Deception and Desire (43 page)

‘Hmm. That description would fit a good proportion of the entire male population.'

Maggie sighed. ‘I know. It's hopeless.'

‘Another drink?'

‘Yes, all right.'

She watched him go to the bar, saw the way the barmaid responded to his suntanned, blond good looks and the way he was chatting her up, and wished more than ever that she had not come. She had learnt nothing new and Steve made her uncomfortable in a way she could not quite put a name to. Perhaps it was that after three years of marriage she had got out of the habit of being alone with an unattached man and she did not know how to handle it any more. Maggie made up her mind to escape as soon as she could.

When he returned with the drinks the conversation turned away from Ros, and Steve entertained her with anecdotes of life on an oil rig. He was amusing but a little boastful, the hero of every tale, and Maggie sensed he had moved his chair a little closer to hers.

‘I think perhaps I ought to be going home,' she said.

‘Really? It's only just after ten.'

‘I know, but I am expecting a phone call. From my husband,' she added. It was a lie, but she thought suddenly: Perhaps I should ring Ari. She had been hoping he would ring her – at least it would show he was thinking of her – but he had not.

‘You're married then?' Steve sounded surprised.

‘Yes. Hadn't you noticed my ring?'

‘I had, but I didn't know it meant anything. A lot of people are married, as far as it goes.'

‘I am most definitely married,' she said. ‘I came over to see if I could find out what has become of Ros, but my husband couldn't get away. He has his business to think of.'

‘I see.' But his manner had changed marginally and when he left her he did not suggest another meeting.

Again Maggie thought of ringing Ari but it was now a quarter to eleven. Taking the time difference into account it would be almost one in Corfu. If he was at home he might very well be in bed and asleep. If he was not … Maggie decided she did not want to know if he was at home.

She made herself a cup of Ros's cocoa and sat for a while drinking it. Then she went to bed.

Sometime in the night Maggie woke. The wind had got up; a branch was banging intermittently against the window, but she did not think that that was what had woken her. It was her mind, chasing furiously around after something she could not quite catch.

She turned on to her back and lay trying to figure out what it was that was bothering her. Then quite suddenly she knew … and wished she did not.

In the darkness she seemed to hear Steve's voice, with its slight transatlantic drawl: ‘… If you mean do I know anyone else who might figure in Ros's life, the answer is I have no idea – though she was quite a girl …'

Was
quite a girl, not
is
. Did that mean that Steve thought Ros was dead?

The wind slapped the branch against the window again and moved through the shrubs in the garden so that it sounded for all the world as if there was someone out there, creeping about. Maggie shivered and pulled the duvet well up under her chin. She did not think she had ever felt more alone in her life.

Mike arrived soon after ten. Maggie had been up since dawn, restless with the kind of frustrated energy that destroys when it has no directional outlet. She was pale from anxiety and lack of sleep with dark smudges accentuating the tiredness of her eyes.

Mike took one look at her and said firmly: ‘We are going out.'

‘Where? Have you got some kind of lead?'

‘Nothing to do with Ros. We are going out to give you a break.'

‘But we can't just do nothing. Not with Ros still missing.'

‘There is nothing we can do. Not a thing. I went to the police last night and told them about Ros's bank statement and I have the impression they may take a little more interest now. They are the ones to do it, Maggie. We have exhausted every avenue we can. And exhausted is the word. If you don't take a break and relax a little you are going to crack up. Who would that help? Certainly not Ros.'

‘We could take her photograph around … show it to a few more people.'

‘It won't do any good. She's not a missing teenager who might be discovered sleeping rough somewhere. We would need blanket coverage to get us anywhere at all … Hey! That's a thought! I wonder if we could interest the newspapers in this? If they ran the story of her disappearance together with her photograph then maybe there would be some response! Especially if the nationals picked up on it!'

‘Do you think they would?'

‘I don't know, but I should think there's a story there – especially with you having come over from Corfu especially to try and find her. The only snag is …'

‘What?'

