Deception and Desire

by Janet Tanner

  ‘The awful thing is, he would probably be better off with her,’ she said, acknowledging the truth of it fully for the first time. ‘You were right about the culture gap being the root of the trouble. With Melina that wouldn’t be a problem. I think Ari regrets marrying me. And Melina would probably give him a child too. Corfiote women seem to be unusually fertile.’ She said it without bitterness but the sadness was there all the same.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘You weren’t exaggerating, were you, when you said you weren’t happy?’

  She sipped at the coffee which had gone cold as she talked.

  ‘Now tell me about you. It’s not fair these confidences should be so one-sided.’

  ‘Me? There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘I’m sure there must be.’

  ‘All right.’

  He told her about Judy, who had destroyed his confidence – and his life – by walking out on him, and reiterated that he was afraid that Ros might have done the same.

  ‘Man’s pride is his Achilles’ heel,’ he said, self-mocking.

  ‘You mean it would be your pride that would suffer most if Ros has gone off with someone else?’

  ‘I’m beginning to think so, yes.’

  As they had talked an intimacy had developed between them, an intimacy on a far deeper level than the explosive physical attraction which had overtaken them earlier.

  ‘More coffee?’ Mike asked after a while.

  ‘Better not. I’ll never sleep. I don’t suppose you happen to have a Perrier?’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t move in the Perrier-drinking circles, I’m afraid.’

  She smiled. That was so obviously true – and she was glad. Much of Mike’s attraction lay in his very ordinariness. Steve would probably have Perrier by the caseload. But he could not hold a candle to Mike.

  She got to her feet. ‘I really must make tracks.’

  ‘Do you want to go?’ His tone was loaded; she knew what he meant. Earlier, when the physical attraction had flared between them he had put a stop to it because he had thought that she was happily married. Now he knew the truth about Ari, and he was prepared to begin again and take the encounter to its logical conclusion.

  But somehow talking about it had had the opposite effect on Maggie. The moment for giving way to physical passion had come and gone. Though she could still look at Mike and want him, she had reminded herself too forcefully of her obligations. When Mike had taken her in his arms and kissed her there had been no time for reasoning, only reacting. Now her mind was in control of her body once more and it was telling her that she was married to Ari and Mike belonged to Ros.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘For tonight I think I do.’

  ‘All right.’ He got her coat and helped her into it. As his hands touched her shoulders she almost weakened, so strong was the longing for him, but she held herself in check. Maybe … maybe when this was all over it would be different. Maybe if she could tell Ros to her face that she was falling in love with her boyfriend, maybe if she left Ari, maybe if she could sort everything out there would be another time when Mike would ask her to stay and she would not refuse. But not tonight. And maybe not ever …

  They went down to the car. It was a fine night now; the stars were shining. Mike unlocked the door and she slid into the passenger seat. As they drove out of town the sound of sirens wailing carried faintly on the night air and Maggie thought she caught a glimpse of a blue flashing light somewhere across the city. But she was too lost in her own thoughts to give it more than a second’s fleeting notice.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sheena Ross, the reporter from the local daily newspaper, had called on Brendan around three o’clock that afternoon.

  She was young and keen with an eye to getting on to one of the nationals when she had served her apprenticeship in the provinces and after she had spoken to Maggie and Mike she had got herself a coffee and lit a cigarette, sitting in the big deserted office and thinking about what they had told her. Sheena had a good nose for a story and she scented one now. This could be her big break – and it was her good fortune that it had come in on a Saturday when she was covering the news desk virtually single-handed. Also to her advantage was the fact that the telephones were unusually silent – no fires, no emergencies of any kind, nothing for the moment to distract her.

  Sheena studied her notes, transcribing some of them back into longhand in case memory failed her and her rather haphazard shorthand let her down. A missing woman might be nothing or it might be very big indeed. At its most dramatic it might turn into a murder. Sheena had worked on a couple, following the human-interest line, but neither had offered very much in the way of meat. This one, if it developed, would be different. It was steeped in just the sort of detail that would make reporting it a joy and reading about it a three-course meal for the avid reader – a victim who had a high-powered job in the world of fashion, and the highly successful local fashion house Vandina at that, a boyfriend who would be well known locally because of the number of children who had been through his hands, and a sister who lived in Corfu. Add to all that the fact that Ros Newman had once been married to local broadcaster Brendan Newman and the story had enough spice to make headline news for days. Sheena stubbed out her cigarette, already savouring the possible triumph of a front-page byline and headed for the newspaper’s archives to see what she could learn about Brendan Newman.

  The telephone rang a few times whilst she was wading through the file of cuttings and each time she swore at the interruption. None of the incoming news was of much interest or importance – the secretary of a local drama group was anxious to get some coverage for a forthcoming production, someone rang in to say a longtime director of a football club somewhere out in the sticks had died. Sheena dealt with them efficiently but impatiently, taking the briefest of notes and transcribing them into short reports on the word processor, anxious only to get back to the story that was fascinating her.

