Almost a Crime (84 page)

one of those umbrella things, do you think?’

‘Oh, no need this time of day. What sun there is is going

down fast. I think it’s going to rain. Octavia, what do you

want to drink?’

He had asked for water, sitting sulkily squinting into the

sea; they had told him he couldn’t possibly drink water at

Cobblers Cove, and ordered a Bellini for him.

‘Only place here you can get one,’ said Fergus. ‘Superb.

Do you good. Octavia, are you by any chance going to the

Richardsons’ tomorrow?’

Gabriel had not thought his heart could sink any lower.

He was wrong.

Nico Cadogan’s temper, hard to ignite, was nevertheless

very slow burning. Felix Miller’s clear intention to move in

on his company for reasons of nothing but personal revenge

infuriated him; after a day of intense anxiety over it,

discussing tactics with Tom Fleming, he arrived home to a

note from Marianne that added to his sense of outrage. He

had behaved magnificently, he thought, over the weekend, had not complained about having it cut short, had hired planes and cars, been supportive and patient with Marianne,

courteous to the difficult daughter — pretty, though, she was

going to be a dead ringer for her mother — and then slipped

tactfully away, left them all in peace. And what did he get

for it? A thank you note that might have been from

someone he’d invited to a cocktail party, and a plea to be

left alone ‘for a few days’.

He telephoned her immediately, and asked her, slightly

tersely, to join him for dinner.

‘I’m really sorry, Nico. I can’t. I just feel so dreadful

about everything.’

‘Then you need something to make you feel less

dreadful,’ he said, trying to sound lighthearted.

‘No. No, Nico, I don’t. I really need to be on my own.’

Irritation stabbed him. ‘Marianne, I need to be with you.

I want to talk to you. And things aren’t that bad. Surely.’

‘To me they are.’

‘But why?’

‘You wouldn’t understand. You couldn’t understand.

Please, Nico, leave me alone.’

The rage flared. Illogically, he knew: she had no idea

what Felix Miller had done, and it was he who had pursued

her and provoked Felix into revenge, not the other way

round. Just the same, he felt she owed him at the very least

some time. If he requested it.

‘Very well,’ he said and put the phone down.

‘Isn’t this lovely?’ said Octavia. ‘Mahogany trees.’ They

were driving through a long tunnel of them, arching tall

and graceful over the road. ‘Amazing, aren’t they?’

‘Yes. Amazing.’

‘And those feathery things are called casuarina trees, they

were introduced to Barbados by Prince Albert. It’s said to

be the best firewood in the world.’

‘Not much use here, then,’ said Gabriel.

She didn’t answer. They left the mahogany trees behind,

drove on a straight road between surprisingly lush fields,

where cows grazed alongside brown creatures with floppy ears he assumed to be goats.

‘Those are tropical sheep,’ she said. ‘Aren’t they sweet?

Very biblical looking. They’re all tethered because—’

‘Octavia, I really think I’ve had enough of the guidebook

stuff for now. If you don’t mind.’

She looked at him, her eyes suddenly dark with anger,

and said nothing more.

The Richardsons’ house was remarkable; built in 1700, it

would have been more at home in Wiltshire or Suffolk, he

thought, three graceful storeys high, with fine tall windows

complete with shutters, exquisite mouldings on the ceilings,

wooden floors and, astonishingly, fireplaces in all the main

rooms.

‘They thought houses needed fireplaces,’ said Clem,

laughing, seeing Gabriel’s face — Octavia had ceased

speaking to him altogether. ‘The man who built it came

over here from England to start a sugar plantation. He only

knew about Queen Anne houses.’

‘Do you grow sugar still?’ Gabriel said, making a great

effort to be polite.

‘Goodness no, the sugar market here is dead, I’m afraid.

No, we sold off the land in the early ‘sixties. My husband is

a businessman. A banker actually. Champagne, Gabriel?’

‘Er — yes. Thank you.’

‘Follow me,’ she said and led him into what seemed to be

an English drawing room; a black girl, in a black dress and

white frilled apron, stood holding a tray of champagne

glasses by the door. She gave him a minimal and polite

smile. Clem took two glasses, motioned to her to move

further into the room.

