Two Women Read online

  Craxi said: ‘After this, Burcher is superfluous.’

  ‘He gets the stuff back from the Northcote firm, he provides a service,’ said Gallo.

  ‘He’s still superfluous,’ insisted Craxi.

  ‘He gets the stuff back, then he’s superfluous,’ agreed Petrie. ‘Right now he’s got a use.’

  Twenty-Three

  Jane awoke in the half light of an uncurtained window, immediately aware of being fully dressed beneath the comforter, and that because of it she was far too hot. It was as she pushed the covering aside, her eyes adjusting to the deeply shadowed room, that she became aware of a woman slumped in a chair beneath the window, breathing heavily, asleep. There was a vaguely familiar smell, from the pillow or from the comforter, but she couldn’t decide why she recognized it. There was no city noise outside, just the rustle of trees, ruffled by the breeze. Somewhere in the country then. But where? Who with? Why? Jane didn’t feel any fear, any positive threat: she’d never known real fear or threat in her protected life. Her head was clear, which was good. No sensation of it being stuffed with cotton wool, her mind too thick to think properly. So think properly. John’s funeral. People, a lot of people, at the hotel. A woman at the apartment. This woman? Maybe. Too dark to see her face. Couldn’t remember her face. The woman said … Rosemary Pritchard! That was it! The woman was taking her to Rosemary Pritchard. Why was she being taken? Why not just go by herself? That didn’t make any sense. Being here, somewhere in the country, didn’t make any sense. Lying fully dressed in bed didn’t make any sense. Whose bed? Whose house? Too much that didn’t make sense. Jane was desperately thirsty. She eased herself off the bed, from the side furthest from the sleeping woman, steadying herself as she stood, locating a door, ajar, in the wall closest to her. She went out, pulled it fully closed behind her, orientating herself to the now shrouded room but at once wondered why she was staying in the dark, feeling out instead for the light switch and finding it alongside the door.

  It was a country cabin, she instantly recognized, blinking in the abrupt light. Rustic plaid furniture grouped around a huge stone fireplace, logs stacked alongside, polished wood floor beneath rug throws. A computer, telephone and a pile of paper on a far-away desk by the door. That door obviously led outside. She guessed the one opposite was to the kitchen. It was only when she was crossing to it that she realized she wasn’t wearing shoes. Looking down at herself Jane saw her clothes were concertinaed around her, from their having been slept in. She felt dirty, unwashed, too. Which she doubtlessly was. What the hell was she doing here? She’d wake the woman as soon as she’d drunk some water, find out what it was all about.

  It was a functional kitchen, a stove, refrigerator, communal refectory table more than big enough for its six surrounding chairs. Salt, pepper and napkins sat on their island in the middle. Two napkin rings. Jane drank the first glass without pause, only bothering with ice on the second. She drained that too, like the first, and it came up again from a too quickly filled stomach, making her feel slightly sick. She filled the glass again but sipped this time. It was getting lighter outside. Through the kitchen window she saw a beetle-shaped Volkswagen, then she jumped, spilling some of her water, at a sudden animal scream, a victim of something larger.

  Jane felt a familiar dampness and thought, damn. She was on her way back to the bedroom and the sleeping woman when she saw the corridor to one side of the fireplace and detoured along it. She found the bathroom first time, wondering if she would have to pad herself, relieved when she found one tampon remaining in its box in the bathroom cabinet. There were two toothbrushes in the bathroom cup and an electric razor, a Remington like John’s, on a side shelf. And then Jane saw the cologne, the Cartier that John also used, and realized why she’d recognized the faint smell when she’d first woken that morning, beneath the duvet.

  Jane jumped again, although less violently, as she emerged to the unexpected sight of the woman hurrying across the main room, towards the kitchen. Alice saw Jane at the same time and appeared just as surprised. There was a faint smile.

  Jane said: ‘I was coming to wake you.’

  ‘I didn’t hear you get up.’

  ‘Obviously.’ The other woman was blonde, about the same height and weight as she was. Probably around the same age, too. She wore jeans and a sports shirt and was barefoot.

