jammed traffic, Gini could see police cars and flashing lights. They inched their way toward the melee. Security barriers were being erected. All the traffic was being diverted. In the distance a siren wailed.
“Fucking IRA,” Jenkins said. He leaned forward and opened the glass partition. “Just step on it, will you, Chris. Cut through the Garden and go down past the opera house.”
“That’s just what I am doing, sir. So is everyone else.”
“Then use your ingenuity,” Jenkins snapped. “That’s what you’re paid for. I don’t intend to be late.”
The dinner at the Savoy was a large one. It was being held in the River Room, and Gini estimated there were three hundred guests.
The security was tight—because of the current round of bomb scares, Gini assumed at first. Jenkins corrected her on this.
“Nothing to do with the Dublin cowboys,” he said irritably. “This was all laid on weeks ago, Melrose told me. We’ve John Hawthorne’s presence to thank for this.” He gestured toward the throng of people at the entrance to the River Room. Each person had to present a security pass; each pass was laboriously checked. When they finally reached the entrance, Gini’s small evening bag was opened and searched.