by Janet Tanner
She had almost finished when the telephone rang. She ran down the stairs eagerly, part of her hoping it might be Mike, though common sense told her he would be teaching by now.
‘Hello?’
‘Margaret? It’s me, your mother.’
Her heart sank. ‘ Oh hello, Mother.’
‘Margaret, have you seen the papers?’
‘Oh.’ Back to reality with a jolt. ‘You mean … ?’
‘Brendan. Margaret, it is too awful! I mean, I never did like the man, but this …’ Her voice tailed away. ‘It’s all over the front page of the Western Daily Press. And Rosalie is mentioned too.’
‘What does it say?’
‘That she is missing. That no one knows where she is. And you are quoted as saying you are very worried about her. They even seem to know you are over here from Corfu. How did they know that?’
‘It’s a long story. We thought, Mike and I …’
‘Yes, Michael is named too. Rosalie’s current boyfriend, they call him. Really it is most embarrassing! I only hope not too many of our friends read it. Most of them take the Telegraph, of course, but just the same …’
As always Maggie felt her irritation beginning to mount at what she considered her mother’s shallowness. Ros was missing, Brendan was dead, and Dulcie was worrying about what her friends would think!
‘Harry says the whole thing is disgraceful,’ Dulcie continued. ‘He feels the implication is that Brendan might be connected in some way with Ros’s disappearance. It’s ridiculous, of course, not to say libellous …’
‘I don’t think one can libel the dead, Mother,’ Maggie said, her tone sharper than she intended. ‘And if the publicity can do something to help find Ros, then I think it’s worth a little embarrassment.’
Dulcie bridled. ‘ There really is no need to take that tone with me, Margaret. And I still think it is ridiculous to suggest that anything dreadful has happened to Rosalie. I wish you would put such an idea out of your head.’
‘Mother …’
A ring at the doorbell. Maggie jumped at the chance to end the conversation.
‘There’s somebody at the door. I am going to have to go. I’ll phone you back.’
‘Very well. I shall be out this afternoon, though. It’s my day for the Townswomen’s Guild.’
‘I’ll catch up with you sometime.’ She replaced the receiver and went to the door.
‘I wondered if I could have a chat with you, Mrs Veritos.’ It was Sheena Ross, the reporter from the Western Daily Press.
‘Oh yes. Come in. Would you like a coffee?’
‘Love one. Look, I’m sorry to just descend on you but I think we need to talk.’
‘Of course.’ Maggie made the coffee and Sheena sat down at the kitchen table, open pad in front of her.
‘You’ve heard about Brendan Newman, of course.’
‘Yes. And I understand you’ve run a front page on the story today.’
‘Have you seen it?’
‘No, but my mother has. She was just telephoning me about it. She’s not happy.’
‘Sorry about that. I thought you wanted publicity. And in any case, Brendan Newman is still news, though he’s not the public figure he was. How do you feel about his death?’
‘Shocked.’
‘Understandably. What do you think made him do such a thing? Always assuming it was suicide, of course.’
Maggie was aware of alarm bells beginning to ring. On Saturday the publicity had seemed like a good idea; now she was not sure exactly what sort of demons she was unleashing.
‘I honestly don’t know.’
‘You don’t think it might have been guilt?’
‘I told you – I don’t know. To be honest I can’t tell you any more than I told you on Saturday.’
‘Then perhaps you could fill in some background details about your sister,’ Sheena said, shifting tack. ‘What sort of a person is she? And her job – she works for Vandina, I understand.’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Perhaps some of her mother’s discomfort with the situation had rubbed off on her, Maggie thought, for she now felt curiously reticent. How could it possibly help find Ros to have all kinds of personal details plastered over the press? But since she had been the instigator she did not see how she could back off now. She answered the reporter’s questions giving as little away as possible.
‘What about the boyfriend?’ Sheena asked.
‘Mike?’
‘Yes. They have a good relationship?’
