Deception and Desire

by Janet Tanner

  ‘Yes.’ But he did not say where he had been and she did not ask.

  ‘How did your dinner party go?’

  ‘All right, I suppose. I didn’t find out anything, if that’s what you mean. But it seems there has been a mole at Vandina and last night the finger was pointing at Ros.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘My reaction exactly – at least, at first. And then I got to wondering if it might be possible. There’s been a big security leak – a rival company has come out with a spring range that seems to have been pinched from Vandina. This other company went public with the designs just this week and of course it does look awfully bad for Ros. The way they see it she disappeared at a very opportune moment.’

  ‘Maggie, you can’t be suggesting that Ros … ?’

  ‘I didn’t suggest it – they did – but I did wonder if we ought to at least consider it as a possibility. But now something else has happened – something very worrying – and I’ve changed my mind again.’ She went on to tell him about the bank statement. ‘Surely she’d have needed money by now wherever she is,’ she said.

  ‘I’d have thought so, yes,’ Mike said grimly.

  ‘I’m so frightened! I’ve got this awful feeling something dreadful has happened to her.’ She was hoping, praying, that he would argue and tell her she was being foolish, but he did not.

  ‘I’m going to get on to the police about this,’ he said. He sounded as worried as she was. ‘ When I’ve spoken to them I’ll be right over.’

  ‘Oh Mike, no, I’m sorry, but I’m going out.’ She wished heartily now that she was not; all she wanted was to see Mike but it was too late to change her plans now.

  ‘Tomorrow then? It’s Saturday, and for once I don’t have a cricket match or anything. No one seems to want to play our boys – they’re too bloody rough! But I do have an activities day on Sunday, so I’ll be tied up then.’

  ‘All right, but I’m going to have to go now. Steve will be here to pick me up and I’m nowhere near ready. In fact I was in the shower when you rang.’

  There was a tiny silence, then Mike said: ‘Oh, Steve, is it?’

  ‘Steve Lomax. Ros’s boss’s son.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, and his tone was hard. ‘I know who Steve is. Well, watch yourself, Maggie.’

  ‘I will.’ But as she put the phone down she was wondering just why he had sounded so angry and what it was he knew about Steve Lomax and disliked.

  By the end of the evening Maggie had decided that whatever his reasons Mike was right – she did not like Steve very much either.

  He was charming, yes, perhaps a little too charming, as if the syrup had been dolloped on with a spoon and spread about to create the right effect. He was courteous and attentive – the perfect gentleman. He was intelligent and good company. But Maggie thought he was also conceited and there was an edge of something else she did not quite understand, a hint of something darkly dangerous. In one respect it added to his attraction, and she thought that to many women Steve would probably prove irresistible.

  That edge had come, she imagined, from the life he had lived. He had been a diver at one time, he had told her, working on an oil rig in the North Sea. From what little she knew of such things she guessed it was dangerous work, a maverick existence, certainly very different from the life of luxury he lived now. Maggie had looked at him across the table at the country pub where he had taken her and noticed the exquisitely made shirt, which she was sure was Turnbull and Asser, open at the neck with apparent carelessness to reveal a heavy gold chain, the stylish but immaculate haircut, the Rayban sunglasses tucked into his top pocket, and thought that this was a man who might once have been a rough diamond but had now been cut and polished to a degree which she found positively off-putting. To her mind he was trying too hard to be both suave and macho and for her, at any rate, it did not work. She much preferred the genuine maleness of someone like Mike, who probably threw on the first thing that came to hand and looked in the mirror only once a day, to comb his hair and shave.

  ‘No news of Ros, I suppose?’ Steve asked, offering Maggie a Camel.

  She shook her head to both the question and the cigarette, lighting one of her own export Silk Cut instead.

  ‘No. Nor at Vandina?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry if Jayne upset you last night with what she said about Ros. She likes to be dramatic.’

