Dangerous Deception

by Anthea Fraser

  “You had no option,” I said tartly, “you were thrown out.”

  “Touché. And you, so far, have been more circumspect?”

  “Precisely.” The brittle little voice didn’t sound like mine. If only I knew what it was all about, how serious it was, if there was somebody I could warn, and who, if anyone, I could trust at the hotel!

  “The Zimmermans,” I began hesitantly as Philip bumped the car back on to the road.

  “Don’t worry – they won’t give any sign of recognising me. They’re pretty well briefed. I saw them in Chicago last month.”

  “So they – know all about it?”

  He glanced at me with amused impatience. “They have the right, wouldn’t you say, since they’re the buyers?”

  So we had something to sell. What was it that was hidden in the dark passage of Cefn Fawr? Drugs, diamonds, state secrets? Was Philip now a drug dealer or a foreign agent? The idea seemed too ludicrous for serious consideration, but that the stakes were high, I no longer doubted.

  The sun suddenly ceased to warm me, and I shivered.

  “Break in the weather ahead.” Philip nodded in the direction of a large purple cloud which was draining the colour out of the sky like a giant sponge. “Looks as if we’re in for a storm. It was forecast.”

  I gazed at the heavy cloud with foreboding. “Perhaps it will blow over.”

  “Not a chance, we’re driving straight into it.”

  “Shall we turn round, then?”

  He did not reply.

  I sat with clenched hands, staring unseeingly through the windscreen at the berried hedgerows and golden fields lit by the stormy sunshine as the sky gradually darkened.

  I had never felt so alone. The only person I could trust in my suddenly topsy-turvy world was three hundred miles away, and he was the one who at all costs must be spared knowledge of the affair.

  The road began to wind tortuously downhill, and ahead of us lay the sea. We drove through a gateway into a car park, buying a ticket as we went, and Philip managed to find a place to park. The area was filled with station wagons, motor-bikes and cars, and on rising ground behind it I could see the clustered shapes of a caravan site.

  I stepped out of the car, smoothing down my dress, and the strong wind blowing off the sea raised the gooseflesh on my arms. Particles of sand driven before it stung my bare legs like myriads of tiny darts. I was already sorry I’d suggested the beach, but I was allowed no second thoughts.

  “Come on.” Philip set off purposefully for the dunes and I meekly followed. The soft sand was heavy going and my shoes soon filled with it, cramping my toes. I stopped to take them off and hurried after him, the tired muscles pulling at the back of my knees.

  He was waiting on the top of a sand-dune and as I joined him, the breath was knocked out of my body by the strength of the wind that hit me. My thin dress whipped stingingly round my legs.

  “Healthy stuff,” Philip commented. His open sandals were no hindrance, I thought resentfully, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth to remove the blowing sand. The wind licked through my dress, cold on my sun-warmed body, and I shivered again.

  “Soon get warm!” said my companion briskly, and set off down the other side of the dune towards the sea. It was a long way out, and seemingly miles of hard brown sand, painfully ribbed, lay between it and us.

  Philip strode without a second glance past sand castles, racing dogs, families playing cricket, children throwing balls and crab-filled pools. I almost ran to keep up with him, my body bent into the wind. I sensed that he welcomed the strong breeze, hoping it might clear his head of all the conflicting thoughts he must still have about me, and I knew nothing would have pleased him more than to walk away from me completely.

  At last he stopped and turned with the semblance of a smile. “It might be quicker to drive round to Devon and catch the tide there.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re not cold, are you?”

  “Of course I’m cold!” I snapped. “I’ve hardly any clothes on and the wind is bitter.”

  “Nonsense, a little fresh, nothing more.” He surveyed me for a moment, then pulled off his camel sweater. “Put this on; it will be a pretty pass if you have to spend Tuesday in bed with a chill.”

  Which, of course, was his only concern. I pulled it fiercely over my head. It was deliciously comforting, warm from his body, and reaching down as far as the hem of my skirt. Philip stood watching as I doubled the cuffs over.

