Beyond Recall

by Robert Goddard

  “But.. . who took the photograph? Who sent it to you?”

  “You’d better ask Trevor. Perhaps he knows who arranged it. I don’t care. A well-wisher, I suppose. Isn’t that what they’re called?

  Somebody who thought I should have my eyes opened. Well, they’ve been opened. And how.”

  “I still can’t quite believe it. I mean, you’ve been married for

  …”

  “Twenty-four years.”

  “And you’re saying that’s … over?”

  “I’m certainly not sharing a bed or a home with Trevor after this.”

  “Do Mum and Dad know?”

  “Not yet. You’re the first, Chris.”

  “They’ll take it badly.”

  “Perhaps you think I should try to patch things up for their sake.”

  “I’m not saying that. Of course I’m not.” Secretly, indeed, part of me was pleased Trevor’s image as the ideal son-in-law was to be smashed beyond repair. But already something about the circumstances of its destruction was beginning to worry me. And that worry was diminishing what should have been my sole concern: my sister’s state of mind. “This is a real shock, Pam. Shouldn’t you … take some time to decide how best to deal with it?”

  “There’s only one way to deal with it.”

  “It must seem like that now, but ‘

  “You don’t understand, do you?” She glared at me. “You have no idea what it was like. That photograph made me feel physically sick. Not because of what Trevor was doing in it, but because he was doing it with a stranger. And he was loving it. He was having the time of his life.”

  “Pam, let’s just ‘

  “See for yourself.” She whirled away to the bureau, wrenched open a drawer and pulled out a large envelope. “I don’t want anyone saying later that I imagined this. That I overreacted. That I got it all wrong.” She moved back to where I was standing and held out the envelope for me to take. “Have a look, Chris. Have a long look at what my husband gets up to on weekends away. Then tell me I need to take some time for reflection.”

  I took the envelope from her, reached inside and lifted out the photograph. It was a large glossy black and white print. Small wonder Trevor had been as appalled by it as Pam. For there he undeniably was, naked and grinning, clambering flabbily onto a bed. But one part of him was far from flabby. And the reason was obvious. A sleek-skinned woman wearing some kind of short silk slip was sitting on the bed, the slip riding up around her hips as she smiled invitingly at him.

  I caught my breath. Not because of the spy-hole explicitness of the scene, but because of the woman’s face. The excitement on it wasn’t just synthetic lust for Trevor’s benefit. It was the thrill of a trick expertly played. I knew that for certain. Because hers was the face of Pauline Lucas.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Pam was grateful to me for volunteering to explain her breach with Trevor to Mum and Dad. How it would affect the running of the hotel was something they were going to have to consider, quite apart from the mess it made of the family’s cosy self-confidence. I phoned them that evening, casually suggested calling by the following day, and was promptly invited to lunch. There was no way to warn them that by the time we sat down to eat they might well have lost their appetites.

  I sat up late with Pam, listening as she refined the marital difficulties of a quarter of a century into hard-edged revulsion at what Trevor had done. I’d never thought their marriage a union of souls, but it had unquestionably possessed staying power. That was all gone now, drained in the few seconds it had taken Pam to open an envelope. It was hard to decide at what level the shock had registered. Like Pam, I didn’t for a moment suppose this was Trevor’s first sample of illicit sex. But now Pam knew for a fact. Worse still, she’d seen what it actually meant.

  What Pam’s outrage at her husband’s behaviour blinded her to was what preoccupied me most. Who was Pauline Lucas? And why had she done this? There was something orchestrated yet unfathomable about her appearance in my life as well as Trevor’s. She’d shown she had the power to penetrate our de fences But to what purpose? What did she really want?

  I couldn’t breathe a word of this to Pam. She was in no mood to accept anything that implied Trevor had been set up, and she might even have thought I was in league with him if I related the little I knew. I had to speak to Trevor, and I had to do it without Pam’s suspecting I was taking his side which I most certainly wasn’t. I was as disgusted with him as she was. But we’d both been targeted by the same woman for reasons I had no inkling of. For the moment, that took priority over the brotherly self-righteousness I’d otherwise have been happy to indulge.

  I told Pam I’d come down to examine a rare old Lancia in Falmouth which a client wanted my expert assessment of, so she didn’t query my early start the following morning. As it happened, I did take the Falmouth road, but only because a discreet word with the kitchen staff had revealed that Trevor had taken refuge with his golfing chum, Gordon Skewes, who ran the Trumouth Motel in Perranarworthal.

  The place resembled an American roadhouse, plonked beside the A39

  halfway between Truro and Falmouth in a moment of mid-Sixties planning madness. Somebody’s had the good sense to demolish it since, and nature wasn’t doing a bad job even then, stripping the paintwork with its intrusive fingers and staining the chalet roofs with damp disdain.

