‘Then you came along and he tried to do the same thing with you.’
I thought again, as I did so often, about my first meeting with Carl. So that was why he had approached me in the way he had. He had seen his own mother sitting there on that old decaying tree trunk, his mother crying those awful, desperate tears. That was why he had loved me so obsessively and why he had always been so determined to protect me. Fleetingly I wondered if that was all there had ever been behind his love for me.
‘Can an anankastic be cured?’ I asked suddenly.
Frank Harvey looked thoughtful. ‘Probably not,’ he replied. ‘But his condition can be controlled. I reckon Carl managed to do that a lot of the time, from what you’ve told me, didn’t he.’
I nodded agreement. I had nothing to say. I was shaken by just how little I had known of the man I had shared my life with.
Over the next few days I despatched Mariette to ride the Conch Train through the city streets, visit Hemingway’s house and take part in the other tourist rituals that were almost obligatory for visitors to Key West, while I looked for Carl.
This was all I wanted to do. It was what I had come to America for. And I was happiest alone. I prayed that I would catch sight of him around every street corner, in every bar I hoped to meet someone who had seen him. Most didn’t even seem to grasp what I was saying, or maybe that was just the impression they gave, and appeared to regard me merely as possible pick-up material.
At night Mariette and I had dinner together and maybe visited a bar or two, while I tried desperately not to spend the entire time pumping everyone we encountered about Carl. Mariette, of course, fitted into Key West as if it were a pair of old slippers – as, indeed, to anyone born and bred in St Ives it more or less was. I truly felt there was a strange kinship between this idiosyncratic island at the southernmost tip of America and the little Cornish seaside town in which we had made our home. Those who are left of the indigenous population of Key West are a weird and wonderful lot. Curious though it may seem, I really could believe that you could swap them with the remains of the indigenous population of St Ives with not a lot of trouble. Carl had been right about that. They would fit easily into each others’ environments. So strange to come halfway across the world and feel this.
Mariette, of course, denied it hotly. ‘When we go back you can try asking for a margarita down the Sloop and I’ll just watch,’ she said, deliberately refusing to understand what I was trying to say.
I gave up, then. But I still believed I had discovered a truth.
Every evening at sunset, while Mariette drank margaritas at Mallory Dock and flirted outrageously with the waiters, something of a reflex action for her, I reckoned, I got in the habit of walking by the sea. I had a vague belief that I would find Carl on a beach somewhere at this time of day, away from the masses of people on the pier, all alone watching the sun go down.
Mariette and I had bought the cheapest air tickets available and were locked in to a flight home after ten days. Having spent eight of these in Key West, fruitlessly searching for my lost man, it was time to head back towards Miami. With a heavy heart, now, I went for my last evening beach walk. I had lost my initial optimism, my stubborn belief that Carl must be here somewhere. I was coming to have to accept that the world was a pretty big place. He could be anywhere.
As far as Key West was concerned my search had become merely automatic. I no longer believed Carl was there.
On this last night on the island I walked along the beach over by the big hotels at the back of the old town with my head down, kicking my toes in the sand, not even bothering to look around me.
I heard the music first, those familiar haunting strains wafting through the cooling evening air.
Suzanne takes you down
To her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her . . .
Then I saw him. He was sitting on the sand with his back to me, hunched into some kind of dark coat, silhouetted against the setting sun. I could just see the top of his head, the familiar sprouting of spiky fair hair. The music was coming from a ghetto blaster by his side.
For a second or two I stopped in my tracks. I stood absolutely still. Then I began to run, calling his name, but still he did not turn round.
By the time I reached him the tears were pouring down my face. I flung myself on to the sand in front of him and reached out my arms towards him. His head was slumped almost on to his chest. At last he looked up.
His eyes were glazed and bloodshot. His skin was filthy and covered in red blotches. His hair was actually peroxide white, black at the roots and filthy. He stank. The eyes stared, the trembling, cracked lips began to shape a parody of a smile. ‘Who are you, then, sweetheart? Come to keep me warm in the night, have you?’
He swayed his body towards me. I recoiled sharply, at the same time noticing the empty syringe nearby on the sand. From the ghetto blaster I vaguely heard the voice of a disc jockey. ‘And there we have it, folks, an ultimate sound of the Seventies . . .’
My arms were still outstretched. Gravity allowed them to fall to my sides. I shuffled further back from him, found my feet and started to run, the tears falling freely now.
It had not been Carl sitting on the beach waiting for me to come to him, to find him, while he played our song over and over again. Just some sad druggie giving himself a fix. Oblivious, probably, to the music being played on his radio, to the song that had shaped so much of my life.
I slowed to a walk and wiped away the worst of my tears before rejoining Mariette on the pier. Nonetheless she gave me a curious glance and the muscle-bound young man in singlet and shorts who had no doubt been chatting her up took one look at me and retreated fast.
My distress had turned to anger, and I think it showed. ‘C’mon let’s pack and get out of here,’ I said. ‘I’m done with chasing shadows.’
