by Louise Voss
‘But I’m his sister!’ I’d protested. ‘He’ll be there with his wife – April.’
I tried to sound as matter-of-fact as possible. ‘April Greening,’ I confirmed, swallowing hard. ‘She goes by her maiden name.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge any details about our guests,’ Connie had stubbornly insisted. ‘Not without their prior permission.’
‘Oh, please don’t tell him I’m coming!’ I managed to inject a laugh into my voice. ‘That would spoil the surprise!’
‘I sure won’t, ma’am.’
‘So you can confirm they’re there?’
‘Forgive me, ma’am, but if you’re his sister, wouldn’t he have told you himself where he was going?’
I was prepared for that question. ‘He just emailed us that he was flying to Barbados and then they were getting a smaller plane on to Paradise. I guessed it was Mustique because he’s always wanted to go there. But anyhow, I don’t want him to know I’m planning to come out.’
‘Couldn’t you have confided in his wife, ma’am, if she’s travelled with him?’
I gave the fake laugh again, although my heart was breaking. It sounded very much as if Connie knew full well April was there, too. ‘Oh no! She’s hopeless at keeping a secret. I so want to surprise them both!’
In the end, Connie hadn’t given me any specific information, but when I’d begged her to confirm if Ed wasn’t there, so that I could continue investigating other luxury islands in the area, I’d heard a brief reluctant smile in Connie’s voice and she had said, ‘Well, ma’am, I’m afraid I cannot confirm that either.’
‘Thank you, Connie, you’ve been very helpful. I’m going to book my ticket now.’
Ed was in Mustique, I was certain. And I was ready to confront him.
The 747 lumbered along the runway at Gatwick and into the sky as I clutched my left armrest – the matronly lady had commandeered the other one, resting a plump liver-spotted hand on it. She wore the biggest diamond engagement ring I’d ever seen and I took my mind off the plane’s shuddering ascent by staring transfixed at its winking facets.
Perhaps that had been another sign I should’ve heeded. I had seen Shelagh’s engagement ring, immortalised in the studio portrait hanging in the hall of Ed’s old house, and that ring had been enormous and ostentatious. I glanced down at my own and, not for the first time, found it lacking. Ed wasn’t short of money but he had bought me a ring with just about the smallest diamond I’d ever seen.
I twisted it contemplatively around my finger. At the time I had just assumed it was a reaction to losing Shelagh; Ed’s decision to pare down his life and perhaps an unspoken guilty relief at not needing to pander to her complicated needs any longer. But now I thought it was more likely that Ed couldn’t be arsed to buy another expensive ring; that he didn’t love me enough to want to anyway. He just wanted to replace Shelagh as soon as he could, maybe even as a smokescreen for his affair with April…
The lady was banging on about visiting her son and his family in Barbados, although I hadn’t asked. Two stewards and a drinks trolley were fast approaching, so surely the monologue wouldn’t continue for much longer. I tuned out and thought back to my visit to Maddie and Geoff, and the horrible but necessary encounter with Ellen in Alderney.
Before I’d even been given a drink, I was overwhelmed by tiredness, a soul-deep fatigue that crashed over me like a dull, salty wave. In the battle of exhaustion versus adrenaline, the former was winning, helped by the droning lady next to me. I muttered an apology, closed my eyes and slept for the next few hours solid, not even properly waking when the man in the window seat squeezed past me to go to the loo.
48
The view over the Grenadine Archipelago was stunning. As the Twin Otter – the latest in my recent assortment of planes – flew lower and lower in the clear blue sky I could see bobbing fishing boats and, on the island, the shimmering private pools of huge villas studding the greenery like sapphires.
It was late afternoon, local time, when the little plane finally touched down on the tiny landing strip in Mustique. I disembarked, the heat hitting me hard, burning the crown of my head and making me squint even behind my shades. It was even hotter than it had been in Barbados airport, which had been a humid jumble of long queues of sunburned tourists and bored-looking uniformed officials.
Another day, another island – but what an island! Mustique looked about the same size as Alderney but that was as far as the comparison went. I felt a stab of rage at the thought of April and Ed lying on a double sunbed with cocktails in their hands, soaking up the sun that ought to have been mine.
Mustique’s air felt purer and less humid than Barbados. Was it always this hot here in May? I felt disorientated; exhaustion and jet lag giving me a sudden longing for my wood-burning stove, or for the office, to have a poster to design at my desk in Fairhurst. I wondered how the temp was getting on. Not so well that Alvin wouldn’t want me to come back, I hoped, although I couldn’t blame him if he kept her on. I’d been nothing but trouble for him since I started.
While I waited for my suitcase I told myself to get it together, to think of this as an adventure, a holiday, of sorts, rather than the likely end of my marriage, or worse – I hadn’t thought as far as what would happen if, after questioning him, I still believed Ed really had killed Shelagh and/or Mike.
I was glad I’d redone my will, though, and written that letter.
As for my possible revelation about the Polaroid of the stripped pine doors, I decided to try and put that to the back of my mind for now, shelve it until I could be absolutely certain – which wouldn’t be until I got back to the UK again.