  Trevor was still in his dressing-gown, grouching round the cramped chalet he shared with a half-empty suitcase and a half-eaten motel breakfast. His expression suggested I was the last person he either wanted or expected to see.

  “What the bloody hell do you want?”

  “I’ve seen the photograph, Trevor.”

  “She showed it to you? The bitch.”

  “I should soften your tone if I were you. We’re talking about your justifiably outraged wife.”

  “And your pure-as-the-driven-snow sister. What have you come here for, Chris? To gloat? To rub salt in the wound? To tell me this only confirms what you always thought about me that I’m not worthy of her?”

  “Actually, no.”

  Then why? As her messenger boy? Is this the opening of negotiations?”

  “I don’t think there’s much left to negotiate, Trevor. Anyway, that’s nothing to do with me.”

  “I’m glad you realize that.”

  “But we do need to talk. About Pauline Lucas.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman in the photograph.”

  “What?” He frowned at me, bafflement competing for his attention with what his periodic winces suggested was a bad headache.

  “I know her.”

  TOM?”

  “Not in the same way as you do, of course, but we have met.”

  He gaped at me. “I don’t understand.”

  “Then just tell me as much as you can. How did you meet her?”

  “You really know her?” He grabbed at my arm, a crazed kind of hope moistening his bloodshot eyes. “You know who she is?”

  “Not exactly. Do you?”

  “Of course I don’t. If I did, I’d track her down and He broke off.

  “What did you say her name was?”

  “Pauline Lucas. She visited me in Pangbourne on Saturday. Claimed to be Miv’s solicitor.”

  “Solicitor? That’s a good one.”

  “It’s the same woman, Trevor. No doubt about it.”

  “It can’t be. Unless He slumped down onto the unmade bed, clenched his teeth fretfully on the knuckle of his thumb for a moment, then said, “I thought it was just me she had her claws into. What the bloody hell’s going on?”

  “I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”

  “Well, I can’t. Since that picture came through the post I’ve been through six different kinds of hell.”

  “SohasPam.”

  “You think I wanted this to happen?”

  “No. But you made it possible, didn’t you?”

  “She set me up. Don’t you understand?
She arranged the whole thing.”

  “Tell me how.”

  “All right.” He plucked a coffee cup from the bedside table and drained the contents with a grimace. “Though where this is going to get us I don’t…” He shrugged. “She stayed a night at the hotel a couple of weeks ago. Registered as Marilyn Buckley. Said she was down from London on business. Looked the part, God knows. Smart, sexy and very, very cool.”

  Tarn seemed to think she was a prostitute.”

  “Maybe she is at the top end of the market but I wasn’t paying her bill. I told Pam she’d been to Tredower House, but I don’t think it sank in. What happened was that she chatted me up in the bar. Oh, very subtly, very expertly. But I got the message. She said I should look her up next time I was in London. She gave me her number and I said I’d bear it in mind. Some such garbage, anyway. But it wasn’t likely I’d forget. She was pretty memorable.”

  “And the hotel catering fair was coming up at Olympia.”

  “Yes. It was. I’d mentioned it to her. So, while I was up there, I… gave her a call.” He sighed. “She met me at the Ritz for a drink on Friday evening. We went on to dinner at a restaurant in Soho, then some cabaret club she knew. Classy joint in Piccadilly. From there we went back to her place.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Danby Street, Marylebone. A third-floor flat, expensively done out.

  By then, well, it seemed fairly obvious to me where the evening was heading.”

  “I don’t suppose you could believe your luck.”

  He glared at me. “Don’t get sanctimonious with me. Most red-blooded males would have done the same.”

  “Do you know how the picture was taken?”

  “From the angle, I’d say through a two-way mirror. There was a big gilt-framed job on the bedroom wall.”

  “I assume an even more compromising picture could have been sent. I suppose you should be grateful.” Unable to resist goading him a little, I added, “Try any adventurous positions, did you?”

  “I never got the chance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean nothing happened.”

  “Come on, Trevor. Nobody’s going to believe that.”

  “No. Which is why I didn’t even bother trying to tell Pam. Besides, she’s convicted me just on intent. As Marilyn Buckley, or Pauline Lucas, or whoever the hell she really is, obviously had in mind. She didn’t need to get screwed herself to screw me good and proper.”

  “Are you saying… you didn’t have sex with her?”

  “She wouldn’t let me.” I almost felt sorry for him then, as he rubbed his hand across his face and recollected the details of his humiliation. “She suddenly went cold on me, a few seconds after that photograph was taken. Like ice. Jumped off the bed, put her clothes back on and told me she thought I ought to leave. I couldn’t believe it. Begging for it one moment, ordering me out the next. It didn’t make any sense.”