  ‘She did upset me a little,’ she admitted. ‘ But I know my sister better than to take notice of such wild accusations.’

  ‘Someone at Vandina is passing information about future plans to the opposition. It’s not something to be taken lightly.’

  ‘Whoever it is it is certainly not Ros,’ Maggie said firmly. ‘In fact I’m beginning to wonder if Ros might have discovered the identity of the mole and that’s why she has disappeared.’

  His eyes narrowed behind the haze of cigarette smoke.

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘It’s a serious business, isn’t it, espionage of any sort? This isn’t spying on the international scale, I know, but where companies like Vandina are concerned there must be a great deal of money involved. I know it sounds melodramatic, but is it possible that if Ros discovered who it was who was playing these very expensive games and threatened them with exposure something might … happen to her?’

  His lip curled up a fraction; he looked incredulous and almost amused.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. But something serious.’

  He laughed outright. ‘You’ve been watching too many spy films.’

  Maggie tapped ash from her cigarette, rolling it nervously around the rim of the ashtray.

  ‘Maybe I’m wrong about the industrial espionage connection. But I do honestly think that something dreadful has happened to Ros. I don’t want to think it, believe me, but the signs are not good.’

  ‘What signs, exactly?’

  She told him, finishing with the latest piece of evidence, the bank statement. Catalogued all together it made a bleak and damning picture.

  ‘Yes,’ he said when she had finished. ‘I begin to see why you are so worried. Look, if there is anything I can do …’

  His hand slid across the table to cover hers; slightly embarrassed she removed it.

  ‘There is one other thing. Her ex-husband, Brendan, claims to have seen her with a man in Clifton, and it wasn’t Mike, her boyfriend. You wouldn’t have any idea who it might have been, I suppose?’

  He shook his head. ‘If you mean do I know anyone else who might figure in Ros’s life, the answer is I have no idea – though she was quite a girl. Did this Brendan tell you what the man looked like?’

  ‘Not really. White, aged about thirty. That’s all he could say.’

  ‘Hmm. That description would fit a good proportion of the entire male population.’

  Maggie sighed. ‘I know. It’s hopeless.’

  ‘Another drink?’

  ‘Yes, all right.’

  She watched him go to the bar, saw the way the barmaid responded to his suntanned, blond good looks and the way he was chatting her up, and wished more than ever that she had not come. She had learnt nothing new and Steve made her uncomfortable in a way she could not quite put a name to. Perhaps it was that after three years of marriage she had got out of the habit of being alone with an unattached man and she did not know how to handle it any more. Maggie made up her mind to escape as soon as she could.

  When he returned with the drinks the conversation turned away from Ros, and Steve entertained her with anecdotes of life on an oil rig. He was amusing but a little boastful, the hero of every tale, and Maggie sensed he had moved his chair a little closer to hers.

  ‘I think perhaps I ought to be going home,’ she said.

  ‘Really? It’s only just after ten.’

  ‘I know, but I am expecting a phone call. From my husband,’ she added. It was a lie, but she thought suddenly: Perhaps I should ring Ari. She had been hoping
he would ring her – at least it would show he was thinking of her – but he had not.

  ‘You’re married then?’ Steve sounded surprised.

  ‘Yes. Hadn’t you noticed my ring?’

  ‘I had, but I didn’t know it meant anything. A lot of people are married, as far as it goes.’

  ‘I am most definitely married,’ she said. ‘I came over to see if I could find out what has become of Ros, but my husband couldn’t get away. He has his business to think of.’

  ‘I see.’ But his manner had changed marginally and when he left her he did not suggest another meeting.

  Again Maggie thought of ringing Ari but it was now a quarter to eleven. Taking the time difference into account it would be almost one in Corfu. If he was at home he might very well be in bed and asleep. If he was not … Maggie decided she did not want to know if he was at home.

  She made herself a cup of Ros’s cocoa and sat for a while drinking it. Then she went to bed.

