Deception and Desire (46 page)

But not Ros. Ros was different, though he could not for the life of him have said why. There was something about the tilt of her head, the way she walked, her smile, that had got under his skin. From the first moment he had met her he had been besotted and nothing that had happened since had ever changed that. He had come to resent her, hate her even for the success that she had achieved whilst his own career was faltering. He had been angry, hurt and jealous all in turn and sometimes all together. He had hated her for her sharp tongue and for her air of superiority, and had hated himself for what he felt to be his inadequacy where she was concerned. And when all his emotions had become too much for him and the drink was in him he had been violent towards her because it was the only release he knew. But none of this had altered the way he felt about her. Nothing could change that. Nothing ever would.

Brendan had fetched the whisky bottle and topped up his glass. Drink was his best friend. It helped him to forget and that was what he wanted – wasn't it? Except that these days even when his brain was too muzzy to make sense of his thoughts the pain and the sense of sick foreboding were still there inside him, even if he couldn't remember what had caused them. And sometimes he thought he ought to remember. He really ought to remember everything …

When the doorbell rang around three o'clock his first thought was that it was the police again, and he toyed with the idea of ignoring it. But it rang again, insistently, and if only to stop the noise, which echoed painfully through his aching head, he answered it angrily.

‘Who is it?'

‘Western
Daily Press
. Could I have a word with you, Mr Newman?'

‘If it's about my wife, no, you couldn't. I have nothing to say about her.'

There was a slight pause, then the disembodied voice said: ‘No, it's not about your wife. I wanted to interview you. About your career.'

Brendan experienced relief – and egotistical pleasure. The fog in his brain lifted a little. Automatically he glanced at his reflection in the hall mirror – crumpled slacks, the shirt he had worn last night thrown on again because it had been to hand. Not the image he wanted to project to his public.

‘It's not a good moment. Could you come back later?'

‘I'd rather it was now, Mr Newman. I do have deadlines to meet.'

Deadlines. Christ, he couldn't let her get away! She might change her mind and decide not to come back at all.

‘All right. Give me a minute.'

He went into the bedroom, emptied his drawer to find a respectable casual shirt and slacks, and combed his hair. There was no time to shave. Lucky for him designer stubble was fashionable.

He went back to the buzzer. ‘All right, I'm opening the door now.'

When she came up the stairs he saw that she was young and not unattractive. His practised eye took in a sharp elfin face slightly lost in a shoulder-length curly perm; a loose linen jacket and a skirt short enough to reveal good legs. Brendan was glad he had taken the time to change. He smiled at her, his hangover forgotten as his easy professional manner took over and the well-known charm began to ooze.

‘You found me then – all the way to the top of the stairs. Most of my visitors give up at the first landing. I'm Brendan Newman.'

‘Sheena Ross. It's good of you to see me, Mr Newman, and I'm sorry if it's inconvenient.'

‘Not at all,' he said, forgetting the inconsistency. ‘ Can I get you a coffee?'

‘Thanks, that would be nice.' She was looking around with a keen professional eye. ‘It's a nice place you have here. A wonderful view.'

‘Not so bad, is it?' He hunted for mugs. Miraculously there were two, washed up, on the draining board. ‘Sugar? Milk?'

‘No, black, just as it comes.'

‘Do you want to talk here or shall we go in the other room?'

‘Here will be fine.' She put her bag down on the kitchen table, extracted a notepad and pencil and also a pocket-sized cassette recorder.

‘What is it all about anyway?' Brendan asked, setting a mug of coffee down in front of her.

‘I want to do a series on local personalities. Profiles, really.' She said it smoothly; the delay while he had changed had given her plenty of time to plan her line of attack.

‘And what made you choose me?'

‘You are a big name in local radio. You're also, if I may say so, interesting as a person.' She paused, giving him a conspiratorial look. ‘So many celebrities are frankly a bit boring when you get down to brass tacks.'

Brendan laughed, his ego flattered.

‘You're right there – and don't I know it!'