Twenty-One
We went to bed early and left right after breakfast, having decided to spend our last night at the Neptune Motel from which we could be at Miami airport in just over an hour and a half. I promised Mariette that the search for Carl in the Keys was over. I didn’t tell her about my experience with the druggie and his radio, but she knew something had happened.
We drove the first part of the journey in silence. I had insisted that I didn’t even want to talk about Carl any more and that I intended simply to enjoy our last twenty-four hours in Florida. The trouble was that when you cut Carl out of the conversation just like that, there suddenly didn’t seem to be anything else to talk about.
Mariette wasn’t fooled. As we crossed the bridge into Islamarada she glanced at me sideways. ‘Want to check with the painted lady?’ she asked.
I shook my head.
Mariette smiled. ‘Liar. It won’t take ten minutes. At least you may be able to satisfy yourself that Carl hasn’t been to see her while we’ve been chasing all round Key West.’
I smiled back. ‘Thanks,’ I said.
Maybe I remained a dreadful judge of men, or perhaps it was just how you looked at things, but as far as finding a friend went I’d struck gold with Mariette. I was certain enough of that.
We pulled into the Bay Point’s mile or so long drive just before 11 a.m. and this time were able to drive straight to reception. The plastic receptionist greeted us with the same artificial smile as before and, when we asked to see Mrs Barrymore, pushed a series of buttons on the telephone beside her with what was no doubt her customary efficiency.
Over the phone’s speaker system the voice I remembered so well said simply: ‘Yes.’
‘I have Miss Adams and Miss Powell from the UK for you again, Mrs Barry . . .’ began the girl.
She was interrupted by an angry-toned outburst: ‘Sandra, didn’t I say that if those two turned up again you were to tell them I was . . .’
We didn’t hear the rest because Sandra promptly switched the speaker mode off. Blushing slightly she apologis
ed to us and said that unfortunately Mrs B. was not available. It was quite reassuring to see that Sandra did have some human qualities but we obviously were going to learn no more from Claire Mendleson Barrymore.
We told Sandra we’d got the message and left.
‘I wonder if she has heard from Carl,’ I mused aloud as we climbed back into the hire car.
‘She won’t be telling us, that’s for sure, not either way,’ muttered Mariette.
‘I can’t help wondering what she might do if he did turn up here. I think she might be capable of, well anything, don’t you . . .’
Mariette was ever practical and to the point. She was also beginning to lose patience, I suspected. ‘What, like your Carl you mean?’
‘No, of course not . . .’
She interrupted me. ‘I know, I know, he never meant to hurt anyone. If you ask me, he and the painted lady probably deserved each other.’
I decided to ignore her inferences. ‘She would like nothing better than to be rid of him for ever, though, wouldn’t she?’ I persisted.
Mariette sighed wearily. ‘Suzanne, you’ve been watching too many bad movies.’
I imagined she was right, as usual. But I decided to make just one last call. From the Neptune Motel I phoned Theodore Grant – I didn’t feel up to any more rebuffs in the flesh – and asked him the question I had wanted to put to Claire.
‘No,’ he responded easily enough. ‘Still no sign of him around here. But, in any case, I don’t figure he’d want to seek me out . . .’
I gave him Mariette’s number back home and asked if he would be good enough to call us there if he ever did see Carl or hear anything at all of him. He agreed he would, although I didn’t really believe him. I didn’t tell him that I had learned about the part he had played in the break-up of Carl’s marriage and all that happened after Claire told him she was leaving him. There didn’t seem any point.
We had dinner at the Sundowners that night, enjoying the moonlit balminess of the Keys for the last time. At least, I hoped Mariette enjoyed it. Try as I might, I remained totally preoccupied.
The next day we drove to Miami, deposited the hire car and caught our flight home, which, while torturous in every other way, as had been the outward flight, at least left and arrived on time.
I guess I had been harbouring the hope that we would return to some news of Carl. We didn’t. The Devon and Cornwall Constabulary continued to have an alert out for him but nobody had seen or heard anything of him. If it had been Carl who had thumbed a lift to Plymouth from a lorry driver, he had left no further trail. And while we were away a well-known local villain had been arrested and charged with the burglary at the Plymouth flat, and the stolen passport recovered.
Carl seemed to have disappeared into thin air, and I didn’t need Mariette to remind me that this wasn’t the first time.
Carl had fled to England after the death of his daughter, and built a new life and a new identity for himself. I had become part of that without even knowing it. Maybe he was just doing it again. Maybe that was how he would always live.
‘If you ask me he’s never stopped running,’ Frank Harvey had said.
Perhaps it was all Carl really knew how to do. He had certainly always been good at it. He had had a kind of sixth sense, it seemed now, for keeping us out of trouble during our time at St Ives, right until the very end.
‘Getting a new identity is no problem,’ Rob Partridge had told me. ‘It’s not being able to let go of the past which catches people out.’
That and chance, and carelessness. Driving too fast, getting burgled, getting ill. Carl had never been careless. But he couldn’t have bargained for Will Jones’s ridiculous jealousy, and both of us were in turn so obsessed with our own pasts that even the possibility of those threatening letters having referred to anything except the various secrets we were hiding had only fleetingly occurred to us and been swiftly dismissed.