‘Oh … yes …’ Maggie flushed slightly. ‘As far as I know …’
The reporter’s sharp instinct picked up the slight hesitation.
‘There wasn’t any trouble between the boyfriend and the ex-husband? Jealousy – that sort of thing?’
‘Brendan was always jealous. There was nothing new in that. But he and Ros were divorced. She had every right to new relationships.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘To be honest, I don’t see where this is getting us. Have you got everything you want?’
‘For the moment.’ The reporter closed her notebook with a snap. ‘I’m on my way to the police station now. If I need anything more I’ll be in touch. And likewise, no doubt you’ll let me know any developments?’
‘Yes.’ Maggie wondered if she should tell the reporter she would be contactable only at Mike’s and decided against it. She didn’t want to encourage speculation on that front. Just the smallest hint could be very damaging. Dealing with the press was all very well but it was a little like having a tiger by the tail. You never knew what they would make of something, how far you could trust their discretion and even whether or not what they printed would be accurate.
The washing machine had finished its cycle and as the day was warm with a fresh breeze Maggie decided to hang out the sheets and get them at least partially dry before leaving. There was no hurry, after all. Mike would be at school until four o’clock. Maggie put the sheets on the line then pottered about the cottage, her mind butterflying over the momentous and varied events of the last days.
Just before midday the telephone rang. Mother again, Maggie thought, going to answer it. But it was not her mother – it was Mike.
‘You’re still there, then?’
‘Yes. I’ve been clearing up and I’ve had the Western Daily Press reporter here. Brendan’s death seems to have made the story big news.’
‘I’ve seen the headlines. You’re all right though?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just thought I’d ring and make sure. Oh, and there’s something else I thought of. With all this blowing up I wondered if it might be a good idea to go over to Vandina and collect Ros’s personal things.’
Maggie experienced a twinge of discomfort. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Ros dealt with a lot of her personal affairs from the office. She used to say she might as well make use of her secretary and the office franking machine. She looked on it as one of the perks of her job. It occurred to me that since she’s not there any more it might be wise to take possession of anything … personal. Now the newspapers are interested you can never be quite sure what they will do.’
‘Vandina wouldn’t hand anything over to them without Ros’s say-so, surely?’
‘I wouldn’t think so, but reporters can be very persistent – and tricky. I just feel we should have the whip hand over what they do, or don’t, get hold of. Could you go over and see to it, do you think?’
‘Well – yes, I suppose so. If you really think …’
‘I do.’
‘All right. I’ll go now. I’ve got nothing else to do.’
‘Good girl. I’ll see you about four.’
‘Yes, see you.’ She replaced the receiver, warmed through and through simply by hearing his voice, though her initial reaction was to wonder just what he was going on about – she could not imagine Ros would have left anything really confidential at Vandina. If she had, of course, she could see his point
. It wouldn’t be very nice if the papers got hold of details of Ros’s private life. But she was not too keen on the prospect of simply turning up at Vandina and demanding Ros’s belongings. For one thing it might be very inconvenient for them, for another she was not enraptured at the thought that she might very well run into Steve. It could all be very embarrassing, she thought. Far better to ring and warn them she was coming.
She picked up the phone again and dialled the Vandina number, wondering who she should ask for. Dinah, perhaps, in view of the fact that she had been her guest the other evening? Or was that taking advantage of the invitation? Best, perhaps, to speak to Dinah’s secretary.
A few moments – and a burst of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik – later, Maggie found herself connected to Liz Christopher, explaining that she would like to collect any of Ros’s personal possessions that might be in the office and asking when would be a convenient time for her to call for them.
The secretary sounded surprised, and a little upset.
‘Oh dear, does this mean you think Ros won’t be coming back?’
‘No, it doesn’t mean that,’ Maggie said swiftly. ‘It’s just that since we don’t know where she is I think it would be a good idea to have her things here, at home.’
