Shifting Sands

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Vicky, believe me. There’s no way they could know I’ve any connection with the memory stick – they mightn’t even know it exists.’

  ‘But it’s very short notice – next week, for heaven’s sake – and we have to reply straight away.’

  They’d delayed posting it till after Dad’s anniversary, Jonathan surmised. Better not comment on that. He glanced back at the card. ‘Overnight accommodation – that’s a treat in itself! If it’s anything like where Maddy stayed, it’ll be extremely plush. Honestly, sweetie, all you need worry about is finding a babysitter.’

  ‘And buying something to wear,’ Vicky said. ‘I haven’t anything remotely suitable.’

  Jonathan laughed, relief surging through him. Potential crisis successfully averted. ‘I should have seen that coming!’ he said.

  FOURTEEN

  Anna sat staring into her coffee cup. By now, Sophie and Jonathan would have received their invitations. There was no knowing how they’d react, but after her conversations with Beatrice, she’d accepted that since both of them now knew about Lewis, further secrecy was pointless. In fact, a social occasion with a lot of other people present might be the ideal way to smooth over difficulties.

  Consequently, when Lewis phoned yesterday, she’d given him their addresses. Now, all she could do was hope they’d accept. Apart from more serious considerations, she’d welcome their support; she hadn’t met Lewis’s family, who would all be there – possibly including his ex-wife.

  With a twinge of doubt, Anna hoped she was doing the right thing.

  ‘You lucky devil!’ Steve said. ‘How the hell did you wangle that?’

  ‘A sheer fluke! It turns out Lewis Masters was on safari with Ma, and he’s lashed out invitations to all and sundry. So there we have it – champagne reception, overnight accommodation in the lap of luxury . . . and a legitimate chance to snoop round Mandelyns. Can’t be bad.’

  ‘You’re surely not still harping on about that treatment?’

  ‘No, I think we have to accept Elise was off-beam there, but if that wasn’t the motive for her death, what was? And before you remind me, I know it’s in the hands of the police now, but we were in at the beginning, and I can’t help feeling somehow responsible. So I figured I might track down the ex-wife and, with luck, learn some home truths about her husband and son. They’re two of the chief suspects, after all.’

  ‘Seems a bit of a long shot.’

  Steve didn’t know, of course, that, far from a casual acquaintance, this potential murderer now loomed large in his mother’s life.

  ‘Anyway,’ Jonathan continued, ‘I’ll see what I come up with. And failing all else, I’ll get a first-hand experience of Mandelyns.’

  ‘Maddy will be green with envy; I made a rod for my own back, letting her go to Foxfield.’

  Jonathan laughed. ‘Never mind, I’ll give you a blow by blow account, and perhaps you’ll decide to go there for your honeymoon!’

  As it happened, Jonathan was finding it harder than he’d expected to track down Myrtle Page. He’d tried a succession of websites; but although most listed photographs, potted biographies, and appearances on magazines covers and advertisements (including Mandelyns’ Lasting Youth products), none gave contact details. In the end, he phoned a friend at the paper, who, several hours later, came back with a phone number.

  ‘Strictly unofficial,’ he was warned, ‘but this person has been used before as an intermediary. It’s worth a try.’

  It was a woman who answered, an elderly, fruity voice that merely gave her number.

  ‘Ms Irving?’ Jonathan began.

  ‘To whom am I speaking?’

  ‘My name is Jonathan Farrell; I do occasional work for UK Today.’

  ‘Ah – a journalist!’

  ‘For my sins. I’ve been trying to get in touch with Myrtle Page and was told you might be able to help me?’

  ‘And why should you want to contact her?’

  ‘I’m hoping to do an article on models of the seventies,’ Jonathan improvised.

  ‘Whom have you spoken to so far?’

  An astute old bird! ‘Actually, no one,’ he confessed. ‘I . . . wanted to start at the top.’

  A low laugh. ‘Myrtle might be susceptible to flattery, young man, but I’m a tougher nut to crack. I’ll need more than that.’