But now, one way or another, Carl was gone.
‘You have a life to live,’ Mariette instructed. ‘You’re on your own now and you just have to accept it.’
Once again she was right, of course. And perhaps one of my problems was that I still harboured the notion that sooner or later Carl would come looking for me.
There were times when I suspected Mariette’s patience was running out for good, which was fair enough really.
Mariette’s mother’s patience was definitely running out. I was able to pay for my keep now, of course, but I knew that she would like her front room back. In any case there was barely space for me in it along with all those pieces of brass, and even if Mrs Powell’s cottage had been big enough to accommodate a lodger comfortably I would not have been a particularly attractive long-term proposition – I came with far too much mental baggage.
In the end I stayed with the Powells for another three weeks after returning from America, before finding myself a small flat to rent just off the Hale Road. It was at the top of the hill past the Porthminster Hotel, quite a steep climb up from the town, and there was no sea view, but it was clean and comfortable, and would do well enough until I had fulfilled my next aim. I wanted to buy a modest home of my own. I had just about enough cash as long as I could work – and Mariette solved that problem for me a couple of weeks later when she announced excitedly that the St Ives Archive Study Centre, housed upstairs at the library, was looking for a new researcher. The pay was a pittance but it was better than nothing and the work suited me absolutely. Carl had been right about one thing: I had no experience of being employed and I had indeed wondered what kind of a job I would ever be capable of holding down. But I’d got lucky and found something that was close to perfect for me. It meant burying my nose in books and old papers, which I had done for pleasure all my life, and although I had never used computers before, I could type, thanks to Gran, and I took to the computer age with surprising ease. I was really quite excited about the whole thing. If I failed it would not be for want of enthusiasm or effort.
Nonetheless I found my first week at work totally exhausting. I supposed I would get used to it and that nervous tension was the main part of the problem. The Centre was involved in a particularly demanding project concerning the history of the part of town where the Tate Gallery now stands and I was even asked to work on the Saturday morning. Mariette was also on duty in the library but at lunchtime I turned down her suggestion that we go for a beer and a sandwich. All I wanted to do was to get back to my flat, put my feet up and have an afternoon nap.
It was the third week in August. Almost exactly three months had passed since Carl had escaped from the court jail at Penzance, and even I was beginning to wonder if he really had gone for good and reinvented himself somewhere else.
I kept in touch with DS Perry, but she had nothing more to tell me, although she assured me that she remained in contact with the police in America and that if there was any news of Carl there she would know at once.
For once I wasn’t thinking about Carl at all as I began to walk wearily home that sunny Saturday afternoon. My new job had not only proved to be both mentally and physically tiring, but had also given me plenty to occupy my mind, which was probably just what I needed. The walk was uphill all the way. There was a bit of a short cut, which I had so far avoided because it would take me straight past Rose Cottage, but I was so worn out that I decided only the fastest way home would do.
When I turned into the familiar alleyway for the first time in so long, I noticed a Dyno-Rod van on the corner and, as I walked past the cottage, out stepped Will Jones. I supposed I had realised that I would meet him sooner or later, although since returning to St Ives I had deliberately avoided anywhere close to his gallery and the two or three pubs that I knew to be his favourite haunts, but I was shocked to see him emerging from my own front door. I still thought of it that way, you see. Well, six and a half years in one little house is a long time.
I gasped. Will stepped smartly back. Then he smiled. I glowered.
�
��Hi, Suzanne, I’ve been looking out for you,’ he said. I could hardly believe my ears. Had the man no shame?
‘What do you mean, looking out for me?’ I snapped. ‘Haven’t you been following me? Isn’t that what you normally do?’
He assumed a hangdog expression. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help caring for you.’
He made me sick, he really did. He had caused so much damage.
‘I’ve only ever wanted to look after you,’ he said. His voice was a whine.
I wanted to slap his face. In any case the last thing in the world that I wanted was anyone ‘looking after’ me ever again.
‘What are you doing in my house?’ I asked coldly.
‘It’s not your house any more,’ he replied.
‘You know what I mean,’ I said.
‘I’m renting it,’ he told me.
I had suspected as much. The very thought gave me the creeps. Was I to be haunted by obsessions all my life? ‘I don’t believe it!’ I said. ‘How could you?’
He assumed an expression of studied innocence. ‘I have no idea what you mean. I just wanted a little place in the middle of St Ives, that’s all.’ He smiled, only it looked more like a leer.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The whole thing was absurd. Will Jones lived in a big modern clifftop bungalow off the Penzance road. The only possible interest he could have in Rose Cottage was me. I knew that. And so did he.
‘You’re not actually living here, are you?’ I enquired.
‘Of course.’ He puffed up his chest a bit and stood up very straight, as if the full extent of his towering six foot five would automatically give him an advantage. Somehow he managed to look even more pathetic.
‘Will, you’re not right in the head,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you go and get yourself committed.’
‘What, like your Carl should have done?’
A Deep Deceit Page 29