I shuddered, and the man next to me, a snappily-dressed colonial type complete with straw Panama hat, three-piece cream linen suit and bulbous alcoholic’s nose, asked me if I was all right.
‘Fine,’ I said, unable to summon a smile. ‘Thank you.’
This was no holiday.
Realising that I couldn’t just pitch up on a private island without proof of address for the stay, I had booked the cheapest place on the island, but it was still six hundred dollars a night for a garden cottage in the island’s only hotel.
A busty hotel rep at the wheel of a small buggy met me once I was out of the tiny airport. I climbed into the back, sweating profusely and thanking the driver.
‘You’re welcome, ma’am, and please do enjoy your stay here with us. My name is Sunny.’ She tapped the name tag on the beige waistcoat that strained across her ample bosom.
As with the man in the Panama hat, I found I couldn’t be bothered to make small talk. The gravity of my mission had drained it all out of me like I had a plug in my heel. With every rotation of the buggy’s wheels along the narrow lane, my focus sharpened. I felt like a sportswoman mentally preparing for the biggest challenge of her career. It was a strange disjointed sensation, this fierce fight-or-flight focus among the vivid colours of sea and flowers and lush green of the undulating mountains.
The air smelled of frangipani and salt, but I had nothing but dark thoughts in my head. When I took my mobile out of my bag, switched it on and heard the voicemail that Martine Knocker had left me just after I turned off my phone on the runway at Gatwick, the dark thoughts swelled and expanded.
‘Hi, Lynn. I have an update for you. I’m afraid that Ed’s name popped up as having taken a flight from Heathrow to Barbados two days ago. He was interviewed at the airport and … I’m sorry, but perhaps you could give me a call when you get the chance, and I’ll talk you through what he said. So that’s where he is. The official was satisfied that he was in sound mind and not a danger to himself or anybody, and let him board the plane. I hope that this at least puts your mind at rest that he is alive and safe, although I appreciate that this is not ideal news for you…’
I knew it.
I gritted my teeth. This did put my mind at rest. But not in the way Martine meant. I now was almost certain I wasn’t on a wild-goose
chase. My only unverified assumption was that Ed had taken another flight on to Mustique from Barbados. It would be exceptionally annoying if he was still in Barbados and I had missed him. But my intuition, and the phone call he’d made to the Mustique Holiday Company, told me I wasn’t wrong. Unless he’d subsequently changed his mind about travelling on, he was here. I was certain of it. He had probably not bought a through ticket from London intentionally – as a smokescreen, knowing that if his departure was discovered, it would be much easier to track him down in Mustique than Barbados. Barbados being a far bigger and more populated island, he would want us all to think he was there, not Mustique. He was good, I had to give him that…
I had no intention of ringing Martine back, at least not while I was here. I didn’t want her to know I’d flown out in pursuit of him – the action of a deranged, vengeful person. I sent her a text in reply instead:
‘Thanks Martine. Looks like he faked the whole dementia thing so he could leave me. He’s cleared out our joint savings account too. I’m still away staying with friends but I’ll call when I get home again. Too upset to talk about it at the moment. Lynn N’
I hoped that would keep her at bay.
After a few minutes we arrived at the hotel, a beautiful low-slung colonial-style affair. The sun was setting behind it and the sky had begun lighting up peach and apricot as Sunny checked me in and showed me to a tiny cottage – more of a luxury shed, really – in the gardens. It had a little verandah and painted pink shutters. I looked longingly at the pool as we passed it, but decided I would keep a low profile for now. It was too late to go in search of Ed tonight, and I didn’t want to risk going for a swim and have him spot me, on the off-chance he was on the premises – he might even be staying in this hotel. Everything seemed to be run by the same company.
I’d rather confront him in daylight.
49
After a fitful night of jetlagged sleep dreaming of Ed and April – they were on Alderney not Mustique, doing yoga on a sheep farm; April turned to me and said, smugly, ‘See? I told you I was here’ – I awoke to sunlight streaming in shafts through the half-closed shutters and decided that I was categorically, whatever happened, no longer Lynn Naismith nor, as my passport still said, Cara Lynn Jackson.
From now on I would be Lynn Waites again. Fuck Ed Naismith.
I took off my engagement and wedding rings and put them in the room safe with all the happy memories of me and Ed, my passport and the return ticket.
I had a week to find him, then my credit card would be at its limit. Oh, so what? I thought. If he didn’t come back, I’d sell the house anyway, pay off my debts, buy a little flat somewhere.
I put on dark glasses, a straw hat, flip-flops, bikini, and tied a floaty sarong around my breasts, the uniform of the middle-aged lady on holiday somewhere hot. With my newly shorn hair, I didn’t think that Ed would notice me from a distance, if he was here. He wouldn’t be expecting to see me, and I was planning to have my eyes on stalks making sure he didn’t bump into me up close.
I sidled into the restaurant for breakfast on the outside stone terrace, too paranoid about running into him, with or without April, that at first I didn’t stop to appreciate the view, the faint hot honeysuckle scent of the bougainvillea in pots, the drooping blue jacaranda trees around me.
