Deception and Desire (50 page)

The familiar face of one of the local presenters appeared on the screen reading the local headlines. Mike was still only half listening, then, suddenly, the newscaster's words seemed to burst through his state of inattention.

The man who had fallen to his death from the suspension bridge the previous night had been named as local broadcaster and musician Brendan Newman.

Mike froze, a forkful of spaghetti halfway to his mouth. For a moment he thought he must have misheard but no, a photograph of Brendan was being flashed on to the screen. Mike stared at it stupidly, still hardly able to comprehend what he was hearing. The photograph disappeared, the newscaster moved on to the next topic and still he stared, the words replaying themselves in his ears.

Brendan – dead. Brendan – the man who had fallen from the suspension bridge. No, not fallen – jumped. No one fell from the bridge by accident – at least he'd never heard of anyone who had, unless it was an industrial accident. If Brendan had gone over the side it must have been deliberate. But why the hell should he do something like that? Unless …

Ros, Mike thought. Brendan
did
have something to do with Ros's disappearance, and he knew we were on to him, so he has taken the coward's way out and killed himself. He put down his fork, still coiled with spaghetti. He was not hungry any more.

Did Maggie know about this, he wondered? Had she, like him, just heard it on the news? Perhaps – and then again, perhaps not. He went to the phone, picked it up, put it down again. If she knew, she would almost certainly ring him; if she did not he did not want to tell her this way. She was going to be dreadfully upset, better that he should be there with her when he broke the news.

Mike carried the remains of his supper into the kitchen, scraped it into the bin and piled the plate and saucepans into the sink. Then he fetched his jacket and car keys and went out, slamming the door shut behind him.

Maggie had not heard the news. When there was nothing left in the cottage to occupy her she had gone for a long reflective walk and when she had returned she had turned the radio on, filling the emptiness with music and inconsequential chat whilst she made herself a sandwich and ate it.

When she heard the knock at the door she was surprised – and a little disturbed. She could not think who could be calling on her – unless it was the police with some news, which, under these circumstances, was almost bound to be unwelcome. Tense with dread she answered the door to find Mike standing there.

Her first reaction was one of relief. Then she saw his grim expression, telling her without words that something was seriously wrong and fear returned all of a rush. ‘Mike! What is it? What has happened?'

‘Let's go inside.' He led her into the kitchen. ‘Sit down Maggie.'

She remained standing. ‘Why?'

He could tell from her reaction that she did not know.

‘Please, Maggie, sit down. There's something I have to tell you that is going to come as a shock.'

She blanched. ‘ Ros?'

‘No, not Ros.' He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and eased her into it. ‘It's Brendan.'

‘Brendan? What about him?'

‘There's no easy way to say this. Something rather terrible has happened to him.'

‘What?'

‘He's dead.'

‘Brendan!'

‘Yes, I heard it on the local news. He fell from the suspension bridge last night.'

‘Oh my God!' Her eyes, blank with shock, met his. ‘You don't think … ?'

‘That he committed suicide? Well – that is the obvious conclusion.'

‘Shit!' She was silent for a moment. ‘ Brendan! I can't believe it. I know he's, well, an unpredictable character, but
suicide
! I never would have thought … Do you suppose he was drunk?'

‘I suppose it's a possibility.'

‘He must have been drunk. He'd never do such a thing otherwise. I don't think he'd have the guts.' She shivered. ‘Oh God, it's too awful to even think about! You are sure?'

‘I heard this morning there had been a fatality at the bridge last night but he hadn't been identified. But just now, on the six thirty bulletin, the man was named as Brendan. There's no doubt, Maggie.'

‘Oh, poor Brendan!'

Mike looked at her with concern. The full implications had obviously not hit her yet.

‘I'll get you a drink.'

‘There's tea in the pot …'

‘You could do with something stronger than tea, and so could I.'

He went into the sitting room and returned with a bottle of whisky and two glasses. Maggie remained seated at the table, chewing on her fingernail, as he poured generous measures and dropped cubes of ice from the refrigerator into them.

