Land Rover.
The woodpile was to one side under a loft stuffed with hay. She said, "Over here, Mr. Sinclair," and for a moment, in the light's beam, she looked as beautiful as she had at their first meeting.
She leaned over the woodpile, one knee forward so that the old cotton dress tightened across her thighs. Barry reached out, cupping a hand around her thigh, and she glanced back over her shoulder, and it was there, whatever Salter had thought, in her eyes.
Barry handed her the flashlight and smiled. "You take that, I'll carry the wood."
She stood waiting for him, her face above the light in shadow. He piled half a dozen logs in the crook of one arm and led the way out.
Like any other great city in the world, London has its share o f d erelicts, down-and-outs who can no longer help themselves, who sleep rough because they have to.
When Devlin and Harry Fox arrived at Lincoln's Inn Fields just before nine o'clock, a Salvation Army mobile canteen was in position, the French camera crew already setting up their equipment. Fox parked the car, and he and Devlin started walking to where Anne-Marie, wrapped in a bulky sheepskin jacket, stood talking to a cheerful-looking woman who wore the uniform of a Salvation Army major. She caught sight of Devlin and Fox approaching and came to greet them.
"Time you two met," Devlin said. "Harry Fox."
"A pleasure, Miss Audin," Fox said gallantly.
"And what would you be doing here then?" Devlin asked. "Aren't those film cameras?"
"Video," she said. "A documentary I'm doing for French television on the underside of London life." She pointed to the figures shambling out from underneath the plane trees. "Men without hope," she said. "Sometimes women. Unemployed, alcoholic, socially inadequate, or just out of prison. When the hostels are full, those who can't get in sleep out-of-doors. The soup and sandwiches they get here are probably the only food they've had today."
They watched for a while as the canteen workers served as derelict a crowd of human beings as Harry Fox had ever seen in his life before.
"This is terrible," he said. "I never realized."
"Some of them sleep over the grills in the pavement of the hotel around the corner, warmed by the steam from the boiler room," she said. "The rest wrap themselves in old newspapers and crowd together in the pavilion in the garden over there. At least it's dry."
"All right," Devlin said. "What are you trying to prove? That you care? I know that. What did you want to see me about?"
"I want to come with you," she said, "in the morning. To Marseilles. You could ask Martin to see me. He might listen to you."
"What about this?" Devlin looked around him.
"Oh, I'll get all the footage I need of this business tonight. I'd intended to return to Paris Tuesday, anyway."
Devlin turned to Fox and nodded. "She could be very useful."
Fox said, "All right, Miss Audin. We'll see you at Heathrow in the morning. No later than ten o'clock, if you don't mind. I'll see to your ticket for you. We'll meet at the entrance to the International Lounge."
"Good," she said and kissed Devlin gravely on each cheek. "Thank you, Liam. And now, I must work, I think."
She walked toward the cameras. At the head of the line at the canteen someone was being violently sick.
"Jesus Mary," Devlin said. "The one thing in this life that turns my stomach. Let's get out of it," and they hurried back to the car.
Salter led the way up a flight of narrow wooden stairs covered in cheap linoleum. The landing was long and narrow, and he opened a door at the end and switched on the light. Barry went in after him, humping the two suitcases, then put them down. There was a double bed with a brass frame, a wardrobe, a dressing table in Victorian mahogany, and a marble washstand.
"You'll be nicely out of the way here," Salter said. "The back stairs are very handy. I'm at the front of the house myself. Just you and Jenny back here." He smiled weakly. "I'll see you in the morning. We'll
The woodpile was to one side under a loft stuffed with hay. She said, "Over here, Mr. Sinclair," and for a moment, in the light's beam, she looked as beautiful as she had at their first meeting.
She leaned over the woodpile, one knee forward so that the old cotton dress tightened across her thighs. Barry reached out, cupping a hand around her thigh, and she glanced back over her shoulder, and it was there, whatever Salter had thought, in her eyes.
Barry handed her the flashlight and smiled. "You take that, I'll carry the wood."
She stood waiting for him, her face above the light in shadow. He piled half a dozen logs in the crook of one arm and led the way out.
Like any other great city in the world, London has its share o f d erelicts, down-and-outs who can no longer help themselves, who sleep rough because they have to.
When Devlin and Harry Fox arrived at Lincoln's Inn Fields just before nine o'clock, a Salvation Army mobile canteen was in position, the French camera crew already setting up their equipment. Fox parked the car, and he and Devlin started walking to where Anne-Marie, wrapped in a bulky sheepskin jacket, stood talking to a cheerful-looking woman who wore the uniform of a Salvation Army major. She caught sight of Devlin and Fox approaching and came to greet them.
"Time you two met," Devlin said. "Harry Fox."
"A pleasure, Miss Audin," Fox said gallantly.
"And what would you be doing here then?" Devlin asked. "Aren't those film cameras?"
"Video," she said. "A documentary I'm doing for French television on the underside of London life." She pointed to the figures shambling out from underneath the plane trees. "Men without hope," she said. "Sometimes women. Unemployed, alcoholic, socially inadequate, or just out of prison. When the hostels are full, those who can't get in sleep out-of-doors. The soup and sandwiches they get here are probably the only food they've had today."
They watched for a while as the canteen workers served as derelict a crowd of human beings as Harry Fox had ever seen in his life before.
"This is terrible," he said. "I never realized."
"Some of them sleep over the grills in the pavement of the hotel around the corner, warmed by the steam from the boiler room," she said. "The rest wrap themselves in old newspapers and crowd together in the pavilion in the garden over there. At least it's dry."
"All right," Devlin said. "What are you trying to prove? That you care? I know that. What did you want to see me about?"
"I want to come with you," she said, "in the morning. To Marseilles. You could ask Martin to see me. He might listen to you."
"What about this?" Devlin looked around him.
"Oh, I'll get all the footage I need of this business tonight. I'd intended to return to Paris Tuesday, anyway."
Devlin turned to Fox and nodded. "She could be very useful."
Fox said, "All right, Miss Audin. We'll see you at Heathrow in the morning. No later than ten o'clock, if you don't mind. I'll see to your ticket for you. We'll meet at the entrance to the International Lounge."
"Good," she said and kissed Devlin gravely on each cheek. "Thank you, Liam. And now, I must work, I think."
She walked toward the cameras. At the head of the line at the canteen someone was being violently sick.
"Jesus Mary," Devlin said. "The one thing in this life that turns my stomach. Let's get out of it," and they hurried back to the car.
Salter led the way up a flight of narrow wooden stairs covered in cheap linoleum. The landing was long and narrow, and he opened a door at the end and switched on the light. Barry went in after him, humping the two suitcases, then put them down. There was a double bed with a brass frame, a wardrobe, a dressing table in Victorian mahogany, and a marble washstand.
"You'll be nicely out of the way here," Salter said. "The back stairs are very handy. I'm at the front of the house myself. Just you and Jenny back here." He smiled weakly. "I'll see you in the morning. We'll
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