Deception and Desire (20 page)

Maggie had taken the position of the driving seat to mean that someone with much longer legs than Ros's had driven the car to the railway station and left it there to allay suspicion. Little pleasure as it gave him, Mike could think of a much simpler reason – that whoever it was driving Ros's car had left with her for wherever it was she had gone. Brendan had said he had seen her with a man in Clifton – this man and the person who had driven her car could be one and the same. The moment Maggie had told him about it he had seen the possible connection. That was why he had talked her out of going straight to the police with the fresh evidence. He could imagine them making the same assumption and if they were right he would end up looking a bigger fool than ever. If she had walked out on him he didn't want anyone, least of all the police, to know how much he missed her.

Mike swore under his breath and went back to concentrating on the cricket match.

Drew Peters-Browne was in his studio in what had once been a hayloft at the rear of the converted barn where he lived with Jayne, his wife. He had spent the day painting but an hour ago had decided he had done enough. He had cleaned his brushes and packed up his oils – the tools of his trade were one thing Drew was careful about – then he had put a heavy-metal tape into the sound system, fetched himself a warm beer, rolled a cannabis reefer and thrown himself down on the battered Chesterfield to smoke it.

This, he reckoned, was the best part of the day, when he could relax, the glow of satisfaction that came from knowing he had done a few hours' better-than-average work supplemented by the high that came from the music and the cannabis.

Some days it was not so good, of course. Some days when his work had gone so badly that he was depressingly certain he would never again turn out a painting that wasn't a crock of shit, the music and the drugs had the opposite effect, reminding him of glory days gone by and showing the future painted either in sombre hues or the vermilion splashes of eternal damnation. But not today. Today had been good and Drew felt good also.

He stretched himself comfortably on the Chesterfield, a lanky man in check shirt and paint-stained cords, his long hair tied back at the nape of his neck into a wispy pony-tail, and contemplated the evening ahead.

Perhaps he'd walk into the village and spend an hour in the pub. He enjoyed drinking with the locals, who called him ‘arty' and treated him as a slightly eccentric celebrity. Or perhaps he'd drive into town and visit Cliff and David, friends of his at whose ‘marriage ceremony' a few months ago he had been best man. They had a young man over from the States staying with them and Drew was anxious to meet him. He was hesitating over the delicious decision when suddenly he was aware he was no longer alone.

‘Jayne – darling – you frightened the life out of me!' he drawled.

‘If you didn't play your music so loudly you'd have heard me calling.'

‘Perhaps I didn't want to hear,' he said a trifle petulantly.

‘I'm sure you didn't. Nevertheless, it's time you were getting ready.'

‘Ready for what?'

‘For Dinah's dinner party.'

‘Oh shit!'

‘Don't tell me you'd forgotten!'

‘I had. Completely. Do we have to go?'

‘Yes, Drew, we do.'

‘Oh shit,' he said again. They are the most boring bunch of farts ever. One of these days I shall tell them so. That should liven up their pissing stupid dinner party.'

Jayne crossed to the Chesterfield, took the can of beer from Drew's hand and stood over him threateningly.

‘You can stop that, Drew, and stop it right now. You are coming to Dinah's dinner party with me and you are going to behave yourself. That boring bunch of farts, as you call them, keep you in the manner to which you are accustomed, and don't you forget it. What is more, if we play our cards right they will keep us in luxury for the rest of our lives.'

‘They offend my artistic nature.'

‘Haven't you always fancied a château in France or a palazzo in Italy? I will tell you here and now, you'll never make enough from your painting to buy even a hovel! Yes, darling, I know you are good, but artists are never appreciated until they are dead and that won't do either of us much good. So, be a good boy, come and have a shower and make yourself presentable and then contain your dislike of the boring old farts for a couple of hours. Right?'

Drew sighed. ‘I suppose I don't have any choice.'

‘No, darling, you don't.' In the doorway she turned and smiled back at him indulgently. ‘Anyway, if you gave them the chance you might find out that they are not all quite as boring as you think.'

‘Which one, exactly?'

