The afternoon wore on. Michelle and her group were afloat by now and I was impressed by her patience with the kids. Windsurfing was obviously harder than it looked and whenever one of them fell off - which was often - she was there in the water beside them, giving them a hand back on to the board, taking them through the manoeuvre again. Watching them, I couldn’t help thinking about Jamie and his pregnant ex-girlfriend. Was he serious about adoption? Should I be?
Around four, I went back to the car and found a pen and an old envelope in my bag. By the time I got back to the beach, Michelle and her kids were packing up. She supervised the de-rig and shepherded them up towards me. At first, when I intercepted her, she hadn’t got a clue who I was.
I took the glasses off.
‘Ellie Bruce,’ I said. ‘Adam’s wife.’
The expression on her face said it all. The last thing she wanted was another confrontation. I told her I needed ten minutes of her time. Not necessarily here. And not necessarily now.
‘Where, then?’
‘You tell me. Wherever it suits.’
The kids had gathered round her. They stared up at me, openly curious.
‘This is ridiculous,’ she said. ‘You have no right.’
‘I agree.’
‘So why don’t you -’
The kids began to stir. They could sense the aggression, the smell of impending trouble. I produced the envelope and the biro.
‘Here,’ I said. ‘Give me an address.’
‘An address?’
‘Somewhere we can talk, tonight preferably. Doesn’t matter where. Cafe, pub, your home, wherever.’
Michelle looked dubious, then put her board down. She scribbled an address on the envelope and handed it back. Water from her wetsuit had blobbed the first line but the rest of it seemed pretty clear.
‘It’s a pub,’ she said, ‘in the village up the road.’
‘Eight o’clock?’
‘Seven. And you’d better mean ten minutes because I’ve got to pick up my daughter at half past.’
I went back to my rock in the sun. When the kids had disappeared into the sand dunes, I retrieved the photo from the top pocket of my shirt. Side by side, I compared the two sets of handwriting, feeling the relief flooding through me. The message on the back of the photo couldn’t after all, have come from Michelle.
She was already in the pub when I walked in. She was sitting at a table in the corner, nursing a glass of what looked like Pils. Clothed, she was even more striking, her tousled black hair falling in wild ringlets around her bare shoulders. No wonder Steve Liddell had been in such a state. No wonder he’d missed her so much.
I sat down, not bothering with a drink. When I produced the photo, she picked it up.
‘That’s me,’ she said at once. ‘Last year.’
‘Turn it over.’
She read the message. Her smile vanished.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘It was in my husband’s office. In a drawer.’
‘You mean Adam? Adam Bruce?’
‘Yes.’
I sat back, waiting for an explanation.
‘That’s not my writing,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t write anything like that.’’I know.’
She began to ask how, then she obviously remembered the address she’d scribbled for me on the beach. I can’t be certain but I thought I detected just the hint of a smile.
‘All that stuff last time…’ she frowned, looking down at the photo,’… all that was because of this?’
‘Yes. That and other things.’
‘Such as?’
‘The fact that you left Steve. The fact that you started the windsurfing school. The fact that seventy grand of my husband’s money went astray.’
Abruptly, she laughed.
‘You still think he paid for it?’
I remembered her reaction to that same question last time I’d asked it. Then, she’d been outraged. Now, for some reason, she just found it funny.
‘I’m here to be convinced,’ I said quietly. ‘Believe it or not, it still matters to me.’
She had the grace not to question my sincerity. When she asked whether I’d like a drink, I shook my head.
‘You’ve only got ten minutes,’ I pointed out. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather talk.’
She ran a hand through her hair and sat back. The reason she’d left Steve, she said, was none of my business but it certainly hadn’t involved my husband.
‘How do I know that? How can I be sure it’s true?’
‘You can’t. Unless you ask Steve.’
‘Does he know?’
‘He knows that it wasn’t your husband.’
‘Was it someone else, then?’