  ‘Well, I know, of course, that she was married to Lewis Masters of Mandelyns, and that the Group have a thirtieth anniversary coming up. I thought it would be interesting to hear about the growth of the resorts from her perspective.’

  ‘Rather than from the horse’s mouth?’

  ‘If you’re referring to Lewis Masters, I hope to speak to him as well.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’ll pass on your request for an interview and see if she’s amenable. Have you a contact number?’

  ‘Of course.’ Jonathan supplied it. ‘I’d be extremely grateful if you could put in a good word for me,’ he added.

  ‘You can certainly turn on the charm, can’t you, Mr Farrell? I shouldn’t mind being interviewed by you myself! Very well, I’ll come back to you with Myrtle’s answer.’

  And she rang off before he could thank her. Intrigued, he Googled Geraldine Irving, to discover she’d been a minor actress in the sixties and seventies. He swore softly, chiding himself for not having checked on her before and hoping his obvious ignorance wouldn’t count against him.

  Back at Foxfield on his fortnightly visit, Lewis made a point of calling on Bob Jeffries, the general manager.

  ‘What’s the position on a new PA for my son?’ he asked him.

  ‘Actually, we’ve only just begun advertising,’ Jeffries replied. ‘It seemed a little . . . heartless to do so earlier, but since the investigation’s dragging on, we felt we should make a start. Once we’ve whittled them down, Cameron will see the shortlist, but in the meantime Louise Braithwaite is doing the necessary.’

  ‘Tell me, Bob, what’s the general mood here? It’s where the girl was based, after all.’

  Jeffries shrugged. ‘She didn’t appear to have any close friends. Everyone’s shocked and upset, of course, but that’s probably as far as it goes. The police have been trying to find out if there was any bad feeling, but as far as I know they’ve not come up with anything.’ He glanced at Lewis’s brooding face. ‘How are things at Beechford?’

  ‘Much the same – having to sidestep the police at every turn.’

  ‘What about preparations for the dinner? Is that going all right?’

  ‘I believe so; I’m told most of the replies are in now. We’ll be closed all next week, of course, when preparations move into the final stages.’ He picked up his briefcase. ‘Is Cameron around?’

  ‘No, he’s at Woodcot today.’

  Lewis nodded. ‘I’ll catch up with him later. Goodbye, then, Bob. I look forward to seeing you and your wife on the twentieth.’

  ‘We’re looking forward to it, too.’

  Lewis took the lift down. Towelling-robed figures were hurrying across the hall in twos and threes, while another group stood chatting in front of the large open fire. One or two glanced at him as he passed, but he was barely aware of them.

  Looking forward, he thought as he opened his car door, didn’t necessarily translate as looking forward with pleasure. It was a bitter pill that what he’d anticipated for so long as a culmination of success and achievement should now be overshadowed by a murder enquiry. Surely to heaven the police would crack it soon! If he’d been given to praying, he’d have sent up a plea that it should be before next Friday.

  Yvonne turned from the coffee machine and saw Tina sitting at a table by herself, a magazine open in front of her. On impulse, she went to join her.

  Tina looked up with a start and forced a smile. ‘Caught skiving! I was checking on recipes; the in-laws are coming to dinner at the weekend.’

  Yvonne smiled and sat down opposite. ‘Tina, could I ask you something?’

  Tension flared in her face, but she said
lightly, ‘No harm in asking!’

  ‘Just before you left the other evening, I had the impression you were about to say something. Was I right?’

  Tina flushed unbecomingly, the colour spreading up from her neck to cover her entire face. ‘No, I . . . don’t think so.’

  ‘Something that perhaps you thought better of saying?’ Yvonne persisted.

  A quick shake of the head, but Tina wasn’t meeting her eyes.

  Yvonne waited; and eventually she looked up.

  ‘All right, then, but you won’t like it.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Tina took a quick drink of coffee. ‘I’m sure it didn’t mean anything, anyway. It was just . . . that morning, before we left for Chester . . .’

  Yvonne felt goose pimples on her arms. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was on the same floor as Elise, and as I got out of the lift after breakfast, I was almost sure I saw Lewis, disappearing round a corner. I didn’t think anything of it at the time; I just turned in the other direction, towards my own room.’