‘So – you wouldn't mind if I asked you a few questions?'

Brendan sat down opposite her. ‘Fire away.'

‘How did you come to get into radio? Were you a journalist?'

‘Me? No, I wouldn't have the patience. I was a musician – I played the sax. The radio station wanted to do a series on jazz. I knew the producer. He asked if I'd like to present it.'

‘And you were an instant success.'

‘More or less. I'd kissed the Blarney Stone, talking came easily to me. And people seemed to like me. The series was extended to a regular spot and then before I knew it I had my own show.'

‘That's what I thought. All this is pretty well documented in our archives, Mr Newman.'

‘Call me Brendan.'

‘Brendan. I just needed to check with you that I had the facts straight. Now, if you don't mind I'd like to ask you a few more personal questions. You say you kissed the Blarney Stone. What else is it about you that you think appealed to your listeners?'

Brendan considered. ‘I suppose I say what I think. Even if it is a bit outrageous. I like to tear down a few icons. People enjoy being shocked, don't they? They say: ‘‘I like listening to Brendan Newman – you never know what the hell he's going to come out with next.'' '

She laughed, her pencil flicking busily.

‘Do you see yourself as sexually attractive – a sex symbol?'

‘Me?' Brendan sat back, assuming an expression of false modesty. ‘Sure, what is there about me that's attractive?'

‘A great deal, I'd say – and obviously I'm not the only one who thinks so. Don't you consider yourself even a little bit good-looking?'

‘I never think about looks. Beauty is only skin-deep, my old mother used to say.'

‘Not everyone is as introspective. You must have had women telling you they found you attractive.'

‘Well, I suppose so. I could tell you a story or two …' Brendan branched easily into some of his well-worn anecdotes. He was enjoying himself, his former ill humour forgotten as he relived the better moments of his glory days. So relaxed was he, he scarcely noticed when Sheena began to steer the conversation towards the real purpose of her visit.

‘It must have been difficult for your wife, having all these other women chasing after you.'

‘Ros, you mean? Sure, she took it in her stride.'

‘She didn't mind, then?'

‘She reckoned it was confirmation of her own good taste. Which of course it was.' He caught her eye and winked.

‘It wasn't the reason, then, why your marriage broke up?'

‘No, it wasn't.' Momentarily the pain was back, encroaching on his feeling of well-being. ‘ We don't have to talk about Ros, do we?'

‘I think our readers might be interested. After all, she was lucky enough to be your wife. An enviable position, many of them would think.'

‘Unfortunately
she
didn't.'

‘Didn't what?'

‘Appreciate me,' he said with what he hoped was endearing honesty. ‘That is why I'd rather not talk about her.'

‘But surely it shows a whole different side of your personality. And besides … I believe she is missing. How do you feel about that?'

The warning bells began to ring in Brendan's head.

‘I've told you – I don't want to talk about Ros.'

‘You obviously care for her. Aren't you concerned about what might have happened to her?'

‘Who says I care for her?'

‘Oh come on, Mr Newman. You were married to her. You can't shut someone out of your life so easily. Especially if something terrible has happened to her.'

‘Like what?'

‘Supposing,' Sheena said evenly, ‘she has been murdered?'

She was watching him closely; she saw his expression change, saw the panic come into his eyes, saw those first beads of sweat that seemed to form whenever Ros's disappearance was mentioned break out on his forehead. For an instant it was all there in his face, then he turned away, reaching for a cigarette.

‘Who says she's been murdered?'

‘Her sister seems to think so. And so does her boyfriend.'

‘Mike Bloody Thompson! Have you been talking to him?'

‘Well, yes, to be honest …'

‘Honest! You must be joking! That's why you're here, isn't it?'

‘Not entirely. I …'

‘Oh yes it bloody is! You don't want to do a feature on me at all, do you? Who the hell would? You wanted to talk about Ros – bloody Ros! I suppose you think I killed her, do you?'