‘If she
has
simply gone off with someone else we shall look prize fools – especially me. And I should think she would be furious with us.'

‘If she's done that she would only have herself to blame for not keeping us in the picture. And I don't mind looking a fool. I'd far rather that than find out I was right to be worried, wouldn't you? Oh Mike, let's do it, please! Let's do it now!'

With the prospect of action her tiredness was dropping away.

‘It's Saturday,' Mike reminded her. ‘The papers are probably on a skeleton staff.'

‘There must be somebody working there! What would go in Monday's edition if there wasn't?'

‘True. Do you want to phone then?' He still sounded doubtful. It was a major step for him, Maggie realised. Once they went public with the story of Ros's disappearance the full spotlight of publicity would be turned on him. It was all very well for her, she didn't live here, wouldn't have colleagues, friends and acquaintances all speculating about her personal life. She wouldn't have to go to work and face the barrage of questions, the innuendoes. Going public would turn Mike's very ordinary private world into a circus – and if indeed Ros had ditched him and gone off with someone else then it would cause him the most appalling embarrassment. But Maggie was beginning to be sickeningly sure Ros had not gone off with someone else – not of her own free will, anyway.

‘Don't let's phone,' she said. ‘They may try to fob us off. Let's go to the office. At least we would be doing something positive. It's this not being able to do anything that's driving me mad.'

He sighed. ‘All right, Maggie, I'll take you,' he said.

The
Western Daily Press
, together with its sister paper the
Bristol Evening Post
, occupied an impressive office block on Temple Way in the centre of Bristol. Saturday-morning traffic roared in a ceaseless stream beneath the underpass and around the roundabout on which it stood.

As Mike had suggested, the offices were half empty for the weekend, but a reporter attached to the news desk came down to see them, a young woman in her mid to late twenties who introduced herself as Sheena Ross. She listened to what they had to say, her biro flicking busily over the pages of a reporter-style notebook in a series of unintelligible squiggles that might have passed for shorthand, and studied the photographs of Ros that they had brought with them.

It was, she told them, a story that needed to be properly investigated and presented. She would talk to her editor about how it should be handled and be in touch with them – probably on Monday. But for the first time Maggie felt someone was actually listening and believing.

‘If the paper take it up then perhaps at last the police will feel obliged to take us seriously,' she said to Mike as they left.

‘I think they might already be doing that.' He took her arm, steering her back towards the short-stay car park. ‘At least yesterday I didn't feel I was being dismissed as a complete crank.'

She nodded, but it didn't really make her feel any better. It didn't mean Ros was safe; if anything it made her fears more real.

‘What would you like to do, then?' Mike asked.

‘Nothing. I don't know how you can even suggest running around enjoying ourselves under the circumstances.'

‘I am not suggesting a wild party. I just think it's very necessary for both of us to try and relax a little if we don't want to crack up altogether. If it was a nice day I'd suggest a picnic at Ashton Court, but as it's not we'll go down to the Watershed, unless you have a better idea.'

‘You know I haven't!' she snapped.

He ignored her bad-tempered response, driving through the centre of the city to the picturesque development on the floating harbour, where an attractive row of shops and restaurants and the exhibition buildings where the wine fair was held each year fronted the water. Dozens of small craft were tied up at their moorings and a river boat was plying for trade.

‘A trip up the river – just the thing to calm frayed nerves,' Mike said.

‘For you maybe. Not for me.'

‘For anyone.'

In spite of herself Maggie had to admit it was relaxing. In better weather and under different circumstances she thought she would have enjoyed it very much. Whenever the conversation threatened to turn to Ros, Mike steered it away again, talking about his job, the restoration project in progress on Brunel's great iron ship, the
Great Britain
, which they passed – anything to keep away from the great dark shadow which haunted them. When they stepped back on to the quayside they had coffee and pastries at a waterfront café and trawled the shops. At a craft stall Maggie bought an amethyst brooch which took her fancy, though she was immediately overtaken by a feeling of guilt that she could do something so frivolous whilst Ros was still missing.

