Two Women Page 23

  Stanley Burcher was using the concealment of the crowd, too, entering the room as part of the line but sidling away almost at once, not wanting officially to meet Jane Carver. Not yet anyway. If he determined upon the proposal taking shape in his mind it might be necessary only once, she being the only person with legal access to Carver’s security facility. Could he turn that into a mere formality? Carver’s severance letters would be on record in the Northcote building: the Families had the originals Carver had written to their registered Grand Cayman addresses. There was every reason for his officially approaching the Northcote firm, acknowledging the termination, and demanding the return of all documentation referring to the five companies, arguing that he knew they were being stored privately and not in the firm’s vaults. The danger was that Northcote lawyers would examine what was in the box, once Jane had retrieved it. Could he extend client confidentiality and insist the contents be returned unexamined? They knew, from what Carver had produced in the NOXT building, what was duplicated in the Citibank vaults and Burcher doubted the woman would understand any of it. The Northcote lawyers would, though, when they went through it, as they inevitably would. Which way would they jump when they realized the significance? Like lemmings, over the self-exposing, self-destructive cliff, to the FBI? Or more practicably, and strictly within the law, gratefully accepting they were no longer professionally involved and even more gratefully thrusting upon him Carver’s incriminating box? It was an impossible bet to call. But the sensibly practical route – the route Burcher would have expected any sensible, practical lawyer to take – would be the latter. Where in this milling reception room was the Northcote lawyer? Logically he – or she – had to be close to Jane Carver. Reluctantly, as he was always reluctant to enter any focus of attention, Burcher moved towards the receiving group. So, finally, although from a different direction, did Alice.

  What the fuck was he doing here, Hanlan asked himself. Had he expected name tags, Martha in big letters? Imagined, in this babble, that he’d hear the voice he’d recognize when he wasn’t sure he’d recognize it anyway? Stupidly – unprofessionally – he’d let this get to him: let instinct – gut instinct – cloud hard-assed reality. Ginette was right and McKinnon was right and Washington was right. Keep the door – or more literally, the telephone lines – open but don’t invest this off-the-wall situation with importance or priorities it didn’t have. OK, after this he wouldn’t. Any more than he’d tell anyone else at Federal Plaza where he’d been or what he’d been doing. Just keep things in order of priority. File this at the back of the list. Hanlan still didn’t move from where he’d established himself after also slipping out of the receiving line, token champagne in hand but undrunk, watching. Martha would be here, crazy or not. She’d have to be, according to every Quantico rule of psychological profiling. A big crowd. Rich crowd. No one – certainly no woman – looking out of place, particularly unusual or attracting attention. Most likely one of this sort of crowd then. But which side? The honestly rich side, who would have needed Northcote and Carver to keep them that way? Or the dirty organized-crime side, who according to Martha had found some way to make Northcote and Carver work for them? No way these days of guessing. Telling. Everyone – at this level – looked the same, behaved the same. Rich. Successful. Honest. A quiet voice said: ‘Excuse me,’ and Hanlan moved aside for Burcher to continue on towards where Jane Carver and her group were standing.

  Jane let her mind freefall from everything immediately around her but intentionally, not from any legacy of the drug, her sole concentration upon finding one person, one face, which so far she hadn’t seen. That’s all she had to concentrate upon, only Mary … no, Rosemary … Pritchard. That’s the only person she wanted to see: to talk to. Rosemary. Talk to Rosemary. Everything else was unimportant, banal. Trite words, trite responses. So sorry … a wonderful man … tragic loss … we must keep in touch … lunch … Thank you … very kind … yes, keep in touch. Where was Rosemary? Why hadn’t she come? Jane felt tired, from standing, from shaking hands. Her back and legs ached and her hand, her fingers, hurt from being squeezed: people thinking the harder they pressed, the more sincere they appeared. So sorry … a brilliant man … Thank you … very kind …

  ‘Jane?’

  ‘Rosemary!’ exclaimed Jane, then at once: ‘No, not Rosemary.’ She tried to focus but it wasn’t easy to see a veiled face through her own veil and then abruptly the woman’s image faded for the briefest of seconds. ‘You’re not Rosemary …? Who …?’ Why wasn’t it Rosemary? It had sounded like Rosemary.