  She snatched a sandwich lunch, eating it with her head still buried in the files she had unearthed, and after taking a few more mundane calls fetched her bag, her coat and her car keys. She left the office, locking the door behind her, and headed out in search of Brendan Newman, who was, after all, the focus of human interest in the story.

  ‘Whatever Happened to Brendan Newman?’ she thought, paraphrasing ‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?’ as she drove through the heavy Saturday-afternoon traffic. That was one thing the files had not told her. But Sheena meant to find out.

  As usual Brendan was hung over. He had surfaced at about midday, swallowed his usual palliative of Alka-Seltzer followed by a couple of cups of strong black coffee and a cigarette. His mouth tasted foul and the cigarette made his head thump dully but he smoked it anyway. He was half watching the sports coverage on TV when the doorbell rang. He stubbed his cigarette out in the already overflowing ashtray and went to answer it.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is PC Nicholls, Redland Police Station.’

  Brendan swore. What had he been up to the previous night? As usual most of the evening’s activity was no more than a blur in his fuddled brain.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It’s about your wife.’

  ‘My wife? Ros, you mean?’

  ‘That’s what I said, sir.’

  ‘She’s not my wife. We’re divorced.’

  ‘Just the same, I’d like to talk to you, sir.’

  Brendan hesitated. He did not want to talk about Ros to anyone, especially not the police. He was sick to death of people asking him about Ros. He wanted to forget her and the pain she had caused him. Besides this the very mention of her name stirred up a well of discomfort deep within him, a discomfort that was almost fear. But telling the police to piss off wouldn’t do any good. If anything it would simply make things worse. Brendan pushed the release button to unlock the communal entrance, slid the chain off his own front door and opened it.

  He recognised the policeman as he came up the stairs as
the same one who had called before.

  ‘What the fuck is it this time?’ he asked rudely.

  ‘It’s about the disappearance of your wife – your ex-wife. Have you seen or heard anything of her since we last talked?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No phone calls, no letters – nothing?’

  ‘I just said that, didn’t I? But there’s nothing unusual in that. Ros and I don’t have anything to do with one another now.’

  ‘And there’s nowhere you can think of she might be? Anyone she might be with?’

  ‘Look, we’ve been through all this before. Why don’t you ask her boyfriend or her sister?’

  ‘We have asked them, sir. Nobody has heard anything from her and she has not made contact with any of her friends. In fact we are beginning to take her disappearance very seriously.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, sir, that it’s looking rather suspicious and we are concerned for Mrs Newman’s safety.’

  Brendan had begun to sweat. ‘Her safety? What are you implying?’

  ‘I think you know very well what I’m implying.’ The policeman’s face was expressionless and somehow it only added weight to his words. ‘We are beginning to wonder if Mrs Newman is still alive.’

  The sweat was trickling down Brendan’s forehead now. He wiped it away with the palm of his hand.

  ‘Of course she’s still alive! She’s a young woman, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean a thing, does it, sir?’ The policeman stepped closer. ‘Would you mind if I took a look around?’

  Brendan barred his way.

  ‘Yes, dammit, I would mind! What is this?’

  ‘Just to establish she’s not living here. It won’t take long.’

  ‘Of course she’s not living here!’

  ‘Then you won’t mind if I check for myself.’

  ‘Oh, all right – if you must. But make it quick.’ He stepped aside, going into the kitchen to get his cigarettes. He could hear the policeman moving about the flat, opening and closing doors. He lit a cigarette and his hand was shaking.

  After a few minutes the policeman appeared in the doorway. ‘Satisfied?’ Brendan asked.

  ‘Well, she’s not here, certainly. That will be all for the moment, sir. If you do hear anything from Mrs Newman you will get in touch, won’t you?’ In the doorway he paused, looking back. ‘You weren’t thinking of going anywhere, were you?’

  ‘What is it to you?’

  ‘If you were I think we might like to know about that too. Good day, sir.’

  When he had gone Brendan kicked the door shut and threw all the locks. Then, in spite of his aching head and pretesting stomach, he poured himself a large whisky and tossed it back, neat.

  He didn’t like this – he did not like it at all. All very well to bluster and act as if he felt confident in front of other people; inside he felt like a shivering jelly.

  So – the police were beginning to treat Ros’s disappearance as suspicious. Inevitable, really – it had to have happened sooner or later. But it was still an unpleasant shock to have that po-faced police officer standing in his kitchen and saying – what was it? – ‘We are beginning to wonder if Mrs Newman is still alive’, and saying it with a look that seemed to suggest he thought Brendan might have something to do with it.

  Oh Ros, Ros, Brendan murmured, and simply speaking her name made his heart contract painfully. What was it about one particular woman that could do this to a man? He’d always been able to pull the birds. When he was a radio personality they’d come flocking, and even now he could still pick up a dolly when he wanted one – turn on the charm, flash the wallet, talk about the glory days and they succumbed, flattered to think they had been singled out by a celebrity, even if in reality his star had set over the distant horizon. He loved them and left them, careful never to get involved, smiled over the letters they wrote him – ‘If you really meant it when you said I was special, Brendan, I will be the happiest girl alive’, or even: ‘Please phone me at the above number – my husband is away for another week’ – and promptly forgot them.

