Dead Line

THIRTY

Liz knew she’d made a mistake. She’d insisted that she felt perfectly well enough to do the interview with Marcham, though everyone – Charles, Peggy, her mother and even Edward, though he’d admitted it wasn’t his business – had disagreed.

Now, sitting in the taxi on her way to Hampstead, she knew they’d been right. She felt weak and shaky, her head hurt if she moved it too quickly and the yellowing bruise down one side of her face still attracted looks, if not comments. Why had she been so obstinate? Charles could have done the interview, or even Peggy at a pinch. But they wouldn’t have done it as well, she’d told herself, though now she wasn’t so sure. She couldn’t stand the feeling she was on the sidelines. Was it a fear of not being needed? She shook her head painfully to get rid of her thoughts. This wasn’t the time to psychoanalyse herself; she needed to focus on Marcham.

He had cleaned up his house. It now looked bohemian rather than tatty – no overflowing ashtrays, the books and magazines once strewn on the coffee table were stacked neatly, and the filthy carpet looked professionally cleaned. Marcham had made an effort, or paid someone to make it for him. Liz wondered if the clean-up had extended to his bedroom, remembering the religious relics and icons in there when she’d looked in on her last visit. But now the door was firmly closed.

She sat uncomfortably on the lumpy sofa while Marcham flitted back and forth between the sitting room and the kitchen, making himself the cup of coffee she had declined. He seemed nervous. He’d tidied himself up, too, she noticed, observing the blazer with shirt only slightly frayed, flannel trousers, and brown brogues. He looked almost respectable.

At last Marcham sat down in an old patched armchair. Sipping his mug carefully, he winced, then, smiling ingratiatingly at Liz, he sat back and said, ‘So how can I help you now, Miss Falconer?’

‘I’d like to talk to you about Syria,’ said Liz. Marcham’s eyes flickered and she felt sure that whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. ‘You’ve been there often, I understand, and I know you’ve just come back. What I wanted to ask you is whether on any of your visits there you’ve been contacted by the intelligence services.’

He paused. ‘No. Not as far as I know. I interviewed the President recently for an article I’m writing and I had to go through various official hoops, but as far as I know none of them were the intelligence services.’

‘Did you meet any hostility there? Did anyone make any threats or ask you to do anything for them?’

‘No. I can’t remember anything like that,’ Marcham replied. His voice, which had been deep and rather hoarse, rose an octave. ‘Why are you asking me these questions?’

Liz ignored him. ‘Have you ever been approached by any intelligence services on your visits to the Middle East?’

‘Miss Falconer,’ he said, putting down his mug and rubbing the palms of his hands together, ‘in my job you’re always being approached by spooks of all sorts. I’ve learned to see them coming and I don’t get involved. It’s more than my professional reputation is worth.’

‘I know you’ve spoken to MI6 in the past,’ said Liz, in case any unnecessary loyalty was holding him back.

‘Yes I have. But I’ve never done more than talk in general and I’ve never done anything for them.’

‘Any others you’ve just spoken to without doing anything?’

‘No,’ he replied and leaping to his feet he said, ‘I’d like another cup of coffee.’

There’s something here, thought Liz while he was in the kitchen. I’m sure there is. Her head was beginning to ache and she didn’t feel up to a long interrogation, so she decided to exert a bit of pressure. While he was in the kitchen she leaned forward and put a photograph on the coffee table in front of Marcham’s chair.

When he came back he picked it up. ‘It’s Alex,’ he declared. ‘I read about his death in the papers. What’s he got to do with you?’

‘You knew Mr Ledingham, then?’

Marcham nodded. ‘Of course. For a while I knew him fairly well.’ He added regretfully, ‘Lately, we hadn’t been in touch while I’ve been travelling.’

‘Could you tell me how you came to know him?’

‘I’d be happy to,’ he said, looking unfazed. But Liz sensed he was acting – a good performance so far, she thought, but a performance all the same.

