Shifting Sands

by Anthea Fraser

  Imogen said, ‘Daisy’s pleading to be allowed to stay over for the funeral.’

  Roger snorted. ‘Opportunistic little minx!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know; she was fond of Aunt Em.’

  He put down his paper. ‘Really? What was it she said, when you told her she’d died? “Well, she was quite old, wasn’t she?”’

  Imogen bit her lip, regretting having reported the conversation. ‘All the same—’

  ‘No!’ Roger interrupted forcefully. ‘It’s simply an excuse to delay going back, and she’s in no position to beg for favours. How do you think Miss Thing would react, if you asked for an extra day’s leave? A great-aunt isn’t considered a close relative.’

  ‘She was almost in tears . . .’

  ‘I’ll bet she was,’ Roger said grimly. ‘That child could always turn on the waterworks when it suited her.’

  ‘You’re being rather harsh,’ Imogen protested. ‘We could put her on the train straight after the service—’

  Roger slapped his hand on the arm of his chair. ‘For God’s sake, Imogen, what part of “No” don’t you understand? I’ll put her on the early train myself, on the way to work. End of conversation.’ And he purposefully turned back to his paper.

  Imogen stared at him helplessly. He was right, she knew, but Daisy’s tear-stained face had tugged at her heart. She did so wish she and Roger could reach an amicable compromise over the children, without every discussion ending in a full-scale argument, which she always lost. She wondered miserably how Sophie would have handled the matter – and accepted that, awkward though Tamsin could be on occasion, her parents seemed to have no problem dealing with her.

  She sighed and left the room, bumping into Daisy in the hall.

  ‘Well? What did he say?’

  ‘That you must go back on the early train.’

  ‘But Mummy!’ Daisy wailed, the tears starting again. ‘I want to say goodbye to Aunt Em! I’ve never been to a funeral!’

  ‘That’s quite enough!’ Imogen snapped, noting the surprise on her daughter’s face. ‘You shouldn’t have been home in the first place, then the question wouldn’t have arisen. Jack’s not going,’ she added. ‘He’ll be at school as usual. Now, go and wash your face, and make the most of your last afternoon at home.’

  Daisy glared at her, the tears drying on her face. Then she turned and flounced upstairs. Imogen waited for the inevitable bang of her bedroom door, then went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. She almost wished she could catch the early train herself; she was dreading the funeral and the distress of people she loved, her mother and Uncle Ted chief among them. I wish it was this time tomorrow, she thought childishly.

  ‘Imo?’

  She spun round to see Roger in the doorway, a sheepish look on his face.

  ‘I’m sorry I shouted just now. I know you’re upset about Aunt Em, and I should have been more understanding. Oh, sweetie . . .’ As tears spilled down her cheeks, he moved forward and took her in his arms.

  ‘You will be there, won’t you?’ she whispered against his chest. ‘You’ll be able to get off work?’

  ‘Of course I’ll be there.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have died, Roger. Not for a long time.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘And she looked so well at the dinner.’

  ‘At least she didn’t suffer,’ Roger said, and thought how trite it sounded. But it seemed to provide some comfort, because Imogen nodded and moved slightly away.

  ‘I’m sorry, too,’ she said in a low voice, wiping her eyes, ‘for not being strict enough with the children.’

  ‘It’s not a question of being strict, sweetie, so much as not letting them take advantage.’

  She nodded, looking so contrite and miserable that he felt a stab of guilt, and, taking her face between his hands, kissed her more thoroughly than he had in some time.

  ‘Better now?’ he asked as they eventually moved apart.

  ‘Much better!’ she said.

  Beatrice Hardy lived on the outskirts of a village some ten miles from Westbridge – a twenty-minute drive through winding country lanes. It was dusk by the time Anna arrived, and she was grateful not to be driving home that night. She had, in fact, stayed over on a couple of occasions in the months since Miles died; Beatrice had been a good friend during that time, not fussing or oversolicitous, but there when Anna needed her.

  Hers was the first in a row of six cottages on the outskirts of the village, and, since the gates stood open, Anna drove in and parked on the drive. She was extracting her overnight bag when the front door opened and Beatrice came out to greet her. Her arm, Anna saw with a surge of sympathy, was still in its cast, supported by a sling.

