Bloodthirst Page 14

  Holly almost shouted a warning as he backed down the increasing incline towards the cliff edge. The men began to move quickly. The Gypsy brandished his knife, and stepped back into space.

  For a fraction of a second Holly saw the doll-like figure with threshing arms and legs arc out over the plain, then the edge of the cliff hid it from view. The Gypsies ran to the brink and gazed down.

  She knew this was her chance. Bent double she crept along the top of the wall and descended the long flights of stone stairs. With pounding heart, she followed the pathway between the ruins to the open ground which sloped to the unattended entrance. A few minutes later she was running down the road which wound along the steep valley wall.

  The Renault backfired into life when Holly was on a stretch of road flanked by a sheer drop on the left and a towering cliff on the right. With her lungs pumping in agony and sweat pouring into her eyes she staggered on. She heard the car skid to a stop somewhere behind her. Three Gypsies jumped out. Then the car jerked forward and swept past her to brake again a hundred feet ahead. The other half of the party climbed out and barred the road. She was trapped between the two groups who had begun their silent, unnerving advance.

  She could see their faces now: swarthy, furrowed, moustached features of harsh old men to whom pity could mean nothing but weakness. She could only escape them by leaping to her death. Instead she cowered against the rough rock of the cliff and watched with horrified fascination as one man took a hatchet from the pocket of his tattered coat.

  They formed a crescent about her, and she caught the garlic of their breath. The sound of a distant car seemed unnaturally loud. Seconds stretched into eternity as each seemed to be waiting for someone else to make the first move. Or was it they relished the look of stark terror which made her face so ugly?

  The spell was shattered by a howl of an Alpine car horn and a Mercedes roared up the road, scattering Gypsies and screeching to a stop with smoking tyres.

  The rear door burst open and a tall man leapt out. He pointed a blue steel pistol at the men now huddled at the edge of the road and spoke rapidly in some language unintelligible to Holly. They shuffled their feet nervously, the two shotguns were dropped. One crossed himself, and the tall man laughed.

  The dark-skinned chauffeur turned the car expertly on the narrow road. When the bonnet pointed down the valley the man beckoned Holly and, with his automatic still levelled at the ragged tableau, led her to the Mercedes. The driver leaned back and opened the door for her. The stranger followed her in. The door slammed and the accelerator was pressed to the floorboard. Wheels spun for a second, then the heavy car shot away.

  One of the Gypsies retrieved his gun and fired after it, but the pellets pattered harmlessly against the shiny boot.

  ‘Stromberg,’ Holly murmured as her eyes rolled and she fainted.

  ‘You called and I came,’ the tall man said.

  * * *

  Dr Peter Pilgrim had reached Vienne when radio bulletins first carried the news of a Gypsy’s accidental death at Les Baux and the mysterious disappearance of an English journalist from Saintes Maries de la Mer. But he was too preoccupied to listen to the radio.

  Chapter 17

  In the bar of the Mason’s Arms Tudor Owens asked: ‘And what are you going to do with yourself now, boy-o?’

  ‘Not sure yet,’ Peter Pilgrim answered. ‘It’s clear there’s no future for me at the London. I might do some locum work until I get things straightened out, or I might go out to the Middle East to see my sister.’

  ‘Look, I have a contact at an abortion shop,’ Tudor said. ‘I could put in a word for you. Make your bloody fortune, you would. Old chaps out of retirement are making a couple of hundred pounds a week just doing the anaesthetics. There’s more money in terminating life than bloody saving it.’

  ‘And while you’re around there’d be no shortage of patients,’ Peter joked. ‘Now, what’s been happening since I left?’

  ‘Old Beresford got his computer. Your narcoleptic group has been disbanded. The kids went back to their local hospitals.’

  ‘What happened to Britt?’

  ‘Her father took her back. I heard Stromberg talked him into sending her to his clinic after Beresford pulled you off the project Stromberg left soon after you went on holiday, swanning round Europe I should think.’

  ‘He’s in Finland,’ Peter said. ‘I picked this up when I collected my things today.’ He handed a letter to Tudor dated a week earlier.