‘Thank you,’ said Gabriel loudly to the girl. ‘Thank you

very much indeed. Gabriel Bingham. I’m from England.

Cant shake your hand, unfortunately, but very nice to

meet you.’

The girl looked embarrassed; Clem Richardson amused.

‘Come through and meet some more people. Now,

Fergus I know you’ve met, and Harriet, of course, but let me see, oh, yes, this is Lady Browning. Lady Browning, Gabriel Bingham. He’s here with Octavia Fleming.’

Lady Browning was plump, middle aged, beautifully

dressed — and black. She smiled graciously at Gabriel. ‘And

what do you do in England, Mr Bingham?’

‘I’m in politics,’ he said.

‘Oh, really? Like my husband. He’s in the Civil Service.

And my son, Alistair, over there—’ she pointed out a slim,

flashily dressed man — ‘he’s in property. That’s the thing

here, you know. All these great mansions going up, have

you seen any of them?’

Gabriel said he hadn’t.

‘Huge places, costing four or five million dollars. They’re

going to cause trouble here.’

‘Why?’ said Gabriel.

‘Well, because they will have to have security gates,

guards, dogs, all that sort of thing. And it’s against the

culture here. It’s always been a very open society and that

sort of thing will lead to crime. I hear London has a terrible

crime problem these days.’

‘Not good, no,’ said Gabriel. ‘I think it’s because—’

‘Maria, come and meet Douglas Bird.’ It was Bertie

Richardson, beaming at them both. ‘And you, Bingham.

Interesting chap, into the charter airline business. Good

name for it, Bird, don’t you think?’

Gabriel followed them dutifully across the room. He

didn’t want to meet anyone in the charter airline business.

He didn’t want to meet any of them: although Lady

Browning seemed like fun. The whole thing was like the

worst sort of middle-class English dinner party. And with

his luck he’d be sat down next to Harriet, the blonde …

‘Octavia, I said I’m sorry.’

‘Yes, I heard you. But I’m afraid that can’t put right what

seemed like downright rudeness. Doesn’t matter to me, but

the Richardsons are old friends of my father’s. I could see

they were feeling terribly uncomfortable. And Fergus is an

old friend of mine.’

‘I wasn’t anywhere near Fergus.’

‘You were next to Harriet. You ignored her through the

whole meal. I just don’t understand—’ She stopped. She felt

horribly near to tears. She had been genuinely embarrassed

and upset. She had taken Gabriel along as her guest, and he

had abused the hospitality. It just wasn’t fair. Unbidden,

social occasions with Tom came into her mind: however

dreadful the people, however tired he was, he was always

charming, interested, made an effort. She tried to crush the

thought again, found it difficult: the effort made her feel

more upset still.

‘I’m going to try phoning Tuscany again,’ she said,

‘before it’s too late.’

Gabriel shrugged, went out to the verandah.

She had tried to get through the night before and failed;

then had tried the house, in order to speak to Caroline, to

achieve some kind of contact with at least one of her

children. Caroline wasn’t there either: presumably still with

her parents. Their number was on the answering machine,

anyway, but she couldn’t get through. The whole thing had

unsettled her, upset her; she felt cast adrift. And the ghastly

evening at Cobblers Cove with Gabriel being difficult,

obtuse, not responding to what was a genuine effort on Fergus’ part to be’ friendly, his wanting to get home early, had left her very much in need of hearing small, friendly

voices.

He had obviously wanted to make love to her when they

went to bed; upset, she couldn’t face it, had made an

excuse, said she was hot, had gone into the spare room.

Later, lying awake, she felt wretched; another relationship

going wrong already. Maybe it was her, as much as Tom;

maybe she just wasn’t good at relationships, and that was all

there was to it; maybe she was a control freak, as Tom had

said; maybe she was frigid even. No wonder Tom had

turned to someone like Louise, warm, easy, funny; no

wonder he had gone off with Lauren.