  ‘I’m Alice Belling.’ There was no possibility of the name meaning anything so long after the profile of Jane’s father. She hadn’t rehearsed anything, worked anything out! She’d imagined being up, moving around, working up a passable story in her mind long before Jane awoke. Stupid – stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Like so much – everything – else.

  ‘I’m due an explanation.’ Probably prompted by the reasons for her using the bathroom, Jane remembered why she was so anxious to talk to the gynaecologist.

  ‘You became unwell after … after yesterday,’ floundered Alice. ‘I was taking you somewhere but decided it was better for you to come here until you recovered.’

  She was definitely better, Jane decided. Her vision hadn’t ebbed and flowed once since she’d got up and her head was still ice clear. ‘When you’re ill, you need a doctor, OK? Which is where you said yesterday you were taking me, remember?’ She could remember! She was beginning to remember everything!

  ‘I was going to get one. You went to sleep. I thought it was better to leave you …’ Alice made a half gesture back towards the bedroom. ‘I sat up.’

  ‘And went to sleep. Where the hell are we?’ This was unreal: totally unreal. She still didn’t feel frightened. She was irritated, annoyed, at being bundled about without knowing why, like a child that didn’t deserve an explanation. She’d always explain things to her child, treat it with the respect it deserved.

  It wasn’t difficult to find the edge to Jane’s voice. Alice said: ‘The Bearfort Mountains.’

  ‘The Catskills!’ exclaimed Jane. ‘That’s miles from New York! What are we doing here?’

  Why hadn’t she thought it out better! Something, anything! Forced herself to stay awake to get together some half-convincing story! ‘Hiding.’

  ‘What!’ demanded Jane, incredulous. She shifted slightly, the beginning of uncertainty.

  Alice recognized the movement, desperate for a way forward. It had to be a mix of all her half-thoughts and half-ideas and half-truths. ‘Alice Belling,’ she repeated. ‘I wrote a long profile of your father, in Forbes. He was very flattering about it. Don’t you remember the piece?’

  ‘Kind of …’ said Jane, doubtfully. The uncertainty was on her face now, her head intently to one side.

  ‘He wrote me a couple of times, said he wanted a biography written. I began working on it, researching … I’d met John when I’d written the profile. The arrangement was …’

  ‘You knew John?’ Jane cut her off.

  Alice coughed, to cover the need to swallow. Dear God make me think of something better than this! ‘Like I said, we met when I was doing the profile: he handled any queries that came up after my interviews with your father. That was how it was to continue for the book, John acting as liaison when anything came up that your father was too busy to handle or …’

  ‘Too busy to handle!’ broke in Jane, again. ‘My father was semi-retired, for a year!’

  It was going horribly, appallingly wrong but it didn’t matter. Jane was better now. All she had to do was get Jane back to Manhattan, to the FBI. Once they were safely inside the Federal Plaza building she didn’t have to see Jane ever again. Or perhaps more importantly, Jane never had to see her ever again. Alice shrugged: ‘It was the way we worked.’

  ‘Hiding?’ echoed Jane. She spoke loudly, making it a demand.

  ‘Your father was tricked, a long time ago. The indications came up, in some papers I came upon. Old papers. They referred to some other documents that John found, through them. He put them in his safe-deposit box, in Citibank on Wall Street … The people who tricked your father want them back …’ Alice ne
eded to move, to get away from Jane’s unremitting, suspicious stare. Alice started to pad towards the desk and her new computer, beside it the most recent printouts that had to go with the rest of the stuff already in the Volkswagen, ready to convince the Bureau. And abruptly saw the photograph! It was the one of John the fisherman, from their first visit, which she’d liked so much that she’d copied it for Princes Street. It was hidden at that moment behind the printouts but it probably wouldn’t be if Jane moved any closer. Alice turned at the desk, wedging her hip on its edge, her body a barrier. An idea thrust into her mind and she grabbed it. ‘I know this all sounds …’

  ‘Preposterous!’ refused Jane. ‘My father and I were as close as it is possible for a father and daughter to be. John and I were as close as it’s possible for a husband and wife to be. If my father had decided upon a biography, I would have known about it, from him or from John. If there was some problem with the firm, I would have known about it, from my father or from John … I don’t know who you are or what you want … what you’re talking about, even … I am not frightened of you … You’re going to take me to the nearest town from which I can speak to people … do you understand …?’

