Deception and Desire (11 page)

She pulled herself up against the pillows, wondering what Ari was doing at this moment. It would be half past seven in Corfu, he would be having his breakfast on the patio, might even have finished it by now and be getting ready for the drive to his office in Kerkira. Always supposing he had come home last night. Perhaps he had not. Perhaps he had stayed in the town apartment. And if he had – was Melina with him?

As the familiar wave of helpless jealousy engulfed her, Maggie pushed aside the duvet and got out of bed. Pointless to waste time and energy worrying about Ari now. There would be time enough to sort out her marital problems when Ros was found. Maggie crossed to the window and drew the curtains fully. The garden, lush and green from all the recent rain and now bathed in a golden glow of early-morning sunshine, looked wild and unspoiled, a little corner of the England she missed so much.

Corfu was a green island, of course – if it had been dry and dusty like Crete or some of the other Greek islands Maggie did not think she could have borne it. But there was a different intensity to the greenness of olive groves and tall cypress trees beneath a sky which was almost endlessly sapphire-blue, a shimmering shiningness that was a world apart from this heavy dew-wet foliage.

The birds, too, were different. Maggie was used to wheeling flights of swifts, swallows and house martins who sometimes built their nests in the overhang of the balcony of her home at Kassiopi, and the wagtails who loved to splash in the puddles on the patio after the autumn rains. She knew that in winter there were robins, blackbirds and thrushes, but she had rarely seen one; now, standing at the window, she listened to the tail end of the dawn chorus and watched a pair of blackbirds searching for worms in the long grass of the lawn, their heads cocked, whole bodies alert, as they tapped and listened for the sounds, indistinguishable to the human ear, that would announce the arrival of breakfast.

It was so beautiful, so peaceful, so typically English, that it was hard to imagine anything seriously amiss in this idyllic world. For a moment Maggie felt as though she must have fallen asleep and dreamed the whole worrying scenario of Ros's disappearance. But the fact that she was here at all made it all too indisputably real.

Ros's towelling robe was hanging behind the bedroom door. Maggie pulled it on over the oversized T-shirt she had worn to sleep in. Ari hated her wearing T-shirts to bed, he liked her in seductive silk and lace. But after the balmy Corfu nights Maggie had half expected to feel cold, and besides, the T-shirt was
comfortable
, much more comfortable than spaghetti shoulder straps and flowing floor-length skirts. If she couldn't be comfortable sleeping alone, when could she be? It was a small, self-indulgent luxury, but when the thought occurred to her that perhaps in future she was going to have a great deal more opportunity for such luxuries, Maggie quickly brushed it aside.

She drew a comb through her hair, splashed cold water on her face at the bathroom basin and then went downstairs, collecting the pile of mail from the wire basket beneath the letter box as she passed it. In the kitchen she leafed through the post whilst she waited for the kettle to boil – a couple of letters offering guaranteed prizes in return for a viewing of a timeshare, advertising from two mail-order houses and a club specialising in CDs and cassettes, and an envelope promising a free film for each one processed by the company. Maggie dumped the lot in the waste bin, angry to think that trees had been cut down to make the paper for such unsolicited rubbish, and turned to the only two envelopes that seemed even vaguely interesting.

The first – in an envelope printed with the name of Ros's bank – was disappointing; it was simply more advertising in a more sophisticated guise – this time an attempt to sell financial services. But as she tore it in two and dumped it in the bin with the other junk mail Maggie thought that perhaps the bank might offer another avenue of enquiry – they should be able to tell her whether cash had been drawn out of Ros's account in the last week or so.

The second envelope was handwritten and Maggie hesitated before opening it. But when she did, she discovered it was only a note from Ros's dentist advising her that an appointment had been made for her six-monthly check up for 19 July at 4.30 p.m. Would Ros be able to keep it? Maggie wondered uncomfortably.

So – there was nothing even vaguely illuminating amongst the mail. What about Ros's telephone answering machine? Would there be anything there? The display was showing nine messages; Maggie rewound it and punched the replay button.