  ‘Oh, Bea, it is good to see you!’ she exclaimed, hugging her with care. ‘How are you managing, really?’

  ‘Not without difficulty,’ Beatrice admitted. ‘It’s the incapacity that’s so frustrating. Dressing myself is a major challenge, and I still need help with that. Fortunately, my next-door neighbour is a registered nurse, and she’s been nothing short of marvellous. In fact, the whole village has been fantastic, phoning to see if I needed anything, bringing round cakes and casseroles. I’ve been quite overwhelmed.’

  ‘Now I feel guiltier than ever, swanning off to South Africa.’

  Beatrice laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Anyway, the cast comes off next week, then things will be a lot easier.’

  They went together into the house.

  ‘Your room’s ready for you, thanks to Maggie,’ Beatrice said, ‘but leave your case in the hall for now, and come and have a drink.’ Maggie was Beatrice’s cleaner, who had been with her for years.

  Anna followed her into the small, low-ceilinged room that doubled as both sitting and dining room. The similarly sized room across the hall was Beatrice’s workroom, where she photographed her dishes and typed out the texts of her recipe books. At the back of the house, walls had been knocked down to make a large, state-of-the-art kitchen, where she did her cooking and taught a succession of students who, after leaving catering college, came on to her for specialist training. In addition to their daily instruction, they researched ingredients for her new recipes and acted as sous chefs, all the while absorbing more than they realized of her expertise and invariably emerging as imaginative chefs in their own right. Several had gone on to work in prestigious hotels up and down the country, a source of great pride to Beatrice.

  She nodded towards an array of bottles and glasses on a low table. ‘Help yourself, Anna, and a large G&T for me, please. Incidentally, the students wouldn’t let me order a takeaway, insisting my reputation was at stake! They’ve prepared supper, bless them, as they have most evenings – a large chilli, so I hope you’re hungry. It only requires reheating. Now,’ she continued, seating herself in her usual chair, ‘I want to hear all about the holiday, and I mean all!’

  Anna poured the drinks as requested and handed Beatrice hers. ‘I’ve typed out the notes I made, which I hope will give a flavour of it, particularly in conjunction with the photos.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll enjoy reading those in bed, but in the meantime, give me a verbal account. You say you were with a good crowd?’

  So, yet again, Anna gave brief thumbnail sketches of the various members of the group, referring to Lewis only as one of the threesome with whom she’d teamed up. Beatrice listened intently, inserting questions about the different hotels, the type of food they served, the varying temperatures as they moved about the country.

  ‘Shall we have the first photo session now?’ she suggested. ‘Then we can have a break for supper, and another batch afterwards.’

  Setting everything up, Anna had a moment of anxiety. It was possible Beatrice’s eyes and ears would prove sharper than those of her family. She must be careful to give nothing away.

  As requested, she identified everyone as they appeared on the screen, holding her breath as the first, full image of Lewis stared enigmatically out at them.
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  ‘Lewis Masters,’ Beatrice repeated thoughtfully. ‘He looks a moody devil. Attractive, though.’ She shot a glance at Anna. ‘What was he like, really?’

  Willing herself not to colour, Anna smiled non-committally. ‘You got it in one – moody but attractive!’

  Beatrice said no more, and Anna hoped she’d satisfied her. A succession of photos followed – of Tony standing on a couple of ostrich eggs, arms extended to maintain his balance; of Zulu rickshaw boys in Durban; of zebras and giraffes and elephants.

  After half an hour or so, Beatrice commented, ‘They’re wonderful photos, Anna; I almost feel I’m there. Let’s have a break now, though. Would you mind switching on the oven? Sorry to make you sing for your supper.’

  ‘It’s the least I can do. I see the table’s ready laid and the wine opened.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got advance preparation down to a fine art, I can tell you!’

  ‘When I’ve lit the oven, I’ll take my case up,’ Anna said, ‘and freshen up before we eat.’ She also wanted to extract the gift she’d brought back for Beatrice – a pewter butter knife with a carved cheetah handle.