  “But it does now.”

  “Yes. She’d got what she wanted.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What do you think I did?” Actually, I’d have said Trevor was the sort who mightn’t have taken no for an answer. And something in his tone suggested his departure hadn’t been the simple matter he went on to claim. “I left. I got dressed and I walked out like a good little boy. I told her what I thought of her, of course, in pretty choice language, but I already had her down as a bit of a head-case, if you want to know the truth. I mean, pulling the plug on a fellow like that is asking for trouble. With the wrong type, there’s no knowing what might happen.”

  “You think she makes a habit of this sort of thing?”

  “I did at the time. But when the photograph arrived, well, that changed everything. I went up to London yesterday to see her and demand an explanation, but there was no-one in at her flat. A neighbour told me she’d moved out a week ago.”

  “Shortly after entertaining you.”

  “Exactly. Mission accomplished. I hung around all day, just in case, but there wasn’t a sign of her. I reckon the neighbour had it right.

  Which means the whole set-up was for me. Me personally.”

  “Not just you, Trevor. I seem to be in her sights as well.”

  “I can’t think of anyone who’d want to go to such lengths to harm me.

  The whole business is … crazy.”

  “There has to be a connection,” I murmured, as much to myself as to Trevor.

  “Connection with what?”

  “Nicky.”

  “Nicky LanyonT Trevor rolled his eyes. “Come off it, Chris. That’s

  … that’s.. .”

  “Crazy?”

  “Too crazy, by a long way. Who are you suggesting this woman is?

  Nicky’s lost love, out for some twisted kind of revenge?”

  “He never had one.”

  “I’ll bet he didn’t.” Trevor suddenly sat up and snapped his fingers.

  “But he had a sister, didn’t he? It was in the paper. She’d be about the right age, too.”

  “I’ve seen a photograph of the sister.”

  “You have?”

  “Not a ghost of a resemblance.”

  “Are you sure? People change.”

  “Not that much.” I didn’t like the direction Trevor’s thoughts were taking, being in no position to tell him why I could be absolutely certain on the point. “She isn’t Michaela Lanyon.”

  “Got a better idea?”

  “Not at the moment. But ‘

  “Then I might settle for it. If Pam can be made to see I was lured into this…”

  “She won’t believe you.”

  “No, but she’ll believe you.”

  “I’m not going to tell her.”

  “What?”

  “If you go to her with your half-baked idea about Michaela Lanyon, I’ll deny we had this conversation.”

  He sagged visibly at that. “Why?”

  “Because I intend to find out who this woman is and what she wants, and I reckon my best chance of doing that is quietly and discreetly.”

  “Starting how exactly?”

  “I have a few clues to follow.” The lie sounded convincing, even to my own ears. “For one thing, we have a photograph of her now, don’t we?”

  “You mean Pam has.”

  “I know where she keeps it. If you lent me your keys to the flat, I could help myself while she was busy in the hotel.”

  “What’s to stop me doing that?”

  “The probability that you’d be caught in the act. You’re persona non grata at Tredower House, whereas I’m a welcome guest.”

  “All right.” He looked too tired to be riled by my implication that sneaking in and out undetected was beyond him as it probably was.

  “What’s in it for me if I do lend you the keys?”

  The comfort of knowing the photograph won’t fall into the hands of Pam’s solicitor.”

  “Just be shown around by you to all and sundry.”

  “I’ll cut it in half to save your blushes, Trevor. I’ll even give you the negative if I can find Miss Lucas-Buckley and persuade her to part with it.”

  “Fat chance of that.”

  “Your only chance, I rather think.” He looked up at me grumpily. “What are you going to do if Pam won’t have you back?”

  “I’m not short of offers.”

  I glanced around. “Looks like it.”

  “This is just temporary.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “I saw Tabs in London yesterday,” he said, the defiance draining from his voice. “After I left Danby Street, I wandered down to the cabaret club in Piccadilly that the bitch took me to. Just in case somebody there knew her. But if they did, they weren’t telling. Anyway, halfway down Regent Street, I saw Tabs coming out of one of the shops.

  I had to dive down a side street to avoid her. Christ almighty, I had to hide. From my own daughter.”

  “She’ll have to know eventually.”


  “I wouldn’t want her to see that photograph.” He closed his eyes, clearly aghast at the prospect, and I refrained from pointing out that Pam probably wouldn’t want her to either. The consequences of stealing the picture hadn’t yet assembled themselves in my mind. All I was clear about was that it was easier than trying to explain to Pam why I needed to borrow it. “You’d better have those keys, God damn it.”