Jayne's lips curved and grew full as she remembered her midday assignations. ‘Never you mind, darling. And you don't, do you?'

‘No, I don't mind,' he answered truthfully.

‘I still don't understand, Steve, why you invited Ros's sister to dinner tonight,' Dinah Marshall said.

‘I thought I'd explained,' Steve returned easily. ‘ She wanted to talk to you about Ros. She thinks you might know where she's gone.'

‘Well I don't. I'm as much in the dark as anybody.' She hesitated, a tiny frown puckering her forehead. ‘Is the sister seriously worried? She doesn't think something might have happened to her, does she?'

‘What could have happened to her?'

‘I don't know. But it's so unlike her to go off in this way. I must say I am a little concerned myself …' She was silent for a moment, then she went on: ‘ I don't see what is to be gained, by inviting her here, though. She won't know anyone – and what if we want to talk business? We won't be able to with her here.'

‘I thought putting people at their ease was one of your specialities, and you know you hate talking business at social gatherings. In any case, Jayne's husband will be here. He's an outsider.'

Dinah reached across the table to rearrange the posy of rosebuds and spray carnations that made up the centrepiece.

‘Not really. Jayne is fanatical about fashion and totally involved in Vandina. She must talk to Drew about it at home.'

A wry smile twisted Steve's mouth. He was looking forward to the evening. The edge of danger that came from sitting across the table from his lover and her husband gave him a buzz of the adrenaline that he now knew was his life's blood, and tonight Ros's sister would be here too.

‘You worry too much, Dinah,' he said lightly. ‘Let me get you a drink. Gin and tonic?'

‘Mm, I could murder one.'

She stood back, running a quick practised eye over the table settings, making sure that Joanne, who came in from the village to cook for her dinner parties, had got it right. Joanne had a degree in catering but she could at times be amazingly slaphappy about the small details that were so important.

Tonight, however, everything seemed reasonably correct. Dinah adjusted a couple of pieces of heavy silver cutlery, moved a crystal glass a few millimetres to the right and crisped the fold on a linen napkin. Then she straightened, taking the glass Steve was offering her and sipping gratefully.

He was probably right. She did worry too much, but she couldn't help it. She was a worrier by nature – that was why Van had been so good for her; he had done the worrying for her. Now she was beginning to allow Steve to do the same. She looked at him over the top of her glass and felt her heart contract with love. Oh, it was good, so good, to have a man one could rely on, and when that man was the son you thought you would never see again it made it that much better. Steve didn't totally understand the business yet, of course – how could he? It was a world totally removed from the one he had been used to. An oil rig and a fashion empire could hardly be more different. But she had every confidence in him. Already, in the short time since he had arrived, he had learned so much about the running of Vandina and she was sure he was capable of taking on a good deal more yet.

It would be so wonderful, Dinah thought, to be able to relinquish the onerous mantle of responsibility and get back to what she loved best – designing and planning; wonderful to be able to dump the paperwork and the troublesome shop stewards and the worries about tardy suppliers on to someone she trusted, not only because of his ability but because he was family, and surround herself again with sketch pads and source sheets and inspirational samples of exciting fabrics and materials. And what a luxury it would be to be able to see an idea through from start to finish instead of having to turn it over to Jayne, competent though she was. And to have time to think ideas through and create during the day instead of having to burn the midnight oil as she had done last night.

‘I've asked Don to come a little early,' Dinah said now. ‘I wanted to have a word with him about costings before the others arrive.'

Don Kennedy was the Vandina accountant and finance director. He had been away for the last couple of days – in fact he had flown back into Bristol only this afternoon.

‘Costings!' Steve remonstrated. ‘Couldn't that have waited until tomorrow?'

‘I'm in London tomorrow, remember? And no, it really won't wait. It's terribly urgent. I have to get plans underway to cover for this Reubens fiasco.'

Steve sipped the whisky he had poured himself.

‘As I said just now, you worry too much. I can't see what all the fuss is about. Surely Vandina is well enough established not to be hurt by a newcomer like Reubens? You have the luxury end of the market well and truly sewn up.'