  Up in her room, she unpacked her night things and toiletries, noting that either Maggie or the students had put a vase of late roses on the dressing table. She washed quickly at the little hand basin, reapplied make-up and brushed her hair, but her mind was elsewhere.

  Seeing Lewis’s photographs had unsettled her, and she suddenly regretted agreeing to meet him. After all, it was the magic of the holiday that had brought them together, and meeting in less exotic surroundings could lead to disappointment. It was foolish to prolong their liaison beyond its natural end, which, surely, had been that last day in Pretoria. Better to keep the memories intact and untarnished. She’d phone him tomorrow and make her excuses.

  Picking up the gift-wrapped butter knife, she ran back downstairs, unsure whether or not she felt better for having reached that decision.

  However, back home the next day, Anna repeatedly put off making the call. Several times she got as far as lifting the phone and starting to punch in the number, only to drop it back on its stand, telling herself Lewis would be at work – or at lunch – or perhaps visiting suppliers – and would resent the interruption. They weren’t scheduled to meet till Friday – time enough to contact him. And, she remembered with a sense of relief, he’d told her he’d be away on business the earlier part of the week. Definitely too busy for personal calls.

  Thankfully, she postponed taking action.

  Jonathan and Steve had arranged to fly up to Manchester on the Wednesday afternoon, to allow comfortable time for their appointment the following morning.

  ‘You texted our friend, I presume?’ Steve enquired, fastening his seat belt.

  ‘Yep. Brief and to the point. Bar of Commodore Hotel, six thirty, Wednesday sixteenth. And her reply was equally succinct: I shall be there. If she doesn’t turn up – which, after previous experience, I’m quite prepared for – well, we’d doubtless be in the bar anyway, so it’s no skin off our noses. We’ll give her an hour or so, and then go in to dinner.’

  ‘I hope she does come,’ Steve remarked. ‘All this on-off stuff has got me guessing. What does she look like?’

  ‘French,’ said Jonathan unhelpfully. Then, at his friend’s expression: ‘Large dark eyes, fringe, nice figure. The accent adds je ne sais quoi, if you’ll forgive the expression.’

  ‘Intriguing,’ Steve commented, and, opening his newspaper, he let the subject drop.

  Six fifteen saw them both established at a table in the bar, glasses of whisky in front of them.

  ‘I wonder what she wants to tell you,’ Steve mused. ‘Must be pretty serious, for her to keep coming back.’

  ‘It had better be good, after all this shilly-shallying.’

  As six thirty approached, they fell silent, their eyes on the entrance to the bar. But no small, dark girl with a fringe appeared. Jonathan could feel his irritation building, and when, at six thirty-five, his mobile bleeped, he swore under his breath.

  ‘For God’s sake, not again!’ Impatiently, he flipped it open and read the text.

  ‘Well?’ Steve demanded. ‘What’s her excuse this time?’

  ‘No excuse, actually,’ Jonathan said slowly. ‘She’s on her way, but she’d prefer not to meet in a public place, and suggests coming to my room.’

  ‘Oi, oi! She won’t be pleased to see me!’

  ‘Nonsense; she sounds really nervous, Steve.’ He started texting.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Giving her the room number.’ Jonathan closed the phone and rose to his feet. ‘Come on. Bring your drink with you.’

  They took the lift in silence and walked along the corridor to Jonathan’s room. Once inside, he moved the two armchairs to face each other and brought over an upright chair. Then they stood waiting, unable to settle, until, six or seven minutes later, there was a tap on the door. Jonathan strode to open it, face-to-face at last with the elusive Elise.

  ‘Come in,’ he said briefly.

  She stepped into the room, coming to a halt as she saw they were not alone.

  ‘This is my colleague, Steve Forrester,’ Jonathan said quickly. ‘It’s all right – we work together. You can speak freely in front of him.’ He turned to Steve. ‘Steve, this is Elise . . .?’

  ‘Du Pré,’ she murmured.

  They nodded cautiously at each other, and Jonathan waved her to a chair.

  ‘It is so good of you to come here,’ she began, but Jonathan cut her short.