  The envelope was postmarked ‘Ivalo’. Unfolding it, Tudor read:

  Dear Doctor Pilgrim,

  As you know I was very interested and impressed with your work into narcolepsy when I had the pleasure of visiting the London Hospital for Diseases of the Nervous System, and it was a disappointment to me when I learned your research had come to an abrupt end. As you may know, such research runs parallel to work I am undertaking at my clinic in Finland, and it is my wish to commence a similar project.

  Therefore I am writing to inquire if you would be interested in setting up a similar scheme for me. I know that Lapland probably does not hold many attractions for a young person such as yourself, but at this time of the year the weather is excellent, and if the idea of the Arctic Night is unacceptable to you, I suggest we arrange a short term contract of between three or four months.

  Your remuneration would be comparable to your English salary plus an allowance to compensate for you having to live abroad.

  As time is of the utmost importance, I would be obliged if you would communicate with me as soon as possible. I might add that you would find my clinic suitably provided with the latest equipment, and situated in a delightful position on the shore of Lake Inari.

  Sincerely yours,

  Axel Stromberg.

  The signature was written with an extravagant flourish.

  ‘I told you he was poaching when he came,’ said Tudor Owens triumphantly, handing the letter back. ‘Are you interested? It would mean you could carry on with your work.’

  Peter shook his head.

  ‘Not really. It looks like just a setting-up operation. If I went back to research I’d want to follow it through all the way.’

  They talked for a few minutes longer then Tudor looked at his watch and sighed, ‘Duty calls. It’s been good to see you again, boy-o. Keep in touch.’

  The two doctors left the pub. Tudor walked towards the looming bulk of the hospital while Peter reluctantly drove to Harrow-on-the-Hill.

  It was two weeks since he had arrived back from France. Not wishing to stay in London, he had driven straight to Northumberland to visit his father. Although he was determined not to pass on his problems, especially as his father was nearing the end of a book, Ambrose immediately sensed his son was deeply troubled.

  When he made a tactful inquiry, Peter answered that it was general disappointment because his term at the London had been ended, coupled with the fact Anne-Marie was now in France. Ambrose nodded and said: ‘Sometimes you must look at life as a military campaign, Peter. Do not worn if you sometimes lose a battle — what’s important is winning the war.’

  When Peter admitted he was unsure of his plans, Ambrose said: ‘Why not go out to Abu Sabbah and see Julia on her excavation site? I believe she’s close to an exciting find.’

  ‘That’s a thought,’ Peter agreed. ‘I haven’t seen her for over a couple of years.’ But inside him he knew that whatever he did would not relieve the pain he felt over Anne-Marie.

  While Ambrose worked doggedly at his IBM, Peter would walk across the fells. Trees, which earlier had provided delicate black lace fringing for horizon and hilltop, were now transformed by spring foliage, but Peter did not notice them. Remorselessly his mind roved back over that dreadful parting with the French girl. He loathed himself for the way he’d handled it, especially for hitting her; yet when he thought how she’d kept her marriage from him he was filled with anger.

  Once, in an impetuous moment, he scribbled on a coloured postca
rd of the Roman Wall: ‘Wish you were here.’

  It was then he realized he did not know her Paris address. It was ridiculous, but she had never needed to give it to him, and he had never bothered to ask for it. All he could do was address it to La Maison des Papillons with ‘Please forward’ written across the corner. He walked to the village of Gils-land where he posted it at the small friendly post office.

  A moment afterwards he regretted it. What would Anne-Marie think when she received such a banal communication? And did he really wish she was there? What he wanted back was his illusion of Anne-Marie, not the Anne-Marie with the sneering young painter of a husband. They were probably back together in a Paris flat by now.

  The human mind has infinite capacity for self-torture, and as such ideas occurred to Peter he found he was no exception. He also realized his morose state was worrying his father and affecting his work, so he drove south to London where he officially resigned from the London Hospital for Diseases of the Nervous System — to the satisfaction of Sir Henry Beresford who was allergic to ‘cranks’ on his staff.