  “You look about twelve,” he said. “I just can’t—”

  His mouth hardened and he turned away.

  “Can we go back now?” I asked meekly.

  “Tired of it already? This was your idea, remember.”

  As he spoke, a large drop of rain the size of a penny fell on to the back of my hand. We both looked up. The purple cloud had spread alarmingly over the sky and now covered it completely.

  “Come on!” He seized my hand and we started to run, the wind now helping us along, back towards the distant shelter of a café.

  The rain began in earnest. All around us, people were hastily gathering together children, dogs and belongings, and starting to stream off the beach in straggling, disorganised groups. Almost directly overhead came a deafening crash. My nails dug into Philip’s hand.

  “Still afraid of thunder, Clare?” He’d teased me about that since childhood. “I’ve already been thunderstruck once today,” he added with grim humour. “It won’t strike twice in the same place.”

  At last we had reached the little café and pressed our way inside. It was already filled to capacity, but people were still pushing from behind. Another crash sounded, rolling round the hills behind us, and one or two children began to cry. Instinctively I edged closer to Philip, but he gave me a little push and said briskly, “Pull yourself together, there are worse things than thunder. If I can get to the counter I’ll bring you a hot drink.”

  There were no free tables, but I moved against a window and, huddled into Philip’s sweater, stood looking out at the desolate and deserted beach. It was not an inspiring sight, and I turned back to watch his progress in the queue. He was head and shoulders above the other holidaymakers, his blue shirt wet across the back, his face flushed from the rain and our race against it. With the colour in his cheeks, he looked all at once more like the Philip I remembered. But he wasn’t, I reminded myself, and wondered whether, if I’d stuck by him when he left the company, he might not have become involved in all this.

  He shouldered his way back to me with a steaming mug of tea. “God,” he said, “what a place!”

  The room was suddenly lit by a jag of lightning and another deafening peal broke overhead. The lights went out, but even as everyone exclaimed, came flickeringly on again. The tea in my mug sloshed over the rim.

  “That was close!” someone said.

  Philip looked down at me. “If you weren’t hooked on danger you wouldn’t be here, so why complain about the sound effects? At least we’re not marooned in the castle.”

  I swallowed the scalding liquid, welcoming the pain as it seared my throat. The crowd, wet and restless, pressed against us, and all at once I was enveloped by nightmare. The hot, damp atmosphere, the noise, the flushed faces all around me, had an quality about them that was suddenly frightening. The only reality was Philip, whom I’d known most of my life, and he was watching me with the cold, indifferent eyes of a stranger.

  I tried to draw a breath to steady myself, couldn’t, and immediately panicked.

  “Philip, I’ve got to get out of here!”

  “My dear girl, look at the weather!”

  “I can’t – breathe!” My voice rose.

  He took the cup out of my hand and placed it with his own on the nearest table. Then he gripped my hand and elbowed a way through the crowd. In a moment he had the door open and we were met by the wild wet wind. I leant on the little wooden rail that ran round the verandah, gulping in lungfuls of the strong air.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, when
I was able to speak. “That’s never happened before, but I didn’t sleep well last night, and then today has been somewhat – stressful—” My voice tailed off.

  Philip ignored my apology, staring across the rainswept wastes. “I must say you choose your rare days at the seaside with discernment. Better now?”

  “Yes thank you. Let’s go back to the car.”

  “I’m not driving anywhere in this deluge.”

  “At least we’ll be out of the rain. I can’t go back inside, and I’m getting soaked. So are you.”

  He turned, leaning against the rail as the wind tore at his hair. “I can’t help feeling,” he said sardonically, “that as an accomplice, you’re something of a liability.”

  “What was that about getting a chill before Tuesday?”

  He straightened. “Yes, indeed. Bryn would never forgive me.”