‘What would you like to do about eating this evening?' Mike asked. The afternoon was wearing on, the crowds beginning to thin out. ‘ Shall we look for a pub doing bar food on the way home?'

‘No, let's eat in.'

‘A takeaway, you mean?'

‘No, I'll cook something.' Inexplicably Maggie suddenly felt she wanted to be busy. ‘And let's not have it at the cottage. Everything there reminds me Ros is missing. Could we do it at your place?'

‘If you like. But it's in a bit of a mess …'

‘I promise not to even notice.'

Mike took her into Broadmead and drove a couple of circuits around the town centre while she went into Marks and Spencer and bought food and a bottle of wine.

‘What's on the menu?' he asked when he picked her up again.

‘Wait and see.' Almost without realising it Maggie was beginning to enjoy herself.

Mike occupied the basement flat of a tall old house facing on to one of the less salubrious stretches of the river. It was surprisingly large and light and, considering what he had said, not nearly as untidy as Maggie had expected. His unwashed breakfast things and an empty cornflake packet adorned the draining board, newspapers and a sports schedule he had been working on were spread over the thirties-style golden oak dining table, and a tracksuit and trainers lay where he had dropped them in the tiny bathroom, but compared to Brendan's chaotic living conditions it was a palace.

‘I have a woman who comes in twice a week to clean up,' he said by way of explanation. ‘ She keeps things under control. Left to my own devices I should soon sink in a sea of muddle.'

‘I don't believe you,' Maggie said. ‘Now, just show me where everything is and leave it to me.'

‘If you're sure …'

‘Quite sure.'

‘Would you like a drink to be going on with?'

‘What have you got?'

‘Not a lot. Lager, the dregs of a bottle of whisky … You could start on the wine if you like but it won't be cold yet. Wait a minute – I think there might be some red left in a wine box – I had it for a party and I never drink the stuff myself.'

‘That'll be fine.'

Mike retrieved the box from a shelf and managed to squeeze out a glassful for Maggie, then he helped himself to a can of lager from a six-pack in the refrigerator.

‘I'll leave you to it, then.'

He went into the living room; a few minutes later when Maggie put her head round the door to ask him where to find aluminium foil she saw that he had thrown himself full length on to the shabby overstuffed sofa – also thirties-style – and was watching motor racing on television.

‘Sky,' he said a little guiltily. ‘I indulged myself. Sport is the only thing I watch television for – this way I can get a constant diet of it.'

She smiled and went back to the kitchen, thinking how much she liked him. There was a solidity about him that was incredibly comforting, far removed as it was from any flamboyance or conceit, and at the same time he was easy to be with, a man so confident in his own masculinity that he had no need to resort to aggression or overt domination to massage his self-image, and she could not imagine him indulging in womanising either.

Lucky, lucky Ros!

When the meal was ready Mike bestirred himself from the sofa, sweeping all his papers into a pile and dumping them on an already overflowing magazine rack. Then he set two places with huge oval basket-weave mats and stainless-steel cutlery with startling red handles, and opened the bottle of Chablis.

‘Am I allowed to be told now what we're haying – or do I have to wait and see – and guess?' he asked.

Remembering Ros's exotic concoctions, Maggie laughed.

‘I don't think you'll have any difficulty recognising what I've got for you!' she teased.

The food was simple but delicious – salmon steaks with tiny new potatoes and a selection of baby vegetables, followed by summer pudding running with rich red fruits and dairy ice cream.

‘This is one of the things I really miss,' Maggie said, wiping blackcurrant juice from the corners of her mouth with her fingers. Mike did not seem to have any napkins.

‘Summer pudding?'

‘Marks and Spencers food. Nobody does cooked chicken with skin that tastes like theirs. And their sandwiches! Out of this world!'