  When Marian left him, Peter had moved to quarters provided for single doctors by the hospital. He had kept their flat standing as it was, the mortgage being automatically taken care of by a banker’s order. The bother of selling off furniture and having to conduct would-be buyers through rooms which had once been home to him and Marian was distasteful. Now he was returning to it because he had nowhere else to go.

  Twilight was gathering as he parked on the forecourt of the impersonal block built on the lower slopes of Harrow Hill. Holding a plastic carrier bag of groceries, he climbed the stairs to the flat on the top storey. As he opened the door he was greeted by a mound of advertising mail and a stale, airless odour; and when he walked down the passage to the kitchenette he found everything coated by a fine dust.

  I’m like Julia breaking into some old tomb, he thought He put down his groceries and entered the living room. It was familiar and at the same time alien. In the bedroom blankets and sheets were still rumpled as they had been when she left the bed for the last time. A dried stain at the bottom of a cup represented the final cup of coffee she had drunk under his roof. Curiously his sorrow over Anne-Marie was emphasized by this vivid reminder of earlier pain.

  To exorcise the memories the silent flat had conjured up, he heated water in the kitchenette for a cleansing operation. Squirting detergent into the sink, he began by cleaning the cutlery which still lay in it. As he picked up a spoon he saw the initials ‘M + P’ scratched on the handle.

  She must have loved me when she did that, he mused. Strange I never noticed it before.

  An hour later there was a knock at the door. Peter, his face streaked with dirt, opened it to find Bruno Farina standing with an Alitalia bag in one hand; in the other was a bottle of Bells whisky in the wrapping of a duty-free shop.

  ‘Bruno,’ cried Peter. ‘You could not have arrived at a better time!’

  ‘How is the doctor?’ smiled Bruno, walking in. ‘I flew in today. I got this address from the hospital.’

  ‘Great. Let me make you some coffee. I’m just having an almighty spring clean. How’s your arm?’

  ‘Still a little painful, but it is no problem.’

  ‘What brings you to London?’

  ‘I am on to something bloody big, Peter,’ said the Italian gravely. ‘I have come to ask your help. Before I begin, get a couple of glasses. We are going to need this Scotch.’

  When his tumbler was half filled he said: ‘Peter, I was sorry to hear about you and Anne-Marie. I saw her just before she left Saintes Maries. She was triste.'

  ‘Was her husband with her?’

  Bruno shrugged and repeated: ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Peter said, ‘happens all the time. How about Holly?’

  ‘We will come to her in time,’ Bruno said sombrely. ‘She’s mixed up in this — this thing.’

  He pulled a crumpled packet of Disque Bleu from his suede jacket pocket.

  ‘In my time I have done many big picture stories,’ he said reflectively, leaning back on a comfortable off-white sofa which had once been the pride of Peter and Marian. ‘I got the first pictures out of Kubee, I found Admiral Hartmann in Venezuela, I got a world exclusive on the Mothers of Life commune in California. I got some of the last pictures of Papa Doc. Those were nothing to what I’m on now.’

  ‘It must be good.’

  ‘Good! It may be sensational as a story, but it’s also evil in the old-fashioned sense of evil. And I have a very personal reason for wanting to see it through.’

  ‘Where do I come in?’ asked Peter.

  ‘You’ll see. Be patient please, this will take some time to tell. Pass your glass over.’

  ‘You say it’s evil. I must say, with some practical experience of psychiatry behind me, evil is usually just an attitude of mind.’

  Bruno gestured with his hands.

  ‘Just listen,’ he said. ‘Do you know what happened around the Camargue after you left?’

  ‘I did read somewhere about a Gypsy being killed.’

  ‘That’s right. He fell off the cliff at Les Baux. At the same time Holly disappeared.’

  ‘Has she been found?’

  ‘No, but after some detective work, I have a good idea where she is. I have many good contacts in the news agencies, and for the last two weeks I have been fitting the jigsaw. There are still some pieces missing, but a picture is emerging.