  ‘The FBI know you’re safe … they want to speak to you …’ The telephone was on the desk! She had to get the photograph away, before bringing Jane to the telephone.

  ‘The FBI?’

  Federal Plaza. That’s all she had to do, get them to Federal Plaza! ‘That’s what John was doing, at Citibank on the day of the accident. Going to his safe deposit to get what he’d found, to pass it over to the FBI.’ She was too far gone now to worry about – count even – the lies and the deceits. As much for Jane as for herself, Alice thought. Sorry John: I’ve made a mess of it but Jane will be safe. ‘The agent-in-charge is named Gene Hanlan. It’s too early to call him yet. You can speak to him first thing.’ Get her out the room, on whatever pretext, just long enough to get rid of the damned photograph! Not a damned photograph. One of the few physical reminders she had of John. She’d take it with her, to her new life. She’d ignore them, whoever gave her the new identity, if they said she couldn’t keep it: that she had to surrender and abandon all and every trace of her past. She had to have that positive memento of John.

  ‘Whose cabin is this?’

  Alice’s mind was completely skewed by Jane’s unexpected change of direction and without thought – without giving herself time to think, as she hadn’t virtually throughout this disastrous confrontation – she blurted: ‘Mine.’

  ‘What about your husband?’

  ‘I don’t have a husband.’ The sickness was there again, the churning low in her stomach, growing at the back of her throat.

  Jane jerked her head back along the corridor. ‘I had to borrow one of your things … I didn’t realize I was due: so much happening, I guess. There was stuff in the cabinet, a razor. Cologne.’

  The nausea worsened. Alice said: ‘A partner. Didn’t work out. It’s only just happened. I haven’t got around to clearing away the memories yet.’

  ‘I haven’t even begun to think about clearing away the memories yet.’

  ‘I’m sorry. About John, I mean,’ Alice forced herself to say. Today was the end. After today it would all be over. No embarrassment, about hypocrisy, about anything. Not the end, Alice corrected herself. This was the very beginning. The beginning of the rest of her life, lying, pretending, being someone she didn’t want to be but had to be, saying things she didn’t want to say, but had to say.

  Jane looked down at her crumpled self. ‘I need to clean up.’

  Her escape, seized Alice. There was nothing she could do about the razor or the cologne but the photograph was the important thing. The only thing. Why the sudden change in Jane’s attitude? It didn’t matter. Getting Jane out of the room was all that mattered. ‘You know where the bathroom is. And then we’ll get going.’

  ‘I need to make some calls, first.’

  ‘I want you to.’

  ‘I …’ started Jane, but stopped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  It took Alice only seconds to snatch up John’s proud, joke-of-the-moment photograph and stuff it into a side drawer of the desk, beneath manuscripts and proofs of articles she had written and which she’d worked over, every time she and John had been here, all part of the fake domesticity, his reading by the amber, crackling fire while she did her job.

  Alice was glad the main bathroom was en suite. She couldn’t have waited for Jane to emerge from the second one before being sick.

  It had been a sleepless but productive night, the only potential problem a personal one for Gene Hanlan. Within an hour of his cut-off telephone conversation with Alice, Hanlan had organized an FBI plane to take him and a willing Rosemary Pritchard to Washington, for the CCTV loop to be photographically enhanced. It was while that was being done in the J. Edgar Hoover buildings that Hanlan endured the self-protective tirade from his regional supervisor, who’d failed to react to Hanlan’s previous visit and who argued now that the Bureau was inescapably locked into a kidnap investigation that Hanlan had decided upon without superior authorization, which was against regulations, and that his career hung upon the safe return of Jane Carver. The confrontation was shortened by Rosemary Pritchard’s positive identification of Alice Belling from just her features being brought up from beneath the veil, without needing to bother with hair colour change. The gynaecologist was, of course, able to provide the Princes Street address from her patient records and it was still early enough that night to obtain a judge’s order to enter the apartment. Hanlan returned to Manhattan with a five-man forensic team and six seconded field agents to join the waiting Ginette Smallwood and Patrick McKinnon and the NYPD squad headed by Barbara Donnelly.