  Sometime in the night Maggie woke. The wind had got up; a branch was banging intermittently against the window, but she did not think that that was what had woken her. It was her mind, chasing furiously around after something she could not quite catch.

  She turned on to her back and lay trying to figure out what it was that was bothering her. Then quite suddenly she knew … and wished she did not.

  In the darkness she seemed to hear Steve’s voice, with its slight transatlantic drawl: ‘… If you mean do I know anyone else who might figure in Ros’s life, the answer is I have no idea – though she was quite a girl …’

  Was quite a girl, not is. Did that mean that Steve thought Ros was dead?

  The wind slapped the branch against the window again and moved through the shrubs in the garden so that it sounded for all the world as if there was someone out there, creeping about. Maggie shivered and pulled the duvet well up under her chin. She did not think she had ever felt more alone in her life.

  Mike arrived soon after ten. Maggie had been up since dawn, restless with the kind of frustrated energy that destroys when it has no directional outlet. She was pale from anxiety and lack of sleep with dark smudges accentuating the tiredness of her eyes.

  Mike took one look at her and said firmly: ‘We are going out.’

  ‘Where? Have you got some kind of lead?’

  ‘Nothing to do with Ros. We are going out to give you a break.’

  ‘But we can’t just do nothing. Not with Ros still missing.’

  ‘There is nothing we can do. Not a thing. I went to the police last night and told them about Ros’s bank statement and I have the impression they may take a little more interest now. They are the ones to do it, Maggie. We have exhausted every avenue we can. And exhausted is the word. If you don’t take a break and relax a little you are going to crack up. Who would that help? Certainly not Ros.’

  ‘We could take her photograph around … show it to a few more people.’

  ‘It won’t do any good. She’s not a missing teenager who might be discovered sleeping rough somewhere. We would need blanket coverage to get us anywhere at all … Hey! That’s a thought! I wonder if we could interest the newspapers in this? If they ran the story of her disappearance together with her photograph then maybe there would be some response! Especially if the nationals picked up on it!’

  ‘Do you think they would?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I should think there’s a story there – especially with you having come over from Corfu especially to try and find her. The only snag is …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If she has simply gone off with someone else we shall look prize fools – especially me. And I should think she would be furious with us.’

  ‘If she’s done that she would only have herself to blame for not keeping us in the picture. And I don’t mind looking a fool. I’d far rather that than find out I was right to be worried, wouldn’t you? Oh Mike, let’s do it, please! Let’s do it now!’

  With the prospect of action her tiredness was dropping away.

  ‘It’s Saturday,’ Mike reminded her. ‘The papers are probably on a skeleton staff.’

  ‘There must be somebody working there! What would go in Monday’s edition if there wasn’t?’

  ‘True. Do you want to phone then?’ He still sounded doubtful. It was a major step for him, Maggie realised. Once they went public with the story of Ros’s disappearance the full spotlight of publicity would be turned on him. It was all very well for her, she didn’t live here, wouldn’t have colleagues, friends and acquaintances all speculating about her personal life. She wouldn’t have to go to work and face the barrage of questions, the innuendoes. Going public would turn Mike’s very ordinary private world into a circus – and if indeed Ros had ditched him and gone off with someone else then it would cause him the most appalling embarrassment. But Maggie was beginning to be sickeningly sure Ros had not gone off with someone else – not of her own free will, anyway.

  ‘Don’t let’s phone,’ she said. ‘They may try to fob us off. Let’s go to the office. At least we would be doing something positive. It’s this not being able to do anything that’s driving me mad.’

  He sighed. ‘All right, Maggie, I’ll take you,’ he said.

  The Western Daily Press, together with its sister paper the Bristol Evening Post, occupied an impressive office block on Temple Way in the centre of Bristol. Saturday-morning traffic roared in a ceaseless stream beneath the underpass and around the roundabout on which it stood.