‘Here – drink this.'

She gulped at the whisky, coughed as it burned her throat.

‘Mike, do you think it's possible that Brendan … might have done something terrible to Ros and couldn't live with the knowledge any longer?' she asked after a moment.

So it
had
occurred to her.

‘The thought did cross my mind,' he said uncomfortably.

‘Oh God.' Her voice rose slightly. ‘If he did … we might never find out what happened to her.'

He covered her hand with his, trying to comfort her.

‘We don't know it was that. There may be no connection.'

‘Perhaps not. But I don't like it, Mike. You don't know how violent he could be. I've seen for myself. And I've also seen his remorse. He did love her, you see, very much. But he couldn't control himself – in any way at all, really. That was the trouble.'

Mike swallowed his own whisky and refilled the glasses. Comfort from a bottle – Brendan's downfall. The irony of it was disconcerting.

‘What happens next?' Maggie asked.

‘In what way?'

‘What do we do now?'

‘God knows – I don't. To be honest I think we have done all we can. We'll have to leave it to the police. Maybe now Brendan has done this they'll take the whole thing more seriously.'

‘They must, mustn't they? I mean, every day Ros is missing it becomes more … well, ominous. Perhaps – they'll search Brendan's flat and find … something.' She shivered, a small shudder at first, then more convulsively. The darkness was closing in, the shadows taking on substance.

‘You're cold,' he said, touching her arm. ‘Get a jumper or something.'

She got up, obedient as a child, and went upstairs to fetch a cardigan.

‘It's not really cold,' she said when she returned. ‘ It just feels cold because everything gets more and more like a nightmare I can't wake up from.'

He looked at her, loving her, wanting to comfort and protect her, remembering all too clearly how she had felt in his arms and the eager response of her lips. How would she react if he went to her and held her now? Perhaps that first time she had been caught unawares; certainly later she had made it clear that she simply wanted to be taken home. Make another move now and it was quite possible she would reject it. More than possible – likely – and the result would be the sort of nasty embarrassing situation that would put an end to the ease of their relationship.

He got up.

‘I'll tell you what I think, Maggie. I think I should take you out.'

‘Where?'

‘I don't know – anywhere. For a drive, a drink. It's a nice evening and we could both do with a breath of fresh air. Come on.'

‘All right. Give me a minute to put on some lipstick.'

‘You look fine just as you are.'

‘No I don't. I'm a mess. And if we're going to stop at a pub …'

He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘All right – if you must.'

She disappeared up the stairs and he prowled around the kitchen, waiting. Ros's kitchen. Ros's possessions. Yet already there was something of Maggie superimposed. It was a trifle disconcerting.

A few moments later she was back. She had changed into tan slacks and a cream cotton sweater, combed her hair and applied a little make-up. He felt his stomach contract at the sight of her and warned himself: Don't be stupid. Don't say or do something you will regret.

‘Ready then?'

‘Ready.'

She went round closing the windows and locking the back door, taking, he thought, a little more time than was absolutely necessary to ensure they were all secure. This business was beginning to put her nerves on edge, he realised. As he opened the door of his car for her to get in he caught a whiff of her perfume – scarcely perfume, really, more a light flowery fragrance that stirred his senses again.

‘Let's go.' His voice had a faintly rough edge.

He drove out on to the main road and turned in the direction of the Chew Valley lakes. Inevitably there were still a few cars drawn up along the roadside that skirted the vast expanse of still water and parked in the designated lots beneath the trees, couples strolling or sitting to enjoy the pleasant evening, a family playing cricket whilst their two dogs acted as unofficial but enthusiastic fielders. Mike parked and they got out and walked to the very edge of the lake, sitting on a low stone wall. The sun was going down now, a ball of fire sinking towards the water which reflected its rosy glow; ducks moved lazily, wildfowl skimmed the surface, dived and rose again. The peace was almost soporific and Mike could sense that Maggie was at last beginning to relax. They sat for a long while, not talking, watching the sun dip lower until it disappeared in a bank of low cloud and a chilly wind began to whisper in over the water. He got up.