She looked at me for a long time. Then she shook her head.
‘No, he’d like to think it was but it wasn’t. Men are funny like that, aren’t they? When there’s no one else involved, they wish there had been. When someone does drag you off, they wish it had just died of natural causes.’
Natural causes. I shivered. Had Adam died of natural causes? I was beginning to doubt it.
‘So you just left,’ I said. ‘And Adam wasn’t involved at all.’
‘No. If you want the truth, I never even met him.’
I was amazed.
‘Why didn’t you tell me that before? When we met last time?’
‘I couldn’t. You wouldn’t give me a chance.’
That wasn’t true and she knew it. I’d accused her point blank of having an affair with my husband and all she’d offered in return were evasions. I studied her now, desperate to stay one step ahead. The clock was ticking and I knew I wouldn’t get a second chance.
‘Steve obviously thought there was someone else,’ I suggested.
‘He did but he’s paranoid. It was one of the reasons I left him.’
‘So who was it? Who did he think you’d gone off with?’
She eyed her glass, refusing to answer. Whatever had silenced her on that beach the first time, I thought, was still silencing her now.
I leaned forward.
‘Was it Harald? Harald Meyler?’
I sensed she wanted to say yes. Instead, she told me I was being unfair.’Why?’
‘Because there are some things you shouldn’t ask.’
‘And that’s one of them? Suggesting that you and Harald…’
I sat back again,’… had some kind of relationship?’
‘Have.’ At last she looked up. ‘And it’s strictly financial.’
‘He gave you the money for the school?’
‘No, he gave me the introduction to the bank.’
‘And the bank gave you a loan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Against whose guarantee? Harald’s?’
She didn’t want to confirm it but in the end she had no choice.
‘Yes,’ she said.
The light was beginning to dawn. I remembered riding the lift up to the waterfront offices of Gulf Services Banking Corporation. Much later, Dennis had told me that Harald was one of their biggest accounts.
‘Was the manager’s name Sant’Ana? Nice man? Tall? Dark, curly hair?’
There was something new in Michelle’s eyes and it took me a moment to recognise what it was. I’d frightened her. By mentioning Harald, the bank, Sant’Ana, I’d touched a very raw nerve indeed. She was reaching for her glass. After she’d emptied it, she began to stand up. I put my hand out, stopping her. The photo still lay on the table between us.
‘So how come this ended up in my husband’s desk drawer?’ I asked.
Michelle shook her head. She said she didn’t know. She said she was late for her daughter. She said she was working her socks off trying to keep her business afloat and she really didn’t want to know any more about all this Harald crap.
‘Is he still guaranteeing the loan?’
She wouldn’t tell me. Instead, she picked up the photo.
‘You should ask Steve about this,’
she said bitterly.
‘Why?’
‘He took it.’
There were seven Liddells in the Jersey phone book, none of them with a Christian name starting with S. Steve was the fifth I tried. It was barely eight o’clock, but by the sound of his voice, he was ready for bed.
‘Why are you listed under M. Liddell, as a matter of interest?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Ellie. Ellie Bruce.’
There was a long silence. Then he told me he was back home with his mum and dad. His dad’s name was Maurice.
‘What do you want?’
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Why?’
I thought about the question. Then I told him that I’d just spent six weeks at Standfast.
‘Harald’s place?’
‘Yes.’
‘With Harald?’
‘Yes.’
He sounded astonished. Then I named a hotel on the harbourfront at St Helier.
‘We’ll meet you there at ten o’clock,’ I said. ‘There’s a bar called the Casquets.’ I gave him the name of the hotel again and then put the phone down, not waiting for a reply.
I was in St Helier by half past nine. I had a shower at the Bon Accueil and slipped into a dress. The hotel was a quarter of a mile away. I wanted to be there before Steve arrived. I’d no intention of letting him off the hook.
