Ken Follett - the Third Twin (1996)

“Now you have to guess.”

He thought for a moment. “Joan Miró.”

“Why?”

“I imagine you like bold splashes of color.” She nodded. “Perceptive. But not quite right. Miró’s too messy. I prefer Mondrian.”

“Ah, yes, of course. The straight lines.”

“Exactly. You’re good at this.”

He shrugged, and she realized he had probably played guessing games with many women.

She dipped a spoon into her mango sorbet. This was definitely not a business dinner. Soon she would have to make a firm decision about what her relationship with Berrington was going to be.

She had not kissed a man for a year and a half. Since Will Temple walked out on her she had not even been on a date until today. She was not carrying a torch for Will: she no longer loved him. But she was wary.

However, she was going crazy living the life of a nun. She missed having someone hairy in bed with her; she missed the masculine smells—bicycle oil and sweaty football shirts and whiskey—and most of all she missed the sex. When radical feminists said the penis was the enemy, Jeannie wanted to reply, “Speak for yourself, sister.”

She glanced up at Berrington, delicately eating caramelized apples. She liked the guy, despite his nasty politics. He was smart—her men had to be intelligent—and he had winning ways. She respected him for his scientific work. He was slim and fit looking, he was probably a very experienced and skillful lover, and he had nice blue eyes.

All the same, he was too old. She liked mature men, but not that mature.

How could she reject him without ruining her career? The best course might be to pretend to interpret his attention as kindly and paternal. That way she might avoid spurning him outright.

She took a sip of champagne. The waiter kept refilling her glass and she was not sure how much she had drunk, but she was glad she did not have to drive.

They ordered coffee. Jeannie asked for a double espresso to sober her up. When Berrington had paid the bill, they took the elevator to the parking garage and got in his silver Lincoln Town Car.

Berrington drove along the harbor side and got onto the Jones Falls Expressway. “There’s the city jail,” he said, pointing to a fortresslike building that occupied a city block. “The scum of the earth are in there.”

Steve might be in there, Jeannie thought.

How had she even contemplated sleeping with Berrington? She did not feel the least warmth of affection for him. She felt ashamed that she had even toyed with the idea. As he pulled up to the curb outside her house, she said firmly: “Well, Berry, thank you for a charming evening.” Would he shake hands, she wondered, or try to kiss her? If he tried to kiss her, she would offer her cheek.

But he did neither. “My phone at home is out of order, and I need to make one call before I go to bed,” he said. “May I use your phone?”

She could hardly say, “Hell, no, stop by a pay phone.” It looked as if she were going to have to deal with a determined pass. “Of course,” she said, suppressing a sigh. “Come on up.” She wondered if she could avoid offering him coffee.

She jumped out of the car and led the way across the row stoop. The front door gave onto a tiny lobby with two more doors. One led to the ground-floor apartment, occupied by Mr. Oliver, a retired stevedore. The other, Jeannie’s door, opened onto the staircase that led up to her second-floor apartment.

She frowned, puzzled. Her door was open.

She went inside and led the way up the stairs. A light was on up there. That was curious: she had left before dark.

The staircase led directly into her living room. She stepped inside and screamed.

He was standing at her refrigerator with a bottle of vodka in his hand. He was scruffy and unshaven, and he seemed a little drunk.

Behind her, Berrington said: “What’s going on?”

“You need better security in here, Jeannie,” the intruder said. “I picked your locks in about ten seconds.”

Berrington said: “Who the hell is he?”

Jeannie said in a shocked voice: “When did you get out of jail, Daddy?”

11

THE LINEUP ROOM WAS ON THE SAME FLOOR AS THE CELLS.

In the anteroom were six other men of about Steve’s age and build. He guessed they were cops. They did not speak to him and avoided his gaze. They were treating him like a criminal. He wanted to say, “Hey, guys, I’m on your side, I’m not a rapist, I’m innocent.”

They all had to take off their wristwatches and jewelry and put on white paper coveralls over their clothes. While they were getting ready, a young man in a suit came in and said: “Which of you is the suspect, please?”

“That’s me,” Steve said.

“I’m Lew Tanner, the public defender,” the man said. “I’m here to make sure the lineup is run correctly. Do you have any questions?”

“How long will it take me to get out of here afterward?” Steve said.

“Assuming you’re not picked out of the lineup, a couple of hours.”

“Two hours!” Steve said indignantly. “Do I have to go back in that fucking cell?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’ll ask them to handle your discharge as fast as possible,” Lew said. “Anything else?”

“No thanks.”

“Okay.” He went out.

A turnkey ushered the seven men through a door onto a stage. There was a backdrop, with a graduated scale that showed their height, and positions numbered one to ten. A powerful light shone on them, and a screen divided the stage from the rest of the room. The men could not see through the screen, but they could hear what was going on beyond it.

For a while there was nothing but footsteps and occasional low voices, all male. Then Steve heard the unmistakable sound of a woman’s steps. After a moment a man’s voice spoke, sounding as if he were reading from a card or repeating something by rote.

“Standing before you are seven people. They will be known to you by number only. If any of these individuals have done anything to you, or in your presence, I want you to call out their number, and number only. If you would like any of them to speak, say any form of specific words, we will have them say those words. If you would like to have them turn around or face sideways, then they will do that as a group. Do you recognize any one of them who has done anything to you or in your presence?”

There was a silence. Steve’s nerves were wound up tight as guitar strings, even though he was sure she would not pick him out.

A low female voice said: “He had a hat on.”

She sounded like an educated middle-class woman of about his own age, Steve thought.

The male voice said: “We have hats. Would you like them all to put on a hat?”

“It was more of a cap. A baseball cap.”

Steve heard anxiety and tension in her voice but also determination. There was no hint of falseness. She sounded like the kind of woman who would tell the truth, even when distressed. He felt a little better.

“Dave, see if we have seven baseball caps in that closet.”

There was a pause of several minutes. Steve ground his teeth in impatience. A voice muttered: “Jeez, I didn’t know we had all this stuff … eyeglasses, mustaches—”

“No chitchat, please, Dave,” the first man said. “This is a formal legal proceeding.”

Eventually a detective came onto the stage from the side and handed a baseball cap to each man in the lineup. They all put them on and the detective left.

From the other side of the screen came the sound of a woman crying.

The male voice repeated the form of words used earlier. “Do you recognize any one of them who has done anything to you or in your presence? If so call out their number, and number only.”