‘I see,’ Liz said, though she clearly did not. ‘Give me an hour or so and I’ll get them up together for you, Mrs Veritos.’
‘Thanks,’ Maggie said. She had been hoping to go more or less straight away as she was anxious, now, to get to Mike’s flat. But she could hardly quibble over an hour. Maggie glanced at the clock, decided it was close enough to lunchtime, and went into the kitchen to make a sandwich. After lacking appetite for days she was suddenly ravenously hungry. Was this what love could do? If so she had better be very careful or she would be putting on weight. But for the moment, she simply did not care.
Liz Christopher replaced the receiver and glanced up at Jayne Peters-Browne who was perched on the corner of her desk.
‘That was Ros’s sister, Maggie. She wants to collect Ros’s personal things. Now why in the world should she want to do that?’
Jayne swung one leg idly. ‘She doesn’t trust us, I suppose.’
‘I’ve said I’ll get the stuff ready for her, but do you think I ought? I mean, I know she’s her sister but Ros might not want her personal things handed over to her. And anyway, I don’t like the thought of doing it. I know I shall feel I’m prying.’
Jayne laughed. ‘ What a hindrance scruples are! If it makes you queasy leave it to me. I’ll do it.’
‘But you’re so busy …’
‘Not that busy,’ Jayne said, a slightly bitter note creeping into her voice. ‘Dinah is still playing her cards close to her chest about her new spring range. I should be in on it, helping her with the design. It’s mortifying not to be allowed to do the job I was employed for.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll copy you in on the plans soon,’ Liz soothed. ‘But in any case, it’s just not your pigeon to have to sort out office affairs. I wouldn’t expect you to …’
‘Rubbish!’ Jayne said forcefully. ‘ I’ve offered to sort Ros’s things out and I will.’ She did not add that her offer of help was far from being altruistic – she was actually relishing the thought of having carte blanche to rummage through Ros’s personal belongings. ‘I’ll go and do it now. Have you got a key to open her filing cabinet?’
‘It’s open. We’ve had to have access to the things she was working on in her absence.’
Jayne slid off the corner of the desk, smoothing her skirt down over her thighs, and went into Ros’s office. With the windows shut, the chair set precisely behind the desk and Ros’s pens and pencils lined up neatly on the blotter it had something of the abandoned air of the Marie Celeste.
Some files which had been needed were piled neatly on the desk but Jayne ignored them, opening drawers and flicking through the papers inside to look for anything that might be considered personal.
After a few minutes’ searching Jayne was feeling vaguely disappointed. Correspondence with an electrician Ros was contracting to do some work on the cottage and an oriental rug importer from whom she clearly intended to make a purchase hardly constituted the sort of titillating discovery she had been hoping for. In another drawer was a glossy magazine and a couple of wallets of photographs – Jayne flicked through them eagerly but they were all innocuous, mostly of Mike and Ros herself, obviously taken on a day out to a garden somewhere when the rhododendrons had been in bloom – Stourton, perhaps, or Heaven’s Gate. There were two letters from a friend in Scarborough relating domestic anecdotes and a postcard from someone on holiday in the Dordogne. Hardly epoch-making, any of it. Jayne put it all together in a large manila envelope and, without much hope, opened the smallest drawer in Ros’s desk and drew out a pink cardboard wallet.
A wad of correspondence had been stuffed loosely inside; Jayne extracted it and noticed that the top letter – addressed to Ros at her home address – was headed with the name and logo of an Aberdeen-based corporation, Excel Oil. Instantly her attention was alerted – wasn’t that the company Steve had worked for before coming to Vandina? She flipped quickly through the papers; copies of letters which Ros had obviously typed herself on her small portable machine rather than getting Liz or one of the typists to do them for her, and a sheaf of notes, handwritten, that read almost like a diary. Jayne felt her skin begin to prickle and she read the whole file again more slowly, thoroughly digesting the contents.