The Casquets bar is at the front of the hotel and the tables in the window have a perfect view of the street outside. I ordered a glass of red wine and an orange juice and soda and settled down to wait. Steve appeared a couple of minutes before ten. He’d lost even more weight since I’d last seen him and the dark-blue suit hung baggily around his gaunt frame. He spotted me the moment he walked into the bar.
‘Where’s Harald?’ he asked at once, not bothering to say hallo.
I was signalling to the waiter. When I asked what he wanted to drink, Steve ordered a Guinness.
‘Have a seat.’ I indicated the orange and soda. ‘Harald will be down in a minute.’
‘I thought he was in Kiev?’
‘He was.’ I smiled. ‘But now he’s back.’
‘And you’re… ?’ Steve was staring at Adam’s wedding ring, ‘… together?’
I nodded. ‘Yes.’
The news appeared to confuse him and I wondered why. Time for a long chat, I thought. Time to welcome young Steve to the family.
‘So how’s business?’ I asked him. ‘Harald’s really thrilled with the Yaks.’
Bringing up the Yaks was a gamble but I knew enough about Harald’s business methods to suspect that the odds were on my side.
‘He thinks they’re OK?’
‘He thinks you’ve done marvellously.’
‘Really?’
‘Truly. He’d never tell you himself but you know how he is that way.’
Steve, poor lad, couldn’t have looked more pleased with himself. I was right about Harald. On the ground, as in the air, he rarely believed in anything as sentimental as compliments.
I reached out, putting my hand on Steve’s arm.
‘And he’s told me about the Spitfire, too.’
For a brief moment, Steve was lost. Then, to my inifinite relief, he caught up again.
‘Adam’s Spitfire, you mean? The one he was going to give you?’
‘Yes. Sweet thought.’
‘I know. I couldn’t believe it.’
‘Neither could I. It’s just a shame it never happened.’
‘I know. I’m really sorry, Mrs Bruce, really sorry…’ He ducked his head, staring at his knotted fingers, lost for words. I slipped out the photo of Michelle and laid it beside his glass.
‘Did you take that?’
Steve’s head came up. He seemed to be having trouble getting the photo in focus. The only word I can think of to describe the expression on his face is shame.
‘Well? Is it yours?’
‘It’s Michelle.’
‘I can see that. I’m asking you whether you took it.’
Steve was looking wildly across to the big main door that led to reception. I think it was beginning to dawn on him that Harald was still in the Ukraine.
‘Turn it over, Steve.’ He didn’t move. I turned the photo over for him. ‘Is that your writing?’ He shook his head. ‘Whose is it then?’
‘I haven’t a clue. Listen, I’ve got to go -’ He began to get up, and for the second time that evening I reached out a restraining hand.
‘I’m sorry, Steve,’ I said softly. ‘You’re right, Harald’s not here. I’m a widow, Steve. Someone took my husband and I need to find out who. I’ve got invoices of yours back home, some of them handwritten. You might as well tell me about the photo. That way we’ll save ourselves a lot of trouble.’
Any moment now, Steve would snatch the photo and run. I could see it in his face. I reached forward, picking it up, and then stowed it safely in my bag. The last time I’d seen Steve in a suit was the night he’d turned up late for Adam’s wake, and watching him now I could picture him slumped in the study, his face in his hands, wanting so badly to tell me something. It was Harald who’d intervened that night. Harald who’d cleared up the vomit and taken him away and spared me Steve’s version of the truth.
The temptation now was to ask him about Harald, to put him on the spot, to try and get to the bottom of what had really happened back in February. Steve, though, had other ideas.
‘How long are you staying?’ he asked.
I blinked. The question was transparent. He wanted to know how long I’d be here on the island. Within minutes the information would be with Harald.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said lightly. ‘I might go tomorrow. Or the next day.’
‘Did you fly yourself over? Did you bring the Moth?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘And actually it’ll have to be tomorrow because I’ve got a meeting in Bournemouth last thing.’ I paused, frowning. ‘Do you know Hurn at all? Have they got a GA terminal?’
