I nearly choked on her splendid port.
‘Well, you do, don’t you?’ she pressed.
‘Uh, yes I do,’ I responded eventually, and not a little uncertainly.
‘Well, that’s all right then,’ she said. ‘They’re all rams, the Davey men. Lad wouldn’t be wedding you unless you’d got that side sorted out, I don’t suppose.’
I was speechless. You have to remember that at home with the Hyacinth Bucket of Weston-super-Mare sex was never even mentioned. I was a divorcee, and my mother had once caught me at the age of fifteen with my sixteen-year-old boyfriend and no knickers, yet I sometimes suspected she still thought I was a virgin.
It therefore came as something of a shock to be sitting with my aged future mother-in-law discussing my sex life – or rather listening to her discussing it. More was to follow.
‘Robin’s father was hung like a donkey,’ she remarked conversationally. ‘Could never get enough of it, neither. Didn’t play away from home though. Neither will Robin as long as he gets his home comforts. They don’t cheat, not the Davey’s.’
‘Right,’ I said. And that was all I could manage.
‘James is the same. Never interested in settling down with one woman, waste of energy as far as he’s concerned. He breaks hearts but not promises.’
She sighed. ‘I still miss it, you know,’ she continued evenly. ‘Wonderful man, Roger, I’m a lucky woman. Love him to bits, and he loves me. But he’s never made my nerve ends jangle. Know what I mean?’
‘Yes, I know what you mean.’ I did too. I may not have done, not quite, before I had met her son.
‘Shock you does it, an old woman talking about sex?’
I gulped. ‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘Surprises me, I suppose.’
‘Surprises me too,’ she said, with a throaty laugh. ‘I remember years ago reading in a magazine about some old geezer who was asked what he wished he’d known when he was eighteen, and he said he wished he’d known that one day the sex urge would go away and what a relief it would be.’
She winked at me. You hardly ever see a woman wink. It was quite captivating.
‘Trouble is, I’m still waiting for that to happen. Don’t know whether to be glad or sorry. More port?’
Grateful that Robin was driving I accepted another huge glassful. Maude continued to talk about her family but somewhat to my relief the sex discussion seemed at an end.
At no stage during the day was Natasha Felks ever mentioned, although I remained all too aware that she had died only eight months before Robin proposed marriage to me. I assumed that Maude and the rest of the family did not talk about her in my presence, even if they were sometimes thinking about her, out of deference to my feelings.
By the time we left for home that evening I had come to the conclusion that Maude Croft-Maple was the most extraordinary person I had ever met in my life. Apart from Robin, of course.
It was during the week after my first meeting with Robin’s mother that the news of our engagement leaked out – as, of course, it was always going to. Never try to keep a secret in a police station. One night Robin and I were enjoying a late-night curry in a little Indian restaurant where I had never before met anyone I knew in the world when in walked Phyllis Jordan, to pick up a takeaway, she explained. I was wearing my diamond ring on my engagement finger and Phyllis spotted it at once. She was after all my favourite office manager because of her extraordinary attention to detail.
I thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head, she stared so hard at my wedding finger. Then she looked up at us both enquiringly and I felt myself flush. I didn’t know whether Robin had guessed that I had not exactly been boasting about our engagement, nor if he had how he felt about it, but he obviously decided the time had come to take the initiative.
I introduced him to Phyllis merely by name, without any explanation, which, I suppose, was pretty cowardly of me.
‘Hi,’ said Robin casually. ‘I’m Rose’s fiancé.’
Well, I suppose I couldn’t blame him. If you’re going to marry a woman you can hardly remain incognito.
Phyllis’s eyes opened even wider than they were already. ‘Delighted to meet you,’ she said, and she couldn’t have looked much more pleased with herself if she’d just won the lottery, as with a knowing smile at me she left the restaurant clutching a bag full of what smelt like a particularly fierce selection of curries.
I knew the news would be around the entire nick in no time and I was not to be disappointed.