Again she was disappointed. Three of the calls were from Mike, two from her mother, one from a man who must be an upholsterer telling her the chair she had been having re-covered was ready for collection, and one saying nothing at all – some callers' reaction to hearing a recorded message at the end of the line. But one call was from Ros's old friend in Scarborough asking her to get in touch – that must mean Ros was not with her, Maggie realised – and the other was evidently someone from Vandina.

‘Ros, Liz here. I was just wondering if you were back yet. There are one or two queries that really only you can answer and Dinah is going spare without you. Oh – and I've got a little bit of information on you-know-what that I want to tell you about. I think you'll find it rather interesting. Please ring me as soon as you get back. Ciao.'

Maggie rewound the tape and listened to the message again. Clearly things at Vandina were floundering a little without Ros, clearly her departure had been unexpected and unexplained as Mike had said, clearly they didn't know when to expect her back. But the
sotto voce
mention of something too sensitive to be discussed over the telephone was intriguing. Maggie found herself remembering what Mike had said about Ros's comment that there was something odd going on at Vandina. Might there be some connection?

There was a pad and pencil beside the answering machine; Maggie reached for it and wrote ‘ Liz – Vandina' in large letters. At least she now had the name of a contact at Vandina besides the reputedly elusive Dinah Marshall herself. And when she went to the office she would have a word with this Liz and find out exactly what she had meant.

The kettle had boiled by now and switched itself off. Feeling suddenly more purposeful, Maggie made herself toast and coffee. When she had finished it was still too early to set out on the calls she intended making and she decided to use the time to search the cottage for any other clues. It felt like prying – but wasn't that why she was here?

Maggie started methodically enough, checking the post Mike had taken in earlier in the week and left piled neatly on a kitchen worktop, and moving on to examine anything that would help her to build up a picture of her sister's life. Mike could tell her how Ros lived, of course, but it wasn't quite the same as finding out for herself, trying to see it through Ros's eyes, and in any case there might be things Mike did not know. He might be Ros's man, but Maggie suspected that after her disastrous marriage to Brendan, Ros would find it difficult to trust anyone totally, and in any case she had always had a slightly secretive side to her nature. It was quite likely she had kept certain things back from Mike, Brendan's violence being a case in point.

As she went from room to room examining the evidence Maggie felt her new-found optimism beginning to wane. Though Mike had thrown away the dairy foods that had gone sour or curdled there were other things in the fridge he had missed – a vacuum-sealed pack of peppered herring fillets, out of date by a week, and a piece of cooked chicken wrapped in foil, the smell of which made Maggie wrinkle her nose in disgust when she opened it. In the tiny scullery there was a pile of ironing waiting to be done, and in the Ali Baba basket in the bathroom some dirty linen. It was all negative, negative, negative – every single thing pointing to the conclusion that Ros had not intended to be absent for long, whilst giving no clue as to where she might be or what had happened to her.

The tour of the cottage completed, Maggie returned to the kitchen and checked the clock. Just after nine. She had better telephone her mother before she did anything else, she supposed – but it was not a call she was looking forward to making. She did not relish the prospect of having to explain that Ros was missing in much clearer terms than Mike had used when he had been trying not to worry her. And she was not looking forward either to the personal questions that were bound to be asked – about Ari and Corfu and why she had seen fit to leave both and come dashing home to England. But there was no avoiding it. Maggie sighed, picked up the receiver and dialled her mother's number.

The phone seemed to ring interminably and Maggie was just about to give up when a man's voice answered.

‘Hello. Colonel Ashby speaking.'

Maggie's heart sank. If there was one person she wanted to talk to less than her mother it was the Colonel. Ridiculous man, she thought. Why does he insist on still calling himself Colonel? He hasn't been one for at least twenty years.

‘Harry? It's Maggie,' she said. ‘Can I speak to Mummy, please?'

‘Not sure where she is.'

I'm going mad! Maggie thought.

‘You mean she's not there?' she said aloud.

‘She's about somewhere – in the garden I think. Said something about going to cut roses.'