  Without waiting for him, I stumbled down the steps and round the corner in the direction of the car park. In two minutes I was drenched to the skin, my feet squelching uncomfortably in my shoes. Philip caught up with me, took my arm, and led me, head bent, to the car. As we settled ourselves, the windows steamed up with the dampness of our clothes, enclosing us in unwanted privacy. I took a handkerchief out of my bag and rubbed ineffectually at my face and hands.

  “I’ll put the heater on,” Philip said. “You’ll soon dry off. How about a round of Men of Harlech to keep our spirits up? Has Bryn taught you the Welsh version?”

  I turned my face away from him.

  “Or have you better things to do together than learning Welsh?”

  I spun round. “Stop it, Philip!”

  He glanced at me with raised eyebrows, and I went on more calmly, “It’s not my fault we’re compelled to work together; it’s no easier for me, you know, and your snide innuendoes don’t help. Is it revenge because we split up?”

  I thought he wasn’t going to reply. Then he said quietly, “No, Clare, it’s not that. I’d known it was coming for some time, and even if I hadn’t, I couldn’t have blamed you in the circumstances. You’d have had to love me a great deal to have stood by me then, and I never fooled myself on that score.”

  I laced my fingers together, keeping my eyes on them. “Then what—?”

  “I suppose I’d a pretty idealised picture of you. So when I saw you in the bar, and realised that not only were you Goldilocks, and therefore up to your neck in this unsavoury business, but also that you were one of the girls Bryn boasts about so openly—”

  He broke off and I sat in helpless silence until he went on, “So I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse my behaviour – I’m still shell-shocked. It’s not every day you discover a girl you thought you knew, and had loved for some time, is just a cheap little crook.”

  Pride came to my rescue. “Coming from you,” I said icily, “that is rich.”

  “It is, isn’t it? And they say women are illogical.”

  The sheets of water still fell relentlessly. And it had been such a lovely morning, on the hillside with Clive. Quite suddenly, I couldn’t take any more; I needed to get away from him, back to the privacy of my bedroom, where I could take stock of this new situation. When I’d left it, I’d been preparing to meet Aladdin – and I’d thought things were complicated then.

  “Well,” I said, keeping my voice light, “if you’ve finished insulting me, perhaps you’ll take me back to the hotel.”

  “Visibility’s not more than a few yards. We could run off a precipice.”

  “Would it matter?”

  I felt him look at me. There was a pause, then he said, “Clare, I’m sorry.” His voice had gone flat. “Really. I’m being most unprofessional about this; I’d no right to speak to you as I did. As you say, if we have to work together, it’s pointless to erect this barrier of hostility.”

  He paused, but I didn’t speak.

  “Will you accept my apology?”

  “For business reasons?” I asked bitterly.

  “No, because I see I hurt you. Yes, I know I meant to, but now I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it.”

  We drove back to the hotel in complete silence, Philip bending forward to peer through the wall of rain, I leaning back in my seat with my eyes closed and my tangled hair slowly drying round my face. The thunder and the sleepless night, combined with the emotional upheaval of the last few hours, had given me a raging headache.

  It was still raining. Philip dropped me at the front door and drove on to park the car. The hands of the grandfather clock pointed to five-thirty – almost exactly the time I’d arrived yesterday, with Gareth’s fateful note in my handbag.

  I went up to my room without seeing anyone and took a couple of pills for my headache. Then, slipping out of my damp clothes, I lay thankfully down on the bed. As I closed my eyes, I heard Philip’s door open and close. Almost immediately, I slept.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Riddles of death …’

  Shelley: Hellas

  THE SOUND of footsteps pounding past my door and children’s voices calling awoke me: the young Mortimers, returning from their visit to the beach. I hoped bleakly they had enjoyed it more than I had mine. I turned my head to look at the clock. Just time for a quick bath before dinner.

  As I fastened the zip of my dress, the gong sounded. I reached automatically for the scent bottle then hesitated, remembering it had been Philip’s birthday present. Telling myself not to be stupid, I applied some, and, with a final check in the mirror, opened the door.

  From the hall came the clamour of voices as people made their way to the dining-room. Philip was awaiting me at the foot of the stairs. Now for the public affection decreed by Bryn.