‘Mr Newman … Brendan …'

‘She was a whore, a bloody whore!' Brendan shouted. He was on his feet now, totally out of control. ‘Do you know what I'm talking about? Yes, of course you do. Well, that was Ros, for all her fancy ways. I tell you, she got what was coming to her. And now get out of here, before you end up the same way she did!'

‘All right, Brendan, there's no need to be like this!' Sheena was attempting to be conciliatory but every vestige of colour had drained from her face. She was scrabbling her notebook and pencils into her bag and as she did so Brendan grabbed the cassette recorder.

‘I'll take that. Now – get out!' He flung open the door.

Trying to retain at least an outward appearance of calm, Sheena held out her hand. ‘My property, please!'

‘You'll be lucky! Get out of here before I …'

She went. She had faced ugly situations before but none uglier than this.

‘You'll be hearing from our legal department,' she called back up the stairs when she was safely out of his reach. ‘Don't think you can get away with this!'

‘Bitch!' he yelled after her. ‘Stupid interfering bitch! Why couldn't you keep your nose out of it?'

He heard the main door slam and the sound of a car being driven, very fast, out of the communal car park. He went back into the flat and hurled her cassette recorder at the wall. She'd never use that tape, damn her, and if she wrote anything about him, one fucking word, he'd sue the paper for libel …

Brendan refilled his glass with neat whisky and drank it as though it were water. His head was aching again, his stomach felt sour.

As the excesses of his temper receded the blackness began again, the all-pervading sick dread.

So it wasn't only the police who thought Ros was dead, the papers were on to it too. And what a field day they would have with it! Ros Newman, ex-wife of the broadcaster Brendan Newman – the
failed
broadcaster Brendan Newman. It would all be there, all the elements of a big news story. They would spare him nothing. Already he could see the headlines, the photographs, the whole bloody shooting match.

Brendan refilled his glass yet again but the whisky did nothing to make him feel better now. It only deepened his depression, filling him with disgust and self-loathing.

He was a failure, a worse than useless git. Wasn't that what they had called him at the radio station when they sacked him? Now all the world would know about the mess he had made of his life – and they would brand him a murderer too. Brendan was not sure which was worse, but he did not think he could stand any of it any more.

He carried his glass into the living room, opened a fresh bottle of whisky and sank down on to the low sofa, head in hands, thinking about his life. He'd had it all – money, a career, a beautiful wife – and he'd let it all slip through his fingers. The gods had given him so much, and what had he done? Wasted it, thrown it all away. His career was over and Ros was dead. And now the vultures were moving in.

If only he could
remember
, Brendan thought. If only he could remember exactly what had happened that last time he had seen Ros. But he couldn't remember. His fuddled brain cells wouldn't let him. There was a murky cloud obscuring it. Perhaps it was because he didn't want to remember. But perhaps soon he would be forced to, forced to face things he would rather forget.

Afternoon slipped into evening, the light began to fade from the day. Night was coming to the city. Suddenly Brendan did not want to face the night alone. Not tonight – not ever again.

He got up, his toe encountering the bottle and kicking it over. Whisky spilled out on to the carpet. Brendan did not even notice. He got his jacket and went out, not bothering to lock the door behind him. The sounds of the city carried softly, distantly, on the night air. He walked like a man in a dream, only it was not a dream he was experiencing but a nightmare, a nightmare closing in, a nightmare that would not go away.

The suspension bridge loomed up before him, Brunel's masterpiece of engineering, spanning the gorge where the tidal Avon flows out to the sea. The bridge was illuminated, making a great curving arc of brightness against the dark sky. Brendan went slowly across the walkway beside the traffic-carrying road until he was almost to the other side where Leigh Woods sweep down to meet the river. Then he walked back again towards the Clifton end and leaned over the parapet.

To his right the floodlights were reflected in the water; immediately below him there was only inky blackness. The tide must be out, leaving only a narrow stream of water along the mud. It didn't matter. He did not need the water to drown in. The fall, from this height, should be enough.