‘Yes, they have, and it’s a doddle getting in, too. They’ve got full ILS.’
ILS stands for Instrument Landing System. It’s no use for something like the Moth but that didn’t matter. Far more important was the fact that Steve obviously knew all about Hurn Airport.
‘You go there a lot, Steve?’
‘Twice a month.’ He tried to force a grin. ‘I’ve got half a dozen regulars there. I do all their maintenance. They stood by me when things… you know… got sticky. Without them, I’d have gone under.’ He got to his feet again, eager to bring this conversation to an end. ‘Have a nice flight, Mrs Bruce. Sorry I can’t stay.’
He bolted for the door, weaving between the tables en route, and I leaned back in my chair beside the window, watching him disappear down the street. I was thinking of that last entry in Adam’s Amex account. When Steve wasn’t flying a Cessna, I knew he borrowed a Tomahawk. Empty, they’d take around £83 worth of Avgas.
It says a great deal about my state of mind that I double-bolted the door that night. There was absolutely no reason why anyone should know where I was staying - I hadn’t even told Jamie - but events were galloping forward and I felt a good deal safer with the door firmly locked. Bad news, as Harald often used to point out, rides a fast horse.
Next morning, back behind the sunglasses, I took a walk around the harbour at St Helier. From the end of the long wall that encloses the seaward side of the harbour, I could look back through the forest of yacht masts to the office block where Dennis Wetherall had now pitched camp. He’d given me a week’s grace to pursue my own inquiries. I had just four days left before he might lift the phone and talk to the island’s police. Whether or not he really intended to do that, I’d no idea, but the threat seemed real enough and I still wanted the satisfaction of nailing one or two of the lies myself.
By far the most important, of course, concerned Adam. By now, thanks to Michelle La Page, I was convinced that he hadn’t gone off on some wild affair. She’d told me she’d
never met him and I not only wanted to believe her but I also thought it was true. Adam was too disorganised, too careless, to handle anything as complex as adultery. Just one woman in his life was quite enough. But that didn’t begin to explain the photo. Just how had that bloody picture got into his desk?
The increasingly likely answer was Harald. He flew over to Sandown regularly. He was close to Adam. He got on well with Dave Jeffries. There was only one lock on the door to Adam’s office and for all I knew there might have been half a dozen keys floating around, not least because Adam was always losing his. What if one of these keys had ended up with Harald? What if he’d stolen in one day and left the photo where he knew I was bound to find it?
I shook my head, walking back along the harbour wall. The implications of that particular question were too horrible to contemplate. Leaving the photo would mean foreknowledge of Adam’s death. And foreknowledge of his death, unless Harald had the gift of prophecy, rather ruled out any notion of an accident. Might the Cessna have been tampered with? Might someone - Harald - have wanted Adam dead?
I couldn’t believe it. It was too unlikely, too far-fetched. The two men had been friends. Killing your buddy just doesn’t happen. Not in the real world. Not if you’re normal.
Normal. I thought of Standfast, and the Casa Blanca, and that strange, silent household where I’d lived for over a month. After I’d discovered what went into Monica’s little cage, her daily offerings to her pet alligator, I’d rather steered clear of her, but when we’d said our goodbyes I was struck by the relish with which she seized my hand and squeezed it and squeezed it as if my departure had been the answer to some private prayer. Quite what she’d been expecting before my arrival I didn’t know but I was never able to rid myself of the feeling that I was under observation, constantly being put through some kind of test, not simply in the air but on the ground as well. Given the wild gleam in her eye when I finally bumped away across the airfield, I can only assume I failed, but the chill, air-conditioned silence of the Casa Blanca had stayed with me ever since. Tomb-like, it was exactly the kind of place that would breed a man like Harald Meyler. Emotionally, at least, he’d begun to strike me as half-dead.
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