Panic had hit her; she was suddenly hot, stifling. She had

got up, made herself a cold drink, and gone out to sit on the verandah, staring at the moonlit sea, trying to calm herself, failing. It was ironic, she had thought, that this holiday

which she had thought would start to rebuild her self

esteem, was threatening to wreck it further …

‘Hallo? Hallo? Is that the Villa Vittorio?’

‘Scusi?’

‘I said — oh, dear, could I speak to — to Signora Bartlett?’

‘Signora is not ‘ere.’

Thank God for that, she thought.

‘Signor Bartlett, he speak. I fetch.’

“Thank you.’

Drew Bartlett’s deep, over-smooth, tones came down

the line. ‘Octavia! Wonderful to hear from you. How are

you, how’s Barbados?’

‘Oh - marvellous. Thank you. Last day tomorrow,

though.’

‘Really? Short trip.’

‘Yes, well, I’ve got to get back. Are — are the children

being good?’

‘Marvellous. Really marvellous. That Gideon is a little

trouper. He’s swimming today for the first time, marvellous

dive he’s got. Hasn’t complained once about not swimming

either.’

‘Is his foot all right?’

‘Absolutely fine. We had the local doctor check it over,

just to make sure. Right as rain.’

‘That was kind of you. Thank you so much. And

Poppy?’

‘She’s a peach. Really. Now the girls are all out, I’m

afraid, gone to Florence for the day. Lauren’s pretending

they were going for the culture, but actually, between you

and me, they’re just shopping. But Gideon’s here. Want a

word?’

‘Yes. Yes, please.’

She stood there, feeling slightly weak at the knees. She

had been so afraid Tom would answer the phone, her heart

was still thudding.

Gideon’s cheerful voice came over the miles. ‘Hi, Mum!’

‘Hallo, darling. Is your foot all right? Having a good

time?’

‘Brilliant. It was a bit hot till now, but I could swim

today. There’s another boy here, he’s good fun. He let me

play with his Nintendo while I couldn’t swim. And Drew Mr

Bartlett - was really kind, taught me chess.’

And what was Tom doing, she wondered tartly, swimming

with Lauren, no doubt…

‘How’s Poppy?’

‘She’s a pain. She and Camilla spend all the time giggling.

Really gross. She’s out. They’re going to be really late back.

They went to Florence on the train. I could have gone, but

it’s so hot. Drew said it’d be more fun here.’

‘I see. And — and Dad?’ She brought the word out with a

struggle. ‘How’s he?’

There was a silence; then Gideon said, ‘Dad? He’s okay, I

expect.’

‘Has he gone to Florence, too?’

‘What? Dad’s not here, Mum.’ Gideon sounded puzzled.

‘He’s in Florence?’

‘No, he’s not here at all. He never was. I mean, he didn’t

come. I don’t know why you thought he did …’

‘He didn’t come?’ she said stupidly. The floor seemed

to shift under her feet; she felt dizzy.

‘No. He’s at home. In London.’

‘But I thought—’

‘Mum? Of course he couldn’t come. There’s no room

for him. Poppy shares with Camilla and I sleep on a camp

bed in the dining room.’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘oh, I see. I thought - well, that was silly

of me.’

‘It was a bit. Anyway, how’s it there? Even hotter, I

expect.’

‘Yes, pretty hot. Anyway, darling, I’ll be home in

London on Sunday morning. Give Poppy a big hug from

me. Drew says you’re both being very good. I’ve got to go

now. Sorry. I’ll ring again when I get home.’

She felt an urgent, a pressing need to get off the phone,

to be by herself, with her whirling thoughts. Everything

seemed to have shifted again: black had become white. And

two and two clearly didn’t quite add up to four. How had

she reached that conclusion? How was it possible? How

could Tom have let her reach it? Had he been hoping to

go, perhaps, thinking he was going even? Or — had she just

been stupid? Angrily, dangerously stupid?

Quickly, swiftly, before she could lose her courage, she

dialled the house; it rang for a while, then the answering

machine picked it up.

She took a deep breath, started to leave a message, and

then Tom’s voice cut in. ‘Hallo, Tom Fleming speaking.’

‘Oh — Tom,’ she said. ‘Tom, hallo. It’s me. Octavia.’ She