‘Because we are original. Oh yes, the quality is of prime importance too but alone it's not enough. Our customers expect us to be the innovators, they like to feel they are the ones setting the trends. They expect us to lead the way, not copy others.'

‘You haven't copied anyone.'

‘Try telling the trade – or the public – that when Reubens have already gone public with their plans. I know it doesn't seem fair but business rarely is. That's something you'll learn, Steve. Believe me, it can be a hard lesson.'

He looked at her. There were dark shadows under her eyes – she had been up half the night, he suspected – but the outer shell, the image she presented to the world, was very much in place. Glamorous, successful Dinah – how many people suspected the insecurity that lay beneath that mask?

‘So, how do you plan to sort it out?' he asked, half smiling.

‘That's what I want to talk to Don about.' As if on cue the sound of a car engine and the crunch of tyres on gravel made her glance towards the window. ‘ Here he is now. I'll take him into the study. Look, Steve, if any of the others arrive before we've finished, can you make them welcome?'

‘Of course.' He tossed back his drink, smiled at her. ‘ Don't worry, Dinah, I'm here. You can leave it all to me.'

‘What's all this about then, Dinah? What's so urgent it can't wait for a few days?' Don Kennedy asked.

A dapper, unassuming man of unprepossessing appearance, Don had been a mainstay of the Vandina management team almost from its inception, without ever attempting to move into the driving seat. His was a face no one remembered, bland and ordinary, beneath thinning straw-coloured hair which he brushed self-consciously over his ever-spreading bald spot. But his eyes were kind, clear blue, and the rosy hue in his cheeks suggested that once upon a time he might have looked like a pink-and-white cherub.

The moment he had arrived Dinah had ushered him into the study which had once been Van's domain and which, in a way, seemed a living memorial to the man who had created and run Vandina. The original
Punch
cartoons which decorated the walls, the furnishings, tobacco brown and forest green, the huge antique swivel chair, all were of his choosing; on the leather tooled desk his heavy old inkwell and silver paperknife lay as if waiting for his return. No cigars had been smoked in the study since Van's death yet it seemed that their sweet aroma still hung in the air, and Van dominated the room in death as in life through his life-size portrait in oils which hung above the Victorian-style mantelpiece.

Don Kennedy glanced at the portrait as he always did when he entered the room in silent greeting to the man he had worked with for more than twenty years, and wondered at the way that mere oil and brush strokes could create a likeness so striking that the powerful personality seemed almost to reach out from the canvas and overwhelm in the same way the man himself had done.

Did I like him? Don Kennedy asked himself on occasions, and was honest enough to concede that liking had had very little to do with it. Admiration, yes. From the moment he had been introduced to him Don had known that here was a man who knew exactly what he wanted and would almost certainly get it, a man with determination as well as vision, a man with an IQ practically off the scale in spite of having left school at the age of fifteen with no formal qualifications. Everything about him commanded – and received – admiration. Respect? Possibly, if a little grudging. Van could be ruthless; Don had seen him in action often enough to know that he could also be unscrupulous in the pursuit of his goals – and less than faithful to his wife. But then, were these not the characteristics typical of the successful entrepreneur who needed to be unscrupulous in order to survive in the jungle of big business, just as he needed the attention of young and beautiful women to feed his ego. And Don knew that the strongest emotion he had experienced towards Van had been envy – envy for the position he had carved out for himself, envy for the personal fortune he had amassed, and most of all envy because Van had Dinah, with whom Don had been in love for as long as he had known her.

Perhaps, Don thought when he was in retrospective mood, if Van had been a less powerful personality and he himself had had a little more to offer he might have tried to win her away, but he had lacked the self-confidence even to try. Sometimes, angered by Van's infidelity towards the woman he looked on as a goddess, he had longed to tell her of his feelings for her, to try to persuade her to leave Van and go with him, but he had known it was a vain hope. Dinah had idolised Van, there had been something almost mystic about the hold he had over her, and his death seemed to have done nothing to break the spell. Don knew that although Van was dead and gone Dinah still thought of herself as his wife. To make any move towards her would be, in her eyes, an insult to Van's memory.