‘Congratulations, boss,’ said Peter Mellor, rather pointedly, as we retired to the nearby Green Dragon pub for a lunchtime pint the next day.
I grinned. ‘Phyllis didn’t waste much time then,’ I said as easily as I could manage.
‘Perhaps she didn’t know it was a secret,’ he responded. I studied him carefully. I couldn’t be sure, but I had a feeling my cold fish of a sergeant was a bit offended that I hadn’t confided in him.
‘It’s not,’ I said firmly, and added a bit of a half-fib. ‘Robin’s only just given me the ring, that’s all.’
‘Well, all the best anyway, boss,’ he said.
‘Thanks Peter,’ I said. ‘You must come and meet Robin, have a drink with us one night.’
Well, the word was out now, so I might as well hit the gossip head on.
‘That would be great, boss,’ Peter replied, but I fancied he was a little tight-lipped.
In common with everyone else Peter knew the history behind my relationship with Robin. He also knew that there was still a feeling of dissatisfaction down at the Devon and Cornwall over the way the Natasha Felks’ investigation had ended in limbo. I was well aware that the news that Robin Davey and I were to marry was probably already fuelling better gossip at nicks throughout the South West than had been enjoyed since the wife of a one-time Chief Constable had left him for a young Detective Sergeant twenty years her junior.
For myself I was so besotted and so caught up with all that was happening in my life that I further feared I may be neglecting my work. In some kind of perverse compensation for this I drove myself harder than ever, turning up at my desk earlier and earlier and putting in longer and longer hours. The relatively brief times away from the nick I spent either sleeping or making love. There was time for nothing else any more. During the four days a week that Robin was away on Abri Island I slept. When he was with me at Harbour Court our hunger for each other was such that we seemed to make love almost ceaselessly. But I was starting to leave for work sometimes as early as 5 a.m., and I often did not return until nine or ten at night. And although, unlike Simon, Robin never criticised my timekeeping nor the obsessive way I had of throwing myself into the job, he did tell me frequently that he didn’t know how I could go on like it, and that I was driving myself too hard.
I knew he was right, and did not really need him nor Peter Mellor nor anyone else to point out the error of my ways. Long hours are no substitute for total concentration. By the beginning of December Stephen Jeffries had been missing for three long months. The case was terribly serious now. I was consumed with guilt about the mistakes that I may already have made and the mistakes I feared I was still making. I drove my team as hard as I was driving myself. Anyone not in the office by 8.00 a.m. at the latest could expect a call from me at home or on their mobile. I demanded 101 per cent commitment from them, fully aware that, in spite of the hours spent at my desk, I was no longer really capable of that kind of commitment myself to anything or anyone except Robin Davey.
Certainly I had no time to worry about what may or may not have happened to Natasha Felks, I told myself. And while the Stephen Jeffries investigation haunted me, it was as if I lived merely for the little time I managed to spend with Robin. That was my only relief.
In practical terms we did everything we possibly could to find young Stephen, dead or alive. We combed every expanse of wasteland within miles of the Jeffries’ home and sent divers into every likely expanse of water. We did not find the body
we were dreading, thank God, but neither did we find anything to take our investigations further. I interviewed Richard Jeffries over and over again. So did Mellor and just about everyone else. We got nowhere, and I still found it hard to believe that the man could be guilty and remain so plausible.
Nobody can work for ever without a break. But I was close to collapse before I gave in. Robin desperately wanted to take me to Abri. I had already realised that if I really wanted to marry the man, and by God I did, then I would have to overcome the qualms I still had about the island, but I continued to put off a visit there for as long as possible. I felt haunted by the place.
It was more than a month after our lunch with Robin’s mother at Northgate Farm when I finally allowed myself to be persuaded to take a weekend off. And I still didn’t really want to go back to Abri.
‘About bloody time too,’ said Peter Mellor.
Titmuss merely grunted. Our relationship had sunk to the level when if he could not find anything to actively criticise in my conduct then he appeared to prefer to remain silent.