‘Drink?'

‘Why not?'

‘Poor Brendan,' she said when they were back in the car. ‘He must have been very unhappy to do something so dreadful.'

She seemed to have forgotten her earlier suspicion that it might have been guilt that had driven Brendan to suicide, and Mike chose not to remind her.

They found a country pub and went inside. Again the atmosphere was relaxed, peaceful, far removed from the gloom of gathering horrors that had pervaded the cottage. Maggie got out her purse.

‘I'll get these. What will you have?'

‘Lemonade and lime. I had my fair share of whisky earlier on – I don't want to go over the limit.'

She smiled. ‘Since I'm not driving I don't care. I'm going to have a glass of wine.'

She bought the drinks and they carried them over to a corner table.

‘What sort of a day did you have?' she asked, sipping her wine, and Mike realised that she was making a conscious effort to avoid returning to the unpleasant subjects that were still uppermost in both their minds.

‘As you'd expect …' He regaled her with a few anecdotes and again sensed the shadows receding as she laughed at his stories and the wine relaxed her still further.

They were still there when the landlord called last orders, and Mike saw Maggie's expression cloud. The evening and the brief respite it had brought had come to an end. Now it was back to reality.

Darkness had fallen; soft and complete apart from a sprinkling of stars, and the headlamps of the car cut a swathe through the blackness as they drove back to the cottage.

‘Will you come in for a nightcap?' Maggie asked as they drew up outside.

Mike hesitated. To be alone with her in the cottage would be to invite temptation. In spite of his earlier determination to keep things cool he was not at all sure he would be able to resist it.

‘I don't think so,' he said. ‘ Some of us have to get up for work in the morning.'

‘Of course.' She said it lightly but he sensed her disappointment. ‘Mike – I just remembered something. It may be nothing, of course, but a man phoned for Ros today.'

Instantly he was alert. ‘A man? For Ros?'

‘Yes. I forgot all about it. I suppose this business with Brendan drove it right out of my head. He said his name was Des Taylor and that he was returning Ros's call. No – wait a minute, he couldn't have said that, because he gave me a number where she could reach him. If she'd telephoned him she would have known it, wouldn't she?'

‘Did he say what it was about?'

‘No. He was only on for a couple of minutes. It was a London number.'

‘And you took it down?'

‘Yes.'

‘Right.' Mike's voice was hard. ‘ In that case I'll give Mr Des Taylor a bell and find out what it's all about.'

He was getting out of the car, angry for no reason he could explain except that the fact that strange men were ringing Ros had touched a raw nerve. Maggie caught at his arm.

‘Not now, Mike.'

‘There's no time like the present.'

‘Oh please! Not tonight! I really can't take any more …' Her voice was almost tearful and his anger died, replaced by tenderness. She'd had enough for one day; the Brendan business, coming on top of everything else, had really shaken her. He wouldn't do anything to upset her further. The call to Des Taylor would have to wait until tomorrow.

He put his arm around her, feeling her shoulders rigid with tension and quivering slightly from overstretched nerves.

‘It's all right, sweetheart. Don't worry. Do you want me to see you to the door?'

She nodded, then, without warning, buried her head in his shoulder.

‘Maggie?' he said.

‘I don't want to be on my own, Mike.' Her voice was muffled.

‘Oh Maggie …'

‘I know I'm being stupid, but I just don't want to be in that cottage on my own … not tonight.'

Oh Christ, he thought, how much can flesh and blood stand?

‘You are not being stupid, Maggie,' he said gently. ‘I know how you feel. But I can't stay with you. You must know that.'

She raised her head. Her eyes were full of a longing so deep he felt he could drown in it, and her lips, slightly parted as if to make a fresh plea, looked more kissable than ever.