By the time she had finished Jayne could hardly contain her excitement. When she had offered to sort through Ros’s personal things she had done it from motives of nosiness, nothing more. Yet now she held in her hands information that could very well be synonymous with a barrel of dynamite.
Jayne sat back in Ros’s chair, a smile curving her generous mouth as she reflected on the strange tricks fate could play. Only yesterday Steve had threatened her because he had learned her secret, only yesterday her position had seemed untenable, her future insecure and out of her control. But also yesterday she had gleaned the first inkling that he, too, might have something to hide. And now, like a gift from the gods, she had discovered what it was. Nothing concrete, of course, just a second-hand rendering of Ros’s suspicions. But somehow Jayne had no doubt at all that they were well founded.
‘Well, well, Steve!’ she said aloud, though very softly and very triumphantly.
Steve was in his office trying to check progress schedules against projected delivery dates, but concentration was not coming easily. In general he was able to be single-minded about whatever he was doing – useful in almost any situation, vital to his very survival when he had been working as a diver – but today he found himself wandering off at a tangent so frequently that any continuity in his work was not so much difficult as impossible. And the tangent was Jayne Peters-Browne.
When he had unearthed the fact that she was the mole at Vandina, conducting industrial espionage on behalf of Reubens, Steve had been not so much angry as amused. The fact that she was being both duplicitous and daring only enhanced the attraction she held for him and he had enjoyed the feeling of power over her that the knowledge had given him. His affair with Jayne had always been a game; now a new element had been introduced and the result was oddly refreshing.
From the point of view of the company the fact that Jayne had been less than faithful bothered him not at all. He had no emotional ties to Vandina; he did not feel, as Dinah did, that his favourite child had been violated. He had wanted to discover the culprit and put a stop to the espionage only because if Vandina’s profits and image suffered as a result he would suffer with them. The healthier the company, the bigger the profits, and the better off he personally would be, both financially and status-wise. He could draw a bigger salary, claim more expenses, have a better car at the company’s expense, and ultimately he would come into an inheritance all the more worth having. A mole might have threatened all these things if the leaks had proved increasingly damagi
ng.
But once he had realised that Jayne was the person he was after, the threat to his lifestyle had receded to the point of being nonexistent. Had he discovered any one of the company’s other employees doing the same thing he would have dismissed them instantly. But not Jayne. He could handle her. He had handled her – and he had enjoyed doing so. The leaks would stop now, he was certain. Whatever Jayne’s connections with Reubens, the deal he had offered her was worth more.
Only one thing had bothered him – the comment she had made that he had something to hide. But on reflection he was fairly sure that that had been no more than a shot in the dark, a way of trying to defend herself by the prescribed method – attack. He could not really believe that Jayne, or anyone else for that matter, could possibly know the truth about him. He had covered his tracks too thoroughly and thought through every eventuality, every juncture where things might go wrong. No, she had just been whistling in the wind, he was sure but it had been unnerving, all the same, that moment when he had thought that somehow she had stumbled upon his secret.
The door to his office opened and Steve looked up, expecting it to be Dinah, who was the only person who had the right to enter without first obtaining his permission. But it was not Dinah.
‘Jayne!’ The fact that he had just been thinking about her so that she had practically eavesdropped on his thoughts made his tone even sharper than it would otherwise have been. ‘I thought I made it clear the other day that I expect you to knock before barging into my office.’
Jayne only smiled and came right on in, closing the door behind her and leaning against it.
‘Don’t be like that, darling! I just popped in to make arrangements for our lunchtime rendezvous.’
He eyed her coldly. ‘ We don’t have a lunchtime rendezvous – not today, at any rate. I plan to spend my lunch break with my mother.’
‘Ah, your mother!’ Her voice was silky soft, yet overlaid with hidden meaning. ‘I’m sure she would understand if you told her that something quite unavoidable had come up. She really is very understanding where you are concerned, isn’t she?’