  ‘Actually, you’re not the reason we’re in Manchester; we have a business meeting tomorrow. Now, can I get you a drink?’ He indicated the minibar.

  She eyed their glasses on the table. ‘Thank you. Whatever you drink.’

  He poured her a whisky, and he and Steve seated themselves.

  ‘So,’ Jonathan continued, ‘you’ve finally decided to tell me what’s worrying you?’

  Her eyes fell. ‘I think I must. Though I feel – infidèle?’ She paused helplessly.

  ‘Disloyal?’ Steve hazarded, and she threw him a grateful glance.

  ‘Disloyal – yes. It is hard for me to do this. I love my job, and I like the people I work with. They have been good to me.’

  Jonathan leaned forward, his glass between his hands. ‘And who are they, exactly?’

  She took a deep breath before looking up and meeting his eyes. ‘I work for the Mandelyns Group.’

  He stared at her blankly, and it was Steve who, after a minute, said, ‘You mean the health farm people?’

  She nodded. ‘I am . . . assistante personnelle to one of the owners.’

  ‘How many resorts do they have?’

  ‘Three at present, but we are here to consider a fourth.’

  ‘Go on,’ Jonathan prompted.

  ‘You may not know, but as well as the resorts, we have a range of beauty products and treatments. For some years now, work has been continuing on a revolutionary new one. Its tests were completed at the end of last year, and it was introduced in the spring.’

  ‘And?’

  Elise hesitated. ‘It is difficult to explain, but it is a special treatment – very expensive. For ladies . . . d’un certain age, you understand?’

  ‘We understand,’ Jonathan said, for both of them.

  ‘It works in a similar way to Botox – you have heard of that?’

  They nodded.

  ‘And, like Botox, it is a bacterial toxin that must be rigidly controlled.’

  ‘A toxin?’ Jonathan repeated, surprised. Then, remembering, his voice sharpened. ‘And people have died?’

  After a moment, she nodded.

  ‘Women who had taken this . . . treatment?’

  She nodded again. ‘At first it seemed . . . a terrible coincidence. But when it happened again, and then again—’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Steve interrupted harshly, ‘how many of your clients have died?’

  She raised her shoulde
rs in a shrug. ‘Four? Five? These are the names I recognize.’

  The two men sat back in their chairs and stared at each other.

  ‘And how many in total have had the treatment?’

  Elise spread her hands. ‘Oh, many, many more. Several dozen, at the least, which is why I tried to tell myself there is no connection. But if even one has died as a result, surely something should be done?’

  ‘What raised your suspicions in the first place?’

  ‘I read in the paper of someone’s death – a member of Parliament, who was a regular client and had been at Mandelyns Woodcot a few weeks earlier. But I did not know then that she had received the treatment; I was just sad she died too young.’

  ‘Did the paper say what caused her death?’

  ‘A heart attack, I think.’

  ‘And the next thing?’

  ‘Maria Lang died – the actress? You must have heard. She, too, was a regular visitor, at Mandelyns Foxfield, where I work.’

  ‘The treatment was on offer at all the resorts?’

  Elise nodded. ‘In her case, it was put down to a mystery virus. Then, by chance, I heard of a third. But you see, all these ladies lived in different areas, and different causes were given for their deaths, so no connection was made. But I knew they had one thing in common, and that was Mandelyns. I began to be afraid, and after that, I started to read the death columns.’

  She looked up. ‘It was easy to check, because many of our guests are celebrities. But still I did not believe—’

  ‘You found the names of more clients?’

  ‘A couple, yes. They were all of much the same age, so it seemed likely they had been offered the new treatment.’

  ‘Surely there must have been post-mortems, if the deaths were unexpected?’ Steve put in.

  ‘In some cases, yes. There was talk of congenital defects, allergic reactions. But, you see, rashes, swelling, irregular heartbeat – all these symptoms could be side effects of the treatment.’

  Jonathan frowned. ‘Have you spoken to your boss about this?’

  ‘I tried, but he became very angry. He insists there is absolutely no connection, and I must never suggest such a thing, or they take me to court.’ She looked at them, her large eyes brimming with tears.