  But not Ros. Ros was different, though he could not for the life of him have said why. There was something about the tilt of her head, the way she walked, her smile, that had got under his skin. From the first moment he had met her he had been besotted and nothing that had happened since had ever changed that. He had come to resent her, hate her even for the success that she had achieved whilst his own career was faltering. He had been angry, hurt and jealous all in turn and sometimes all together. He had hated her for her sharp tongue and for her air of superiority, and had hated himself for what he felt to be his inadequacy where she was concerned. And when all his emotions had become too much for him and the drink was in him he had been violent towards her because it was the only release he knew. But none of this had altered the way he felt about her. Nothing could change that. Nothing ever would.

  Brendan had fetched the whisky bottle and topped up his glass. Drink was his best friend. It helped him to forget and that was what he wanted – wasn’t it? Except that these days even when his brain was too muzzy to make sense of his thoughts the pain and the sense of sick foreboding were still there inside him, even if he couldn’t remember what had caused them. And sometimes he thought he ought to remember. He really ought to remember everything …

  When the doorbell rang around three o’clock his first thought was that it was the police again, and he toyed with the idea of ignoring it. But it rang again, insistently, and if only to stop the noise, which echoed painfully through his aching head, he answered it angrily.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Western Daily Press. Could I have a word with you, Mr Newman?’

  ‘If it’s about my wife, no, you couldn’t. I have nothing to say about her.’

  There was a slight pause, then the disembodied voice said: ‘No, it’s not about your wife. I wanted to interview you. About your career.’

  Brendan experienced relief – and egotistical pleasure. The fog in his brain lifted a little. Automatically he glanced at his reflection in the hall mirror – crumpled slacks, the shirt he had worn last night thrown on again because it had been to hand. Not the image he wanted to project to his public.

  ‘It’s not a good moment. Could you come back later?’

  ‘I’d rather it was now, Mr Newman. I do have deadlines to meet.’

  Deadlines. Christ, he couldn’t let her get away! She might change her mind and decide not to come back at all.

  ‘All right. Give me a minute.’

  He went into the bedroom, emptied his drawer to find a respectable casual shirt and slacks, and combed his hair. There was no time to shave. Lucky for him designer stubble was fashionable.

  He went back to the buzzer. ‘All right, I’m opening the door now.’

  When she came up the stairs he saw that she was young and not unattractive. His practised eye took in a sharp elfin face slightly lost in a shoulder-length curly perm; a loose linen jacket and a skirt short enough to reveal good legs. Brendan was glad he had taken the time to change. He smiled at her, his hangover forgotten as his easy professional manner took over and the well-known charm began to ooze.

  ‘You found me then – all the way to the top of the stairs. Most of my visitors give up at the first landing. I’m Brendan Newman.’

  ‘Sheena Ross. It’s good of you to see me, Mr Newman, and I’m sorry if it’s inconvenient.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, forgetting the inconsistency. ‘ Can I get you a coffee?’

  ‘Thanks, that would be nice.’ She was looking around with a keen professional eye. ‘It’s a nice place you have here. A wonderful view.’

  ‘Not so bad, is it?’ He hunted for mugs. Miraculously there were two, washed up, on the draining board. ‘Sugar? Milk?’

  ‘No, black, just as it comes.’

  ‘Do you want to talk here or shall we go in the other room?’

&nb
sp; ‘Here will be fine.’ She put her bag down on the kitchen table, extracted a notepad and pencil and also a pocket-sized cassette recorder.

  ‘What is it all about anyway?’ Brendan asked, setting a mug of coffee down in front of her.

  ‘I want to do a series on local personalities. Profiles, really.’ She said it smoothly; the delay while he had changed had given her plenty of time to plan her line of attack.

  ‘And what made you choose me?’

  ‘You are a big name in local radio. You’re also, if I may say so, interesting as a person.’ She paused, giving him a conspiratorial look. ‘So many celebrities are frankly a bit boring when you get down to brass tacks.’

  Brendan laughed, his ego flattered.

  ‘You’re right there – and don’t I know it!’

  ‘So – you wouldn’t mind if I asked you a few questions?’

  Brendan sat down opposite her. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘How did you come to get into radio? Were you a journalist?’

  ‘Me? No, I wouldn’t have the patience. I was a musician – I played the sax. The radio station wanted to do a series on jazz. I knew the producer. He asked if I’d like to present it.’

  ‘And you were an instant success.’

  ‘More or less. I’d kissed the Blarney Stone, talking came easily to me. And people seemed to like me. The series was extended to a regular spot and then before I knew it I had my own show.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. All this is pretty well documented in our archives, Mr Newman.’

  ‘Call me Brendan.’

  ‘Brendan. I just needed to check with you that I had the facts straight. Now, if you don’t mind I’d like to ask you a few more personal questions. You say you kissed the Blarney Stone. What else is it about you that you think appealed to your listeners?’