  “Hello!” I said brightly. “I only just made it – I was asleep twenty minutes ago!”

  It was amazing how natural I sounded.

  Philip said easily, “Good for you; it will have done you a power of good.”

  Top marks to him, too, though I guessed it was whisky, not sleep, which had helped him relax. He took my arm and we went together into the dining-room. The Zimmermans were already at their table, and I caught their fractional immobility as Philip and I entered.

  Morgan, who had been standing talking to the old ladies, turned as we approached and forestalled Philip in pulling out my chair.

  “If I’m not speaking out of turn, you’re looking very lovely this evening.” I smiled at him, and was surprised to see the seriousness of his expression.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked quickly.

  “I hope not; we’re just a little concerned about Dick; there’s been no sight nor sound of him since he left early this morning.”

  I said comfortably, “Well, he was late for dinner last night, too.”

  “Yes, but he was expecting an overseas call at six, from some friends holidaying in Greece. They’re working together on some project, and he was looking forward to hearing how they’d got on.”

  “And did they phone?”

  “Yes; not best pleased, according to Mrs Davies. I can’t believe he’d have forgotten it.” Morgan glanced at Philip, who was still standing. “Sorry – I’m intruding.”

  He was turning away, but I said swiftly, “You don’t think he could have got into difficulties?” I’d liked the shy little man with his schoolboy enthusiasm.

  “Oh, he’s probably just got a flat tyre or something. On the other hand, this afternoon’s storm wouldn’t have been pleasant in the kind of places he goes to. There probably wasn’t much shelter.”

  I’d been too overwhelmed by Philip’s arrival to register Dick Harvey’s absence at lunch-time. I glanced at his empty table and gave a little shiver.

  “Is he a climber?” Philip inquired.

  “No, an amateur archaeologist. As Clare says, he’ll no doubt come breezing in late, as he did last night. But I’m keeping you from your dinner.”

  He went on to his own table and Harry approached and handed me the menu. I couldn’t concentrate on it. At the next table, the old ladies
were twittering like agitated sparrows. Over by the window, the honeymooners sat silently, close together. Even the loud-voiced Miss Norton was subdued this evening.

  The sound of approaching footsteps turned every head in the room, but it was Clive and Pauline who entered. In an uneasy silence they walked to their table. Clive made some laughing comment to Elmer Zimmerman as he passed, but it elicited only a faint smile in response.

  The general feeling of apprehension increased throughout the meal. People spoke seldom, and then in low voices. And all the time the rain rattled like tiny pellets against the glass and the wind blew gustily down the wide chimney.

  It was certainly no time for Philip and me to engage in our prescribed flirting and we tacitly abandoned it, resorting to the same pattern of sporadic conversation as the rest of them.

  “Did you and Uncle stay here once, a few years ago?” I asked suddenly.

  He looked at me quickly, eyes narrowing. “What makes you ask that?”

  “I remembered him talking about that holiday you had, and the name Dryffyd seemed familiar.”

  “No, it wasn’t here, it was an hotel further down the road.”

  “The Plas Dinas?”

  “That’s right – where we were supposed to meet up yesterday.”

  Which confirmed my guess.

  I returned to my dinner and after a moment, Philip, too, picked up his fork again.

  There was a slight diversion towards the end of the meal, when Emma Mortimer appeared in her nightdress, complaining of a rattling window which was keeping her awake. Pauline shooed her out again, and went up with her to wedge it.

  I laid my spoon on my plate, abandoning the last of the Peach Melba.

  “Do they serve coffee?” Philip asked.

  “Yes, in the lounge.”

  As we walked through the hall, the Mortimers and Morgan were standing chatting together.

  “I hope you weren’t wanting a brandy, Philip,” Morgan said, indicating a notice pinned to the closed door of the cocktail lounge. It read: Sorry, bar closed from 7–9 p.m.

  “Fortunately we’re only in search of coffee,” Philip answered, and as we went on into the lounge, they turned and followed us.