  Yvonne felt suddenly encased in ice. ‘But later, you did think something of it?’

  Tina moistened her lips. ‘Well, his room wasn’t on that floor.’

  There was a long silence, while Yvonne’s blood drummed in her ears. ‘Have you mentioned this to anyone?’ she asked at last, surprised at the steadiness of her voice.

  Tina shook her head.

  ‘No one at all?’

  ‘No. At first, what with the shock and everything, I forgot about it. Then, later . . . well, I assumed the police would have checked and must have cleared him. Anyway, I couldn’t be a hundred per cent sure it was him, and if it hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have been exactly popular, shopping him to the police.’

  Another silence. Then Tina said fearfully, ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘It’s your story, Tina. It’s up to you, not me.’

  ‘You think I should tell the police, even at this late stage?’

  ‘It’s entirely up to you,’ Yvonne repeated. She stood up, leaving her coffee untouched. ‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said, and walked quickly back to her office.

  Jonathan was at his desk when the call came, and he answered it automatically, his mind still on the screen in front of him.

  ‘Jonathan Farrell?’ asked a low, husky voice, and instantly it had his full attention.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Myrtle Page. I’m told you’d like to do an interview?’

  ‘I should indeed, Ms Page, if you’re agreeable.’

  ‘Oh, I’m always agreeable to publicity,’ the voice drawled. ‘But I gather this is principally to do with Mandelyns?’

  ‘Not principally, no; what I’d like to discuss is your career – how you got started, how you rose to the top of your profession, and how much you consider the world of modelling has changed.’

  ‘Good answer!’ came the reply. ‘Geraldine said you knew the right buttons to press!’

  ‘I assure you—’

  ‘Only teasing, Mr Farrell, pressing buttons in my turn. Don’t deny me that pleasure!’

  Jonathan, nonplussed, waited.

  ‘Will you have a photographer with you?’

  ‘I . . . thought it would be less formal without one,’ he replied, never having contemplated it.

  ‘Fine; I only asked so that I’d know how much warpaint to put on. Very well, Mr Jonathan Farrell: how would tomorrow afternoon suit you?’

  ‘Very well indeed!’ he said with alacrity. This was proving much easier than he’d feared.

  ‘Two thirty then, at number five, King’s Gate Mews, Kensington.’

  ‘I look forward to it.’

  As she rang off, he sat back in his chair, pushing his fingers through his hair. Since this was coming off sooner than expected, he hadn’t yet prepared what to ask her. Obviously, she wanted to concentrate on her career, which was fair enough, if a little old hat from his viewpoint. But he was fairly sure she could be persuaded to discuss her ex-husband and his venture. According to her biography, she was now married to an actor some seventeen years her junior. Jonathan hoped he wouldn’t be on the scene tomorrow.

  Not having been in any hurry to return to Beechford, Lewis called in at Woodcot on his way home, making a circular tour of it and missing his son by half an hour. Of the three resorts, this had been the least affected by the investigation, since none of its personnel had been up in Manchester. As a result, there was a noticeably more relaxed atmosphere among the staff, serving only to emphasize the strain on the other two.

  ‘I’ve a good mind to camp here for the next week or two!’ Lewis joked to the general manager. ‘It’s not too pleasant at either Beechford or Foxfield at the moment. Too many boys in blue.’

  ‘It must be hellish,’ Stuart Daly sympathized. ‘Are they no further on?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, since they don’t confide in me, but we live in hope.’

  ‘I only met Elise a couple of times, when she called here with Cameron. She was an attractive little thing.’

  Yes, Lewis thought, she was; the ensuing frustration and anxiety of the investigation had obscured the personal angle that should have been at its core – the tragic death of a young woman. He remembered with shame his outburst in his hotel room, the day of her death.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said soberly. ‘And the inconvenience is a small price to pay, if it uncovers who killed her. We owe her that, at least.’

  It was after seven when he arrived back at Mandelyns Court, and he was about to take the lift direct to his flat, when he heard his name called, and turned to see Yvonne hurrying in through the front door.

  ‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought you’d be long gone! Is something wrong?’