  As Mike had suggested, the offices were half empty for the weekend, but a reporter attached to the news desk came down to see them, a young woman in her mid to late twenties who introduced herself as Sheena Ross. She listened to what they had to say, her biro flicking busily over the pages of a reporter-style notebook in a series of unintelligible squiggles that might have passed for shorthand, and studied the photographs of Ros that they had brought with them.

  It was, she told them, a story that needed to be properly investigated and presented. She would talk to her editor about how it should be handled and be in touch with them – probably on Monday. But for the first time Maggie felt someone was actually listening and believing.

  ‘If the paper take it up then perhaps at last the police will feel obliged to take us seriously,’ she said to Mike as they left.

  ‘I think they might already be doing that.’ He took her arm, steering her back towards the short-stay car park. ‘At least yesterday I didn’t feel I was being dismissed as a complete crank.’

  She nodded, but it didn’t really make her feel any better. It didn’t mean Ros was safe; if anything it made her fears more real.

  ‘What would you like to do, then?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Nothing. I don’t know how you can even suggest running around enjoying ourselves under the circumstances.’

  ‘I am not suggesting a wild party. I just think it’s very necessary for both of us to try and relax a little if we don’t want to crack up altogether. If it was a nice day I’d suggest a picnic at Ashton Court, but as it’s not we’ll go down to the Watershed, unless you have a better idea.’

  ‘You know I haven’t!’ she snapped.

  He ignored her bad-tempered response, driving through the centre of the city to the picturesque development on the floating harbour, where an attractive row of shops and restaurants and the exhibition buildings where the wine fair was held each year fronted the water. Dozens of small craft were tied up at their moorings and a river boat was plying for trade.

  ‘A trip up the river – just the thing to calm frayed nerves,’ Mike said.

  ‘For you maybe. Not for me.’

  ‘For anyone.’

  In spite of herself Maggie had to admit it was relaxing. In better weather and under different circumstances she thought she would have enjoyed it very much. Whenever the conversation threatened to turn to Ros, Mike steered it away again, talking about his job, the restoration project in progress on Brunel’s great iron ship, the Great Brit
ain, which they passed – anything to keep away from the great dark shadow which haunted them. When they stepped back on to the quayside they had coffee and pastries at a waterfront café and trawled the shops. At a craft stall Maggie bought an amethyst brooch which took her fancy, though she was immediately overtaken by a feeling of guilt that she could do something so frivolous whilst Ros was still missing.

  ‘What would you like to do about eating this evening?’ Mike asked. The afternoon was wearing on, the crowds beginning to thin out. ‘ Shall we look for a pub doing bar food on the way home?’

  ‘No, let’s eat in.’

  ‘A takeaway, you mean?’

  ‘No, I’ll cook something.’ Inexplicably Maggie suddenly felt she wanted to be busy. ‘And let’s not have it at the cottage. Everything there reminds me Ros is missing. Could we do it at your place?’

  ‘If you like. But it’s in a bit of a mess …’

  ‘I promise not to even notice.’

  Mike took her into Broadmead and drove a couple of circuits around the town centre while she went into Marks and Spencer and bought food and a bottle of wine.

  ‘What’s on the menu?’ he asked when he picked her up again.

  ‘Wait and see.’ Almost without realising it Maggie was beginning to enjoy herself.

  Mike occupied the basement flat of a tall old house facing on to one of the less salubrious stretches of the river. It was surprisingly large and light and, considering what he had said, not nearly as untidy as Maggie had expected. His unwashed breakfast things and an empty cornflake packet adorned the draining board, newspapers and a sports schedule he had been working on were spread over the thirties-style golden oak dining table, and a tracksuit and trainers lay where he had dropped them in the tiny bathroom, but compared to Brendan’s chaotic living conditions it was a palace.

  ‘I have a woman who comes in twice a week to clean up,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘ She keeps things under control. Left to my own devices I should soon sink in a sea of muddle.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Maggie said. ‘Now, just show me where everything is and leave it to me.’