  ‘We have to talk,’ urged Alice, conscious of the pressure from people behind. ‘It’s very important. About your father. And John. Both of them.’

  ‘I thought you were Rosemary.’

  ‘Can we talk? Can I come to see you, to talk? It’s urgent.’

  ‘Do you know Rosemary? Rosemary Pritchard?’

  The pressure, the intervention, was now from the woman whom Alice knew to be Hilda Bennett. The woman said to Jane: ‘Are you all right …? Do you want to stop …?’

  ‘No,’ refused Jane, fully bringing herself back to where she was, what she was doing. ‘What was it you said?’ she asked Alice.

  ‘We need to meet. About your father. And John.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Thank you. Very kind.’

  Stanley Burcher was merged into another wall, studying Geoffrey Davis, who had been pointed out to him as the Northcote lawyer by a hovering hotel manager. Uncharacteristically Burcher was tempted to make a direct, personal approach, quickly dismissing the thought as unprofessional and in entirely the wrong circumstances. He thought Davis looked a practical, level-headed sort of man. But outward appearances were meaningless. He hadn’t seen anyone resembling the magazine photograph of Alice Belling, who at that moment passed just twenty feet away as she left the reception.

  Alice knew who Rosemary Pritchard was: John had recommended the gynaecologist to her. Why, at this moment in time and in these circumstances, was Rosemary Pritchard so important to Jane?

  Jane was glad at last to be moving, relieving the ache in her back and legs and sparing her hand from any more crushing insincerity, which was still as crushing without the handshakes. Appalling tragedy … so unfair … brilliant husband … brilliant father … you’re very brave … couldn’t be that brave myself … lunch … I’ll call very soon … Thank you … lunch is good … I’ll wait to hear … She was learning how to control the ebbs and flows. It had come three times while she stood in the receiving line, though she was sure no one had suspected, because she was always sufficiently aware now in the very few seconds before they washed over her. Could compensate, say the words. Thank you … very kind … so good of you to come … Her back was aching again. Her legs too. She couldn’t go on much longer. Wanted to stop. Finish now. Done enough. Done all she had to.

  Hilda said: ‘Do you want to go home now?’

  ‘Have I done everything properly?’

  ‘You’ve done everything exactly right.’

  Jane was startled by Mortimer’s reassurance, unaware until he spoke that the man was walking the room with her. ‘Then yes, I’d like to go home.’ No one knew, no one suspected. She had … Had to do what? Couldn’t remember … She would though, soon enough. Just needed a moment. Get her thoughts together. What was it she had to do? It was important. More people in the way. Fine man … brilliant mind … such a loss … Thank you … so kind … thank you …

  Jane couldn’t remember getting into the car. They were going back across town. Hilda was talking. Just the odd word initially, then connected, making sense: ‘… a lot to do. Letters, things like that. Not tomorrow, if you don’t feel like it. Whenever. But I’ll get the condolence books now if you’re all right for a moment. I’ll go get them, then I’ll come back.’

  ‘I want that,’ Jane heard herself saying. ‘Like before.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I expected that you would.’

  ‘There must be other things I h
ave to do …? Proper things … formal …?’

  ‘Everything’s on hold, until you’re ready.’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘No,’ agreed the older woman. ‘Nothing more today. Today you’ve done enough.’ The car turned into East 62nd Street and Hilda said: ‘Here we are. Home.’

  Jane welcomed the sudden clarity, not aching now, not even feeling tired. ‘Not home,’ she contradicted. ‘John isn’t here any more.’

  Alice hadn’t intended to be there. She’d left the Plaza to retrieve her car and get back as soon as she could to the safety of the cabin in the Bearfort Mountains. It was only when she drove out of the lot that she decided to go to East 62nd Street, initially with no thought in her mind of actually approaching Jane, not knowing, even, why she was doing what she was doing. She tried the Melrose Hotel to isolate any obvious attention upon John’s apartment building, from both the bar and reception, but couldn’t see sufficiently from either. It was when she was outside in the street again that she saw Jane helped from her car by Hilda Bennett and sat undecided upon a bench at the Second Avenue junction and was glad she did because the older woman left after just fifteen minutes. Why not this afternoon? Alice suddenly asked herself. And just as quickly answered herself: Why not?

