‘There’s a small country inn called The Three Suns just outside of Thrapham that serves the finest cooked trout in all of England. Would you care to be my guest there for dinner tonight? Say 8pm?’

  Pascal thought he was hearing things. He stared into her eyes and saw immediately that they held a plain and unmistakable invitation that had nothing to do with trout, well cooked or other­wise.

  He swallowed noisily and said, ‘Yes, I’d love to.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘That’s settled then.’ And at that point the Mayor’s wife returned with the champagne. As Lady Jane took the glass she thanked her and then said to Pascal, ‘Is that sufficient for your needs, Mr Pascal?’

  ‘Pardon?’ he asked, at a loss. Then he realized she was talking about the interview. He nodded violently. ‘Oh yes, fine. Marvellous . . .’

  ‘I must admit I’m impressed by your professionalism, Mr Pascal,’ she added.

  ‘Really? How do you mean?’ he asked, frowning.

  ‘You conducted the whole interview without once having to write anything down in your notebook. You must have a great memory.’ Then, after giving him another smile, she resumed her conversation with the Mayor’s wife.

  Pascal walked back over to Wates in a daze.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Wates. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing,’ lied Pascal. ‘We just made small-talk. About the fête. And trout.’

  Wates looked at him suspiciously. ‘Trout?’

  Pascal gave a long sigh. ‘I need another drink. Badly.’

  He was late. He had got lost and been obliged to stop and ask for directions three times. By the time he reached the inn it was twenty past eight. He parked in the small yard beside the picturesque old building, which stood next to a stream, and hurried inside. He feared that Lady Jane had got tired of waiting and had gone already, but was relieved to see her sitting in the inn’s tiny bar just off the main entrance. She was alone and dressed very differently from that afternoon. At the fête she’d been wearing a simple blue dress and a wide brimmed white hat; now she was wearing tight jeans, boots and an old blazer that could have come from the fête’s jumble sale. The effect of this ensemble was to make her look years younger . . .

  She smiled as he came into the bar and cut short his apologies and explanations as to why he was late. ‘No matter,’ she said, ‘the important thing is you made it.’ She finished her drink in one swallow and got off the bar stool. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

  He realized she was talking about the bedroom. The nervous flutter in his stomach grew more pronounced. ‘Now?’ he said, with surprise. ‘Aren’t we going to eat first?’

  She paused and looked at him with one eyebrow raised, as if she suspected him of making a joke she didn’t understand. Then she said crisply, ‘You can eat later if you want,’ and led the way swiftly out of the bar. Pascal followed reluctantly, wishing he could have at least had a drink. A double, preferably.

  Lady Jane nodded to the cheerful-looking old lady seated behind the front desk as she went by. The old lady smiled and said, ‘Good night Miss Bailey, good night sir . . .’ He gave her a weak smile back, feeling unpleasantly exposed. It was obvious that Lady Jane was well known here – or rather Miss Bailey was. Presumably she brought a lot of her pick-ups to the inn. He wondered, with a prickle of embarrassment, what the staff thought of the endless parade of young men. And by now he was certain there was an endless parade of young men. In this case, at least, Henry Wates had been telling the truth.

  She strode up the narrow, winding staircase. Pascal, hurrying to keep up, hoped he wasn’t going to disappoint her. He felt like an actor on his way to a tough audition; if he failed to satisfy her he knew the relationship would be over before it had really started and with it would go his hopes of using her to discover her husband’s secrets.

  The palms of his hands had become sweaty by the time she ushered him into a small, low-ceilinged room. Most of the space was taken up by a double bed. As he looked at it he couldn’t help wondering how they had managed to get such a huge bed into the place. He turned to make what he hoped was going to be an amusing remark to Lady Jane, but was surprised to see that she was already undressed apart from her bra, which she unhooked and removed as he watched.

  Her body, though slim and muscular – the body of someone who took regular exercise – was showing signs of age. There were networks of stretch marks on her upper thighs and hips, her legs were further marred by varicose veins and her breasts, free of the bra, hung too low. Pascal felt his sexual desire, which had been mounting, begin to fade. He knew there was a strong element of fastidiousness in his make-up which manifested itself in his attitude towards sex. He had in the past been turned off by otherwise attractive women by quite minor physical flaws and he was suddenly afraid that he wouldn’t be capable of making love to a woman who was so much older than him.

  Completely naked now, she stood waiting expectantly by the bed, looking at him. There was no hint of coyness in her stance, nor did it contain any hint of deliberate eroticism; it was so matter-­of-fact she could have stripped off for a swim or a shower rather than a bout of love-making. ‘Well?’ she said, ‘What are you waiting for?’

  He gave a helpless shrug. ‘Sorry. It’s just that . . . well, you’re moving a little faster than I’m used to. I normally do this a little differently . . .’

  She raised her eyebrow again. He would become very familiar with this gesture. It made her look imperious. ‘Really? In what way?’

  ‘Well,’ he said hesitantly, ‘I rather like undressing the woman myself.’

  For the first time since they’d entered the room she smiled. ‘How charmingly adolescent. Perhaps next time . . .’ He picked up the unspoken finish to the sentence: If there is a next time.