  Hanlan had restricted the entry into Princes Street to just himself and Barbara Donnelly, in addition to the scientists, and assigned McKinnon to organize an incident room at Federal Plaza. By the time Hanlan and the woman returned there, ahead of the scientists, computers, desks and banks of pinboards had been installed in the conference room for the still-to-arrive clerks and support staff. McKinnon had already started the pinboards, fixing enlarged photographs of the Catskills range and then reducing the focus to the still extensive region dominated by the town of Paterson, from which they had already traced Alice’s contact call.

  There were also cots available for people to sleep in the mess.

  It was 4.00 a.m. – by coincidence the time Jane Carver began edging out of bed in the Bearfort Mountains cabin – before the scientists arrived and a further hour before they produced the findings from their mobile laboratory facility. During that hour Hanlan declared the Bearfort Mountains their obvious target area, after seeing the location on the back of the now greatly enlarged photographs of Carver at the cabin.

  ‘So Alice knew John Carver,’ said McKinnon, examining the display. ‘I’ve got five bucks says it was in a kind of a cosy way, too.’

  ‘That put Jane at risk?’ queried Barbara, at once.

  ‘Might have done, from the jealous mistress syndrome, if Carver was still alive,’ agreed Ginette. ‘But he’s not.’

  ‘It’s not unusual for a wife and mistress to know each other,’ said the New York Police lieutenant.

  ‘All she keeps saying is that they need protection,’ reminded Hanlan.

  ‘So why doesn’t she come and get it, instead of running?’ demanded McKinnon.

  ‘Today could be the day,’ suggested Hanlan, hopefully. To the man leading the scientific team, whom he thought looked young enough to be his son, Hanlan said: ‘You got things to tell us?’

  ‘Worrying things,’ announced the man, at once. ‘We got there second.’

  ‘Shit!’ said McKinnon.

  ‘You sure?’ asked Hanlan and wished he hadn’t from the younger man’s sour look.

  ‘Very professional entry, one of the best I’ve seen,’ said the scientist. ‘We got picklock markings at the mouths of t
he mortice and the deadlock. We dismantled both. Very definite forced-entry groovings. The lobby mailbox had stuff dated more than two weeks ago. There’s not one single message remaining on the answering machine. It’s been wiped …’

  ‘Careless,’ remarked McKinnon.

  ‘Not if there was a voice that didn’t want to be recognized, trying to reach her,’ said Hanlan.

  ‘We’re shipping the tape back to Washington. They’ve got higher specification audio equipment than we carry. They may be able to pull something up.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’ asked Barbara Donnelly.

  ‘Just two sets,’ said the scientist. ‘Always together. All old.’

  ‘One Alice’s, one Carver’s,’ predicted Ginette.

  ‘Inevitably,’ agreed Hanlan. ‘How about untouched valuables: stuff worth stealing?’

  The scientist nodded. ‘Some jewellery, a diamond ring, in an old setting, could be a family heirloom. Some gold chains. Television, video, computer … we’re shipping the computer back to Washington, too, to get the hard drive looked at. People don’t realize how much stays behind, even if you think you’ve deleted it …’ The man hesitated. ‘You want my guess, the guys who got in before us were doing what we’re trying to do. Find Alice.’

  ‘And Jane,’ corrected McKinnon.

  ‘And there’s something that just might help,’ offered the scientist, turning to the pinboard and the grinning photograph of John Carver. ‘See this …?’ he demanded, pointing to an image in the background, among the trees. ‘Doesn’t show so well, scarcely at all in fact, at the size of the prints in the apartment. Looks like a fallen branch. It isn’t. That’s the tail of a Volkswagen Beetle. Could be white or grey. Definitely light-coloured. Nothing else visible for a better identification.’

  ‘Carver’s not a Volkswagen man,’ declared McKinnon, positively.

  ‘No vehicle documentation anywhere in the apartment?’ asked Barbara Donnelly.

  The forensic expert shook his head and Ginette said: ‘Responsible drivers carry their documents with them.’