  ‘After the festival I was worried because I had not seen the signorina. I went to her hotel and they were worried too. She had not returned on the night of the festival, and there had been no word from her. After I slipped some francs to the receptionist, I was told that the night previous to her disappearance a man had stayed in her room with her. I inquired around the town and found she had been seen with a Gypsy — the same Gypsy who had fallen to his death at Les Baux. The local gendarmes told me he must have slipped over the edge, it was considered to be an accidental death. But there was something about it I did not like.

  ‘Back at the hotel I paid some more francs and saw Holly’s room. I went through her belongings and found her passport was not there, but I remember she carried it in her pocket, as some people do. I also found this.’

  From his airline bag he took out a tiny cassette and a miniature black and grey Philips recorder.

  ‘I had to buy this “electronic notebook” to hear the tape,’ Bruno explained. ‘Holly was a great one for recording her notes. This tape was a sort of diary going back some months, mixed up with story ideas.’

  He fitted the one-inch-by-two cartridge into the tiny machine and pressed the finger control Peter leaned forward as Holly’s husky voice began to whisper from the tinny speaker. Bruno turned the volume wheel with his thumb and the words became clearer.

  ‘… Copenhagen has shaken me completely. I don't know what I expected, but whatever it was it was nothing like what happened. I remember leaving the theatre in his car … who would believe me? My God, wolfskin seat covers and a black female driver … I have no idea where the room was, I was dazed and over-excited … cannot remember anything clearly now, it's looking back on a dream after one has been awake several hours. Did he mesmerize me? No, that would be an excuse, I was more than willing … think he sensed I was a virgin. Funny, I don’t remember the pain, but afterwards there was blood everywhere. It seemed to drive him crazy, everything blurred but I know I’ve never experienced anything like it. Could sex have the same effect as LSD? It occurred to me he was some sort of pervert but I didn’t care … ’

  The words faded as though she had held the machine too far from her mouth, then the tinny voice came back: ‘ … the marks on my body. Why am I recording this? I suppose I’m trying to get some sense out of it all.’

  Peter looked curiously at Bruno, wondering what effect these words were having on the Italian if he really had fallen in love with Holly.

  ‘I had no idea how long I was at that p
lace … wave after endless wave of pleasure — utterly, utterly intense … must have slept at times … Yes, I did, but dreams seemed to take over and continue the conscious experience … times I didn’t know whether I was dreaming or awake, the pain only increased the ecstasy … Am I some sort of monster? Was I scared before because I subconsciously knew once I started I'd be like this? … Ami some sort of nympho? If I am I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care … understand the joy of martyrs now … want to rest now for a long, long time. They gave me odd looks when he brought me back to the hotel, must have looked damn white … Keats understood …

  And this is why I sojourn here

  Alone and palely loitering,

  Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

  And no birds sing.

  *

  ‘Alone and palely loitering, that's me. How the hell am I going to do this damned series after that? Bugger Revue … going to sleep for a week … ’

  There was silence for a few seconds.

  Then Holly’s voice came more briskly, saying a date, then: ‘ … back in London a week now. Haven't missed my demon lover as I expected. Guess it was just a couple of days of madness … maybe I was hysteric, but some of it must have been real … marks beginning to fade … the Copenhagen story is a big success … ’

  A laugh.

  ‘Wonder what he 'd say if he knew the real Copenhagen story … let him think of a headline for that one! Each to cell therapy today … Story idea: “I left him at the altar” — interviews with half a dozen girls who opted out at the last minute … Went to Gloria Simon's reception at the Dorch, plenty of booze but nothing in it for me … Wish I could sleep, must get some pills or something … ’

  There was another pause, then some notes she had recorded for some article she was working on. After another date the voice continued in a strained timbre: ‘ … dreadful dreams. Does it go back to Copenhagen? Same old nightmare about bleeding to death … maybe understandable, the curse came on time so I’m not pregnant … funny, never thought about that at the time … must get fixed up now I'm a woman of the world … God! What would I have produced if I’d clicked… ’