‘Alex was very interested in churches. So am I. Not perhaps to the same degree – he was something of a fanatic.’ There was a patronising, distancing effect to this. ‘We met at a Hawksmoor Society meeting. Alex was very active in the society, particularly in its efforts to raise money for renovating the Hawksmoor churches in London. To some purists, of course, renovation is a dirty word, but not to Alex. Or me for that matter. And for a time I was rather involved as well.’ He gave a slow smile, as if confessing a juvenile aberration he had outgrown.

Liz was getting impatient. This wasn’t leading anywhere. So she said, ‘You were in Kosovo, weren’t you?’

Marcham looked startled. ‘Yes, I was. Why?’

She ignored the question. ‘You were there as a reporter, as I understand. For the Observer, and the Los Angeles Times.’

Marcham seemed less complacent now, but was struggling not to show it. He said archly, ‘You’ve been doing some research, Miss Falconer.’

You can thank Peggy Kinsolving for that, thought Liz. She continued, ‘You were in Kosovo on assignment, but could you tell me why Alexander Ledingham was also there?’

Silence hung in the room like a weight. For a moment, Marcham stared at Liz, and she could sense his antipathy. He said slowly, ‘A pity you can’t ask him that question.’

‘Yes, but that’s why I’m asking you.’

Marcham sipped his coffee mechanically. He said, keeping his face burrowed in his mug, ‘Alex was very het up about the Serbian churches that were being destroyed. People forget that the violence cut both ways – and Alex was keen to do what he could to preserve the Orthodox places of worship.’

‘Even if it meant putting himself in danger? Lots of people are appalled by war without wanting to see it for themselves.’

‘Alex wasn’t one to be put off by danger. He’d knocked around a bit. He was gentle, sure, but he didn’t scare easily.’

Liz said pointedly, ‘Did your being there have anything to do with it? My understanding is that you two went around together in Kosovo.’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’

‘Oh, really? I gather you were virtually inseparable.’

‘For a time we were very close.’ He added, unnecessarily, ‘I’m not married, you know.’

He gave her a knowing look. She didn’t care if Marcham had been intimate in that way with Ledingham; she wanted to know if he’d been there when he’d died.

‘So he was there as your… companion?’

Marcham didn’t look at her, and Liz felt he was milking the drama for all it was worth. He clearly thought a confession that he and Ledingham had been lovers would seem shameful enough to persuade her that this was the secret he was hiding.

‘I understand. But I doubt other journalists brought their partners.’

Marcham thought about this. Then he said, ‘He was desperate to come. He was obsessed with the churches. He had all these theories. He started by thinking there was a code in Hawksmoor’s churches – then it became a code in almost every baroque church of the time. I tried to tell him it was nonsense. Alex started to like to have…’ he paused.

‘Sex?’ asked Liz, determined to get on with this.

‘How delicate of you, Miss Falconer,’ said Marcham with a flash of his former insouciance. ‘But yes, for lack of a better word. Sex.’

‘But that night in St Barnabas, the, um, sexual part of things seemed to have been solitary.’

‘I know,’ said Marcham. ‘That was because of me.’ He looked stonily at his hands in regret. ‘That sort of thing wasn’t my scene. He said I should take a walk and come back when he’d… finished.’ He shivered in distaste.

‘And when you came back from this walk, what did you find?’

‘He was dead. He’d misjudged, apparently… only I wasn’t there to save him.’

As he said this, he broke down. Between sobs he managed to say, ‘If only I’d stayed, it never would have happened.’

‘I’m sure no one could blame you,’ said Liz, ‘but why did you put him in the box?’

Marcham looked up, red-eyed. ‘What else could I do?’ he asked plaintively.

At last, thought Liz and she said, ‘Mr Marcham, you realise that concealing a death is a very serious offence. I shall have to report what you’ve said to my police colleagues. But I would just like to go back to my earlier question. Are you sure that on your various travels you have never undertaken any covert task for an intelligence service or anyone who might have been acting on their behalf? I am in a position to help you in various ways,’ she added unspecifically, ‘if you have anything to tell me.’

But by now Marcham was sobbing uncontrollably and he just shook his head.

Liz had had enough. The interview hadn’t gone the way she’d planned and she hadn’t learned anything to move her inquiries on. The police would have to deal with Marcham now.