  Twenty-Two

  Neither was it a conscious intention – it hadn’t crossed her mind – to say what she did until Alice entered the building and realized she had to negotiate reception security to get to the sixth floor, where she knew John’s apartment to be. Nor, most stupid of all, had it occurred to her that there would obviously be CCTV cameras. The man smiled at her approach and asked who she was visiting and Alice said: ‘Mrs Carver’s expecting me. It’s about Rosemary Pritchard.’

  ‘She’s just got back from her husband’s funeral,’ frowned the man.

  ‘So have I.’ What was she doing here, saying here! This was knee-jerk, unthought-out madness.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, looking more closely at Alice’s veiled appearance. ‘I was told to expect some people. Rosemary Pritchard, you say?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Not a direct lie. By no means the truth, either. But the best – probably her only – chance of getting past the foyer to see Jane, who wouldn’t have responded – had her staff respond – if she’d correctly identified herself. Which was unthinkable anyway. Which people were expected? She was thinking on her feet now, intuitively, snatching at each and any opportunity. Easy enough to claim a misunderstanding. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting to Jane. She heard the man recite the gynaecologist’s name into the internal telephone, her breath tight, and saw the man’s unthinking nod of acceptance. ‘You’re to go up,’ he told Alice, who was already moving towards the elevator.

  It would have been Manuel who’d answered, she supposed. Or Jennings. John had talked of the staff transfers, after Northcote’s death. Would either know what Rosemary Pritchard looked like? It was doubtful. As far as Alice was aware Rosemary Pritchard didn’t make house calls. She’d get to Jane OK now. Nothing to stop her. To say what? She still wasn’t sure. Retained research material didn’t sound good enough any more, not now she was actually here. Never really had sounded right. So what was she going to say? She didn’t know. Couldn’t think of anything. Which could make this a bad mistake, ruining everything coming full frontal on to Jane like this with stories of murder and blackmail and Christ knows what else. Not could be a bad mistake. Would be a bad mistake, because she couldn’t tell Jane anything of why she was here. Whatever story she tried to tell would be gibberish, the ramblings of a lunatic.

  The elevator stopped at six, John’s floor. Jane’s floor, she corrected herself. John didn’t live here any more. Never would, ever again. Or in Princes Street. Or in the cabin. The elevator doors sighed closed behind her but Alice didn’t move. She most definitely shouldn’t have come like this. This was panicked, ridiculous. Jane wouldn’t understand a thing she said about being in danger. Have her thrown out, seized maybe by the security man downstairs. She should have gone from the funeral to Federal Plaza and surrendered herself to someone called Gene Hanlan and persuaded him to come here with her. That would have made the approach official, to be taken seriously. If, that is, Hanlan could have been persuaded and not gone on demanding convincing proof of her claims before confronting a widow on the day of her husband’s funeral. Which Alice was sure he wouldn’t conceivably have done.

  There were three doors off the corridor in which she was standing but she knew from John that the one into the apartment was directly ahead, at the corridor’s end. It was pale green, Jane’s favourite colour. Chosen by her, like the décor inside, pale green offset by cream, dark green for contrast in the carpets and drapes. John had liked it, too. Called Jane artistic. She should leave, Alice told herself. Call the elevator back and get out, before she was trapped by whoever else was expected. She couldn’t have gained more than fifteen minutes, leaving the wake early. Insane to be here like this.

  She had to take a chance with the FBI agent. It was her only chance. It might have helped if she’d brought the IRS printouts from the cabin. Insufficient by themselves, but at least something. Perhaps not go to the FBI at all, not yet. But when? She wouldn’t be gaining anything by waiting to get any more tax records. So she wouldn’t wait. She had to live – survive – not wait.

  The pale-green door was opened by Manuel, whom she recognized from John’s description of the dark-haired, dark-skinned butler. A Mexican with a Mexican wife. Resenting the intrusion of others.

  Alice said: ‘The lobby called up.’