  Uncomfortable under her direct, interested gaze he began to undress hurriedly. He was relieved that by the time he’d removed his underpants he at least was semi-erect. His desire was returning.

  ‘You have a nice body,’ she told him approvingly, but in the same tone she probably used to tell someone they played a good game of tennis. He felt like a piece of meat. The feeling irritated him but the same time it was strangely arousing. Now what, he wondered. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d put on a pair of riding boots and produced a whip.

  They continued to stand there facing each other. Pascal felt himself hardening until he became fully erect.

  ‘I don’t normally do this, you know,’ she said, unexpectedly.

  ‘You don’t?’ He was unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean this.’ She made a dismissive gesture at the room. ‘I mean I don’t usually get involved with anyone from Warchester. A matter of policy. In fact you’re the first.’

  ‘Why the change in policy?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said frowning. ‘You are very attractive but it was a foolish thing to do. Let’s hope I don’t have to regret it . . .’ She opened her arms to him. He crossed the five feet or so that separated them and embraced her. She pushed her body against his with urgent hunger. She was nearly as tall as him and strong; he could feel the almost masculine strength of her arms . . .

  For the first few minutes it was more like a wrestling match than love-making. Lady Jane writhed and twisted around him as if she was trying to forcibly merge their flesh together. He felt obliged to try to match her passion but as he struggled with her on the bed – and struggle was the most appropriate word – he felt curiously detached. It was all so different from his love-making with Jenny. That had been a much gentler, slower thing. And more intimate too. He and Lady Jane might be naked together on a bed but there was no real sense of closeness yet.

  She rolled on top of him, her mouth pressing down on his, her tongue thrusting an amazingly long distance into his mouth. Just when he thought he was going to gag she suddenly raised herself from him and slid down the length of his body. He felt the touch of her lips on his penis, then her tongue. A shiver of pleasure ran through him.

  It soon became obvious that Lady Jane was an expert at this and before long Pascal was close to losing control. ‘Oh hell, you’d better stop,’ he moaned. He was in danger of coming and he knew that if he did so soon the ‘audition’ would be abruptly over.

  She took her mouth away and he felt her shift on the bed. Then something else slid down his painfully erect penis, enfolding it in warm, silky wetness. He opened his eyes and looked. She was straddling him now, her back arched as she continued to push down on him in order to contain as much of him within her as she could.

  Then she leaned forward until the tips of her breasts were brushing against his chest. Her face was damp with sweat, her eyes hooded and almost cruel. ‘Try and push me off,’ she said hoarsely. ‘As hard as you can.’

  Obeying her, he began to thrust violently with his pelvis.

  Through grunts of pleasure she gasped, ‘Harder . . . harder . . .’

  He pushed upwards even more violently, lifting his buttocks clear of the bed with each thrust. She rocked back and forth over him, clutching at her breasts and squeezing them viciously.

  Pascal realized he was too excited and again in danger of losing control. Desperately he tried the usual tricks to distract himself. The one that invariably worked best was visualising columns of figures and adding them up. He’d jokingly mentioned this to Jenny once: ‘You women have it easy in bed; while you’re having fun trying to come I’m busy doing arithmetic . . .’

  The thought of Jenny brought back the memory of her on the office floor with Chilton. Anger flooded through him, and with it a renewed burst of sexual energy. He imagined it was Jenny on top of him instead of Lady Jane and he was determined to show her he could fuck just as well as Chilton. Hell, he would fuck her damn brains out . . .

  The bed began to creak and strain alarmingly as Pascal redoubled his efforts. ‘Oh yes!’ she cried, ‘Yes!’

  He became lost in a private universe of explosive, all-­consuming lust. He lost all track of time until suddenly her groans became a full-throated cry and he felt her body shudder convulsively as she reached orgasm.

  He let go and joined her in that sweet, all-too brief world of total pleasure . . .

  Afterwards they lay there side by side, their bodies limp with exhaustion. ‘God, that was good . . .’ murmured Pascal, almost with surprise. He felt pleased with himself. He had come through okay. He’d forgotten about her age and performed well. Impulsively he raised his head, leaned over and gave her an affectionate kiss on the lips. Her reaction was to look startled.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ she asked curtly.

  ‘Because I wanted to,’ he replied. ‘And because I think you’re great.’

  ‘Listen, let’s get one thing straight right off. We’re here together tonight for one thing and for one thing only. Don’t think there’s any more to it than that because there isn’t. Understand?’ Her tone was harsh. Bitter even.

  Taken aback, Pascal said quickly, ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, relaxing again. ‘I don’t want you getting any romantic illusions about me. I don’t want to hurt you. I also don’t want you putting pressure on me. I’ve got enough of that as it is right now.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, a little coldly. Secretly he was rather amused at her egotism. She didn’t seem to realize that he was doing her a favour and not vice versa.

  She was silent after that and Pascal dozed off. He woke to find that she was gently licking him, her tongue caressing his testicles. He felt a stab of dismay. Surely she didn’t expect him to repeat the performance? And so soon? But then, to his pleasant amazement, he began to harden. Lady Jane then took him in her mouth and started to move her lips rigorously up and down the length of his penis.