I was past caring about Titmuss. I cared intensely about Stephen Jeffries, but I also knew that my tormented obsessive approach to his case was probably no longer helping. And so on the evening of the second Friday in December, in the kind of blustery weather you would expect at that time of year – I returned at last to the island which had already played such a fateful part in my life. We travelled by chartered helicopter, Robin’s usual form of transport there, which was also available to guests at an extra charge and in case of bad weather.
The pilot was a jovial black man called Eddie Brown whom Robin knew well from countless journeys between Abri and the mainland, and with whom he obviously had an easy rapport.
Somehow I had barely been aware during my previous visit just how romantic Abri was, but then, I had not been engaged to Robin Davey. This time, although I was aware that my palms were sweating as the helicopter touched down, I became engulfed by the romance of the place from the moment Robin and I began to walk together along the winding cliff-top path which led to Highpoint.
I had wondered what Mrs Cotley’s reaction to the news of our engagement would be, but I need not have been concerned. If she thought it was all indecently soon after Natasha’s death, then, in common with Robin’s family, she gave no sign, but merely congratulated the pair of us warmly and proceeded to fuss over us greatly. As soon as we had finished the meal she predictably insisted on serving us, we retired eagerly to bed. Robin had coolly told Mrs Cotley that we would not be needing the guest room she had prepared and it had been quite entertaining to watch her try not to show her disapproval. There was, however, absolutely no chance of Robin and I missing an opportunity to sleep together – and we both pretended not to notice the housekeeper’s pointed glance at the kitchen clock when we eventually emerged at noon the next day.
We tucked into coffee and eggs and Robin kept kicking me under the table. I felt a bit like a naughty schoolgirl. It was a good feeling.
Our lovemaking, in Robin’s home for the first time, had been perhaps even more fervent than usual. My body, at least, was content. It had been a little strange at first to return to the big double bed in which I had recovered from my ordeal on the Pencil and to share it now with the owner of Abri Island. But I made myself not think about either my experience on that dreadful rock or what happened to Natasha Felks there. And certainly with Robin’s ardent attentions to cope with, that was not too difficult a task. This man was everything I had ever dreamed of – passionate, charming, amusing and kind.
It was almost too good to be true. But it was true. And during that weekend, although the Stephen Jeffries case lurked at the back of my mind for much of the time, I started to feel truly happy and secure in my personal life at last.
On the Sunday afternoon Robin suggested that we walk along the east coast to a sheltered spot, surrounded now by rhododendron bushes, where a granite monument to great-great-great-great-grandfather Ernest John, the first Davey to own Abri, had been erected.
The wind was blowing a gale as usual, but here we were protected and the sun was shining quite warmly for December. Robin took off his coat and lay it on the ground for us, then he produced a silver hip flask.
‘Brandy,’ he said. ‘I wanted us to come here to raise a toast to the past and future of Abri.’
He sounded very solemn. I sensed that he had brought me to the monument for something more than that. For reasons that I could not quite explain, I felt very uneasy.
There was only a little brandy in the flask and we finished it off. Then he stood up and walked over to the monument. He remained looking at it for several seconds before turning back to me.
‘It’s time I told you something,’ he said abruptly. ‘I am leasing Abri to a Japanese consortium who are going to build a luxury holiday development. The deal is nearly done. I will no longer run the island although it will be part of the agreement that I’ll keep Highpoint House.’
I was astonished. More than that I was shocked. Robin had mentioned often enough his need to bring new money into Abri, and I had always known that he spent much of his time on the mainland involved in various financial negotiations – but he had never given me any indication that he had been planning something as momentous as this. Apart from any other considerations, I felt a little hurt that he had not confided in me earlier, although I didn’t say that. I did feel, though, that I had to protest.
‘It’s your family heritage, Robin,’ I began haltingly.
He smiled, interrupting me. ‘I’m leasing, not selling,’ he said.
I could see the strain in him and I wasn’t convinced. ‘But it’ll be like it’s not yours any more, you won’t be running it. You don’t really want the island to become an up-market holiday camp out of your control, do you? Abri’s yours. Your life. Always has been. Your mother told me that.’