  Manuel nodded and said: ‘Rosemary Pritchard?’

  ‘Mrs Carver’s expecting me.’

  ‘I was expecting Dr Mortimer. People from the firm.’

  ‘I’ve come direct from the funeral.’ Get out of the way, let me in!

  As if aware of Alice’s thoughts, Manuel stood aside, gesturing Alice towards a door to the right. The drawing room, Alice knew, holding back for the butler to open it for her but immediately thrusting past before he could block her way.

  Jane Carver was in a chair by the window, looking across the verandah in the direction of the park. She turned at Manuel’s voice, her features more squinting than frowning because at that moment Jane’s vision was blurred, as much from a close-to-exhaustion half doze as from the persistent hangover from chlorpromazine. ‘What …? Who …?’

  ‘Jane, we talked back at the hotel.’ How long would it be before the others arrived, behind her? Minutes. Probably no more than minutes.

  Jane’s vision cleared. ‘Yes?’ She said, doubtfully. Something about her father. John. She wished she didn’t feel so tired: so disorientated.

  Alice was conscious of Manuel, hovering at the door, face creased in uncertainty. He said: ‘Are you all right, Mrs Carver? Dr Mortimer’s on his way.’

  Jane roused herself, physically straightening in her chair. ‘It’s OK. I dozed off. I don’t want anything, thank you.’ As Manuel closed the door after himself, still frowning, Jane looked back to Alice and said: ‘I’m sorry …?’

  It had to be the FBI, Alice decided. There was no other choice. Somehow, anyhow, she had to get Jane to Federal Plaza, talk and plead there until they took her seriously enough to put them both under some sort of protection until Jane could get the documents that were going to save them from Citibank on Wall Street. It could be done by tomorrow. By tomorrow they could be out of danger. ‘I want you to come somewhere with me … it’s very important … it’s to do with …’

  ‘Rosemary Pritchard!’ exclaimed Jane, triumphantly. ‘Yes, of course!’

  Until that moment Alice had been unaware of the depth of Jane’s confusion. She’d dismissed as understandable Jane’s strangeness during their brief encounter at the Plaza, the bewilderment of grief and of being among too many people too soon, engulfed in that grief. But now it was obviously something else, something she’d been given to help her get through the ordeal. Dr Mortimer’s on his way, Manuel had said. Th
ey’d be here soon, the prescribing doctor and people from the firm. She couldn’t possibly explain to them: convince them. She couldn’t be here when they arrived. ‘Yes, Rosemary Pritchard.’

  ‘Are you taking me to her?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I want to do. Will you come with me now, right away?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve been waiting.’ Jane rose but swayed slightly, needing the support of the chair back. ‘Still a bit fuzzy.’

  ‘We’ve got to hurry, Jane.’ How long had she been in the apartment? Five minutes, ten minutes? They had to get out. She was taking advantage of someone who didn’t know what they were doing. She thought, forgive me, John. And then, forgive me, Jane. What she was doing was right, Alice told herself. It had to be.

  Manuel must have used one of the side doors to get into the entrance lobby of the apartment. As they came out of the drawing room he said: ‘People are on their way, Mrs Carver.’

  ‘I need a coat, Manuel. We’re going to see Dr Pritchard.’

  ‘The others are coming,’ the butler insisted. ‘You should wait.’

  ‘They can wait. Tell them that. Tell them to wait. Could you get my coat, please?’

  The man didn’t immediately move. He said to Alice: ‘I thought you were Rosemary Pritchard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Manuel! My coat please!’ demanded Jane.

  Alice couldn’t believe the sudden lucidity: was worried it might suddenly bring Jane back into proper, questioning awareness.

  Manuel said: ‘I think you should wait, Mrs Carver. There are people …’

  ‘Who can wait. I’ll get my damned coat myself!’

  Manuel got to the closet first. The coat was black, to match Jane’s funeral clothes. Jane took it but didn’t try to put it on, instead throwing it over her arm. Alice’s concentration was on the indicator board as they went down the outside corridor, alert for an ascending elevator, jabbing at the summoning button the moment she reached it. Manuel was at the still open door of the apartment, watching them.