  ‘No,’ she replied a little breathlessly. ‘Or at least, not exactly.’ She paused. ‘I was hoping to have a word with you, but when it got to seven, I thought you must have gone on somewhere for the evening. I’d just reached my car when I saw you drive in.’

  ‘And whatever it is can’t wait till tomorrow?’

  She half-smiled. ‘Not if I’m to get any sleep!’

  ‘Then you’d better come up to the flat and tell me about it.’

  The express lift carried them to the top floor, where Lewis threw his briefcase on to a chair, switched on a couple of lamps and drew the curtains. ‘Not that anyone can see in,’ he commented, ‘but I dislike a black rectangle in the middle of the wall. Take your coat off. Can I get you a drink of anything? I presume you won’t have alcohol?’

  ‘Not before driving in the dark, thanks, but straight tonic would be fine.’

  He poured her a glass, and a whisky for himself, before sitting back in one of the large armchairs.

  ‘You look tired,’ Yvonne said apologetically. ‘Look, I’m sorry – I should have waited till tomorrow after all. I’ll . . . just drink this and leave you in peace.’

  ‘Oh no you won’t, not after arousing my interest. So tell me: what is it?’

  She swirled the sparkling drink round her glass. ‘I so wish I didn’t have to do this.’

  Lewis frowned. ‘Now you’re really beginning to worry me. Get on with it, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Very well. It’s just that . . . I had coffee with Tina this morning.’

  Lewis waited.

  ‘And she told me something had been worrying her.’

  ‘Yes?’ His impatience was increasing.

  She said in a rush, ‘On the last day, before we left for Chester, she . . . thought she might have seen you near Elise’s room.’

  There was a palpable silence. She daren’t look up, kept her eyes fixed on the bubbles in her glass.

  ‘Oh . . . my . . . God!’ Lewis said very slowly.

  ‘Obviously, she was mistaken, but I thought you should . . . know.’

  God, why isn’t he saying anything? Why isn’t he denying it, telling me not to be so bloody silly, that of course he was nowhere near . . .?

  When she could
bear it no longer, she looked up, to find him staring at her, his face white.

  ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he said, his voice strangled, ‘but I swear to God I’d forgotten all about it. My mind was on other things, which is why I made the mistake in the first place, and once I got to my room, it went entirely out of my head. Entirely!’ he repeated forcefully.

  Yvonne said with an effort, ‘What did?’

  ‘That I mistook my floor. The couple who were in the lift with me got out at the fourth, and I automatically followed them. I was halfway to the room that must have been directly under mine, when I realized my mistake and went back. But God help me, until this minute, I didn’t know that was her floor.’

  He met her eyes then, and she saw anxiety in them. ‘You do believe me?’

  ‘Of course I do! I never for a moment thought—’

  ‘Thank you,’ he cut in, with a strained smile. ‘That’s good to know. Should I speak to Tina myself, do you think? Explain?’

  ‘It would probably be better, coming from you.’

  ‘And, of course, I’ll also tell the police.’

  She made an instinctive movement. ‘Is that . . . necessary?’

  ‘Someone else might have seen me.’ He frowned. ‘Why, don’t you think they’d believe me?’

  ‘It’s a risk, but if you feel you should . . .’

  ‘I’ll sleep on it, but I’ll certainly speak to Tina, first thing in the morning. Thanks, Yvonne, for telling me. It can’t have been easy.’ He smiled. ‘I hope that now you’ll be able to sleep tonight?’

  ‘Like a baby!’ she said.

  Jonathan took the tube to Gloucester Road and, following directions he’d taken from the Internet, walked for five minutes before turning off the main road into a maze of squares and terraces leading to King’s Gate Mews.

  Number five was identical to its neighbours, a three-storey house, the ground floor of which was mostly taken up by a double garage, with a white-painted front door alongside. The upper part of the house was in rosy brick, the first floor having three windows, the centre of which boasted a small, wrought-iron balcony, while three dormer windows punctuated the slated roof. Very nice too, he thought.

  The door was opened in response to his ring by a middle-aged woman of Mediterranean appearance.