‘Then do you think you could call her please?' Maggie said.

‘Dare say. Dare say.' But he sounded grumpy. ‘He resents having to do anything,' Ros had once said bitterly. ‘He wishes he still had a batman to wait on him, I think. Instead, he's got Mummy.'

Maggie waited, mentally rehearsing what she was going to say. But when her mother's breathless silvery voice came down the line all the carefully thought-out phrases went straight out of her head.

‘Margaret – is that you?'

‘Yes, Mummy.'

‘Good gracious, what a surprise! And how clear you sound! As if you were in the next room, not in Corfu at all.'

‘I'm not,' Maggie said.

‘Not what?'

‘Not in Corfu. I'm in Stoke-sub-Mendip.'

‘Stoke – with Rosalie, you mean?'

‘I – well, I'm not exactly with Ros …'

‘Margaret!' There was an element of theatricality in Dulcie Ashby's voice, a rather contrived note of cautious shock. ‘Margaret – you haven't left Ari, have you?'

Maggie felt herself begin to tighten up. How was it that just talking to her mother could do this to her? But it was always the same – at least it had been now for years and years. There was nothing calming or comforting about Dulcie's effect on her daughter. On the contrary, there was this irritation so intense it made her feel like a stretched wire coil just waiting to spring violently back to its original shape.

‘No, Mummy, I haven't left Ari.'

‘Then what are you doing in England? I didn't know you were coming over. Why didn't you let me know? When did you arrive?'

‘Yesterday. Last night. I didn't know I was coming myself.'

‘It was a spur-of-the-moment decision to take a holiday, you mean?'

‘Mummy.' Maggie tried to take control of the conversation. ‘ I think Mike rang you a few days ago.'

‘Mike? You mean Michael? Ros's Michael?'

‘Of course.'

‘Yes he did telephone. He wanted to know if I'd seen her. As if that were likely! I think I see Ros even more infrequently than I see you.'

‘Look – Mike didn't want to worry you, but nobody seems to know where Ros is. He phoned me too, to see if she was with me. Of course she wasn't so I've come over to see if I can find out what's happened to her.'

‘Whatever for?'

‘Because she seems to be missing, Mummy.'

‘Oh my goodness, not that again! What is the matter with the man, getting into such a panic? I had the police here yesterday. He's been to them about it. Quite ridiculous!'

‘The police have been to see you?'

‘Yes. A uniformed constable called here at a most inconvenient time – just as Harry and I were having lunch. I told them I hadn't the slightest idea where Ros was – why on earth should I? You girls have never been in the habit of telling me your movements – I am, after all, only your mother! I also told them I thought it was the most ridiculous fuss about nothing. Ros is a grown woman – she lives her own life. Not that I always agree with the
way
she lives it, of course, but that's neither here nor there. Everyone seems to have divorces these days. No staying power. Probably due to the ridiculous marriages they make in the first place.'

Maggie sensed the incipient criticism and bristled. But she had no intention of being drawn into an argument on the subject just now.

‘You haven't seen Ros then, or heard from her?'

‘I have not. But as I say, that is nothing new. And as for Michael Thompson, there's no earthly reason why Rosalie should tell him her every move. It's not as though he's her husband, is it?'

‘Mummy …'

‘Look, Margaret, this really isn't the best time for me. I'm having a coffee morning in aid of Help the Aged and I have a hundred and one things to do. I was just trying to cut some roses when you rang, but the poor things have been absolutely ruined by the rain. And it's been so cold! The buds just won't open properly and when they do they're spotted and stale-looking. Now, when are you coming over? I will be seeing you, I suppose, whilst you are in England?'

‘Of course you'll see me,' Maggie said irritably. ‘I'll ring again when you're not so busy.'

‘Do that. After dinner tonight might be a good time. There's a programme Harry likes to watch on BBC2 – something to do with current affairs and between you and me it's dreadfully boring. We'll arrange something then. And for heaven's sake, darling, do stop fussing about Ros. I'm quite certain she is perfectly all right.'