  A couple of minutes later Pascal, his body on fire, gasped a warning that he would come in her mouth unless she stopped. She didn’t.

  Fifteen minutes later they were making love again. This time it was much slower and seemed to go on forever. Pascal was again surprised by this hitherto unsuspected reserve of sexual stamina. He had never lasted this long before. Lady Jane was undoubtedly having an extraordinary effect on him in spite of his reservations about her age and appearance.

  After the third soul-shaking orgasm of the night he fell into a deep sleep. When he woke it was getting light. Lady Jane was already dressed. She was leaning by the window, staring down at him with an unreadable expression. He wondered how long she’d been there like that.

  When she saw that he was awake she said crisply, ‘I have to go now. There’s a card on the bedside table with a number you can reach me with. Call me this afternoon between four and five.’

  Then she was gone.

  Pascal lay there smiling to himself. He had passed the audition. But then his elation was replaced by a vague feeling of disquiet. What the hell was he getting himself into?

  10

  ‘You look exhausted. Haven’t you been sleeping properly?’

  Pascal gave Jenny a suspicious look, wondering if she had found out about his affair with Lady Jane, but her face was a picture of innocence. ‘No, it’s the hot weather,’ he said.

  She seemed to accept this and returned to her typing. But then, a few moments later, she said, ‘I haven’t seen you around much at night recently. You haven’t been in The Green Man for ages.’

  He was instantly on guard. ‘I’m surprised you noticed.’

  She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You must be kept pretty busy by our friend Chilton.’

  A slight flush appeared on her cheeks. ‘I’ve told you before it’s no big thing with us. We don’t live in each other’s pockets.’

  Pascal bit back a sarcastic comment. Instead he said, ‘But you like him a lot.’

  ‘Yes. I do. He’s a lot of fun. He makes me laugh.’

  ‘Laugh?’ Once again the memory of Jenny and Chilton making love in Brownlowe’s office flashed into his mind. He felt the familiar constriction around his chest as the jealousy flared through him. But with an effort he said calmly, ‘I think we’d better change the subject.’

  ‘Fine by me. Let’s get back to you and your whereabouts these last couple of weeks. What have you been up to?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ he asked brusquely.

  She contrived to look even more innocent. ‘I’m curious.’

  He considered his answer carefully before saying, ‘I’ve been working at home on something. A personal writing project . . .’ He paused. ‘A book, actually.’

  ‘A book? How marvellous! What’s it about?’

  ‘About?’ His mind went blank. He couldn’t think of a thing.

  ‘It’s not about dinosaurs, is it?’ she asked, with a smile of exaggerated sweetness.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, come on, David. Stop playing games. You’re not writing any book. I know what you’ve been doing.’

  ‘You do?’ His heart sank.

  ‘You’re following up leads on your Penward animal story. You haven’t mentioned it again since that awful day but I know you well enough to know how your mind works. You’re still convinced that whatever got out of the zoo wasn’t a tiger . . .’

  ‘No, you’re wrong,’ he protested. ‘I gave up on all that ages ago.’ He felt relieved that at least she didn’t seem to know about Lady Jane.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said firmly. ‘Your mother told me you had all the dinosaur books out of the library.’

  He felt too tired to argue with her. He sighed and said, ‘What about you? Why did you want those books?’

  She looked round the office. It was early and they were alone apart from Mrs Fleming but she was too far away to hear what they were saying. ‘Okay, I admit it. The more I thought about what you said the more it seemed to make sense. There was something odd about that day – the way Penward’s men acted, the haste with which the animal was taken away, and the way Penward managed to avoid an official investigation afterwards . . .’

  Pascal gave a tired smile. ‘And now you believe it was a dinosaur?’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Jen, but those books from the library did convince me of one thing. Dinosaurs are extinct. It’s scientifically impossible that one of them is still alive and kicking.’

  Her response was to open one of her desk drawers and take two photocopies out. She handed them to him. The top one was a press report from four years ago. It was about an anthropologist who, while visiting some remote part of the Congo, had been told by natives about a local animal that bore a resemblance to a dinosaur. The other item was dated three months later and came from the Warchester Times. It was about an expedition to capture wild animals that Sir Penward was going to lead later that year. His destination was the Congo.

  Pascal gave the copies back to her. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Is that all you can say? I think it’s more than interesting. I think he did find what he went there to look for. And he brought it back here.’

  ‘A dinosaur?’ His smile grew patronising.

  A small crease of annoyance appeared on her forehead. ‘Remember what you said that day – it might be something that looks like a dinosaur.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s the Loch Ness Monster.’

  ‘Don’t play dense with me. You know I’m on the right track. Now tell me what you’ve found out since we last spoke about this.’

  ‘I told you Jenny, I’ve dropped it. I got nowhere and it all started to seem very absurd.’

  She stared hard at him. ‘I don’t believe you. What have been doing at night recently?’

  ‘Writing a book, like I said. A novel. It’s about the sex life of the Warchester middle classes. Bank managers, journalists, people like that.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going down to the station for some coffee. See you later . . .’

 

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