He shrugged, and looked away out over the Bristol Channel which contrived around Abri, even in the winter, to acquire the aquamarine hues more commonly associated with the Mediterranean. When he replied his voice was heavy and grave.
‘Everything changes and moves on eventually,’ he said. ‘Abri is draining what little resources my family still has. It’s drained us for generations if the truth be told. We’ve got to the stage now where I cannot afford to keep the island going without major new investment. The way it is at the moment there is nothing to invest in. And no, I don’t want Abri turned into an up-market holiday camp – I certainly don’t.’
He paused and managed a wry smile. ‘But I hope it won’t be quite like that, and in any case I’ve looked at the alternatives,’ he went on. He mentioned the name of another Bristol Channel island, a little smaller than Abri and asked if I had been there. I told him I hadn’t, but I knew about the place.
‘It used to be family-owned like Abri, but the family just ran out of cash,’ he said. ‘In the end they sold for a song to a well-meaning benefactor who wanted to give the island to the nation. It seemed like the best thing that could possibly happen and the islanders even made a presentation to him in thanks. The benefactor handed the island over to the Heritage Trust, which is vaguely linked to the National Trust, and the future seemed assured. After all, the Heritage Trust is supposed to be a non-profit-making charity which preserves things, but what they actually did was to destroy a community, and with utter brutality. Within ten years all the islanders were evicted – families who had lived there for generations were sent packing and their homes turned into holiday accommodation. The Trust might preserve buildings and wildlife, but it’s never given a monkeys for people and the very heart and soul of that island were ripped out. I won’t let that happen to Abri or Abri’s people. Abri is their home, as it has been my home, it’s a proper living community which takes holiday guests.
‘Allegedly non-profit-making charities can sometimes be even more greedy and ruthless than the private sector, Rose, because they’re like religious orders, they bury their consciences
in dictum. I was advised years ago that the best thing I could do in order to turn Abri around financially, even just to survive at all, would be to clear the island as a living community and turn it quite simply into a sole-purpose tourist resort and nature reserve staffed by itinerant workers. And that’s exactly what they’ve done on the Heritage Trust island. Place is manned almost entirely by folk running away from their pasts and with no futures to go to, who are prepared to work for a pittance. Quite frankly I just couldn’t do any of that, Rose. I’d rather step back, give the place over to what at the very least will be a lesser evil.’
‘But won’t your plan really be just as bad for the islanders?’ I asked. ‘Surely your Japanese consortium will want to do what you’ve been told to do.’
‘They can’t. That’s the beauty of leasing the place rather than selling. It’s a condition of the lease that the residents of Abri are guaranteed their homes for life and that employment will first be given to them before any outsiders are brought in. Going for the luxury end of the market makes that possible, you see. The Japanese consortium – AKEKO – are looking to the real top of the market, and they’re even more aware than the Americans of the value of something that is quaint. Abri is quaint all right, and so are its people.’
He managed a wry chuckle. ‘I really believe that the consortium does want to preserve all that. Did I ever tell you there used to be a nine-hole golf course at the far north of the island, built in the twenties by my grandfather?’
I shook my head.
‘AKEKO are going to rebuild the golf course too, which could be a wonderful attraction. Crazy about golf, the Japanese.’
I remained concerned. ‘But it will be the most terrible wrench for you, won’t it?’ I asked.
He took my hand and held it tightly.
‘Yes it will – although not nearly as much as it would be if I didn’t have you,’ he said. ‘And you know, apart from the hard business side of it, there is our marriage to consider. I can’t see you settling down to life on Abri, and we can’t go on leading the double life we are at the moment. That would be no kind of marriage. You are a copper, Rose, a top cop. How can you do your job even spending half your time on Abri? And I know you wouldn’t be happy to give it up, you have worked too hard at it. If you’re not happy then we couldn’t be happy together. Simple as that.’
For Death Comes Softly Page 14