The hotel didn’t seem very full. There were only four other occupied tables, and Ed very definitely wasn’t there. When a young waiter came over to pour my coffee, I took out my phone and showed him the most recent photo I had of Ed. He was grinning wickedly and raising a glass of red wine to his lips. I maximised the photo with two fingers as far as it went and Ed’s face filled the little screen.
‘Can you tell me if you’ve seen this man here recently? He’s my brother and I think he’s staying somewhere nearby.’
Unlike Connie on reservations, the boy did not question why, if Ed was my brother, I didn’t just contact him myself. He squinted carefully at the photo. His skin was soft and smooth and his shirt beautifully ironed, and when he leaned down to look more closely I smelled soap and deodorant. I had to suppress a sudden urge to give him a maternal cuddle, but it would have creased his shirt. His name badge said ‘Winston.’
‘I bet your mum’s really proud of you,’ I blurted. Why did I say that? Poor boy, he looked as mortified as I felt.
If I hadn’t lost my baby, I’d have had an eight-year-old now. Before I had the miscarriage, Ed said several times he wanted more kids, but it never happened, and he refused to go and have fertility tests. I’d gone on my own and been told all was fine, so I knew it wasn’t me.
‘Thank you ma’am,’ Winston said shyly, then gestured to the photo. ‘I’m sorry, no, I have not seen your brother.’
‘OK. Thanks, Winston. Do you happen to know where the office for the Mustique Holiday Company is, who books out all the villas?’
‘If you ask at reception, they can put you in touch. I hope you find him, ma’am.’
After breakfast I wandered over to reception and repeated my request. My phone screen was covered with sweaty fingerprints after it had been passed around amongst the staff, who, it appeared, also handled the admin on the villa rentals for the island – I’d thought it was a separate company but it seemed not. None of the three ladies behind the counter was called Connie, I was relieved to see.
They looked at one another, then back at me.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but we aren’t able to give out clients’ details,’ the oldest of the three said.
Which surely meant he must be here. My heart jumped painfully in my chest.
‘I’ve come a really long way just to see him,’ I said. It wasn’t too difficult to make tears spring to my eyes. I lowered my voice.
‘The thing is, we fell out about a year ago. It was my fault. He’s been trying to make up with me since, and I wasn’t having any of it, and now he won’t talk to me. It’s a big mess. Anyway, he’s here, and it’s his sixtieth birthday today and I really, really want to turn up at his villa with a bottle of champagne and an apology; surprise him. I’m worried that if you let him know I’m here, he might decide he doesn’t want to see me and then I’ll have had a wasted trip…’
I made my eyes as teary and puppy-dog as I could. Today really was Ed’s birthday, which they’d be able to verify if they checked his booking or his passport.
I felt a genuine pang of loss, remembering numerous other birthdays together, dining out somewhere decadent, or dinner parties at home with April and Mike and Maddie and Geoff.
‘Please?’ I croaked. ‘It means the world to me. I—’
I gave a sob, and one of the ladies handed me a tissue. They moved away and went into a small huddle to discuss my case, then the senior lady returned – Yvette, her name badge said. Plump and motherly, with a tight grey perm. She ushered me to the seating area in the lobby and we sat on opposite rattan sofas under a ceiling fan, a glass-topped table between us, like a job interview. She was going to tell me, I was sure.
‘I’m truly sorry, Mrs Jackson. We do really sympathise but we have a very strict privacy policy here on Mustique. I hope you understand. We have so many celebrity guests and many of them come specifically for the discretion we offer. I simply cannot tell you where your brother is staying. All I can do is to inform him you are here and ask his permission to divulge his address. Or tell him yours.’
Damn, damn, damn. ‘Oh. That’s so disappointing. But of course, I understand.’
‘Are you sure I can’t contact him for you?’ she asked gently, but with a slight edge to her expression, sort of, It’s weird if you don’t let me. ‘I’m sure if you’ve come all this way he would be delighted to know you’re here?’
I shook my head. ‘No. Please don’t tell him. It’s really important that you don’t.’
I didn’t care if it made me look a bit deranged. I’d find him some other way. It was a tiny island. I would dredge up all the basic surveillance techniques I’d learned from the first time I
had to spy on him.
‘Very well. May I do anything else to assist you, Mrs Jackson?’
‘Yes please – I’d like to hire one of those little golf jeeps, the – what are they called?’
‘Kawasaki Mules, ma’am. Certainly. Please follow me.’
50
Three days later I still hadn’t laid eyes on Ed. I forced myself to stay calm, but felt edgy and panicked, seeing him in the face of every middle-aged white man on the island as I hung around all the public places I could find – not many, on a private island – in my little rented Mule. I went to the jet-ski hire shack, the tennis courts, staked out the three restaurants and as many of the beaches and bays as I could, a constant recce which gave me a painful crick in my neck and a low-level feeling of nausea that compounded my jet lag.
Sometimes I almost – almost – forgot why I was there, as I lay on mostly empty beaches, lulled by gentle waves dissolving onto white sand, the sun fierce on my cheeks, my Kindle loose in my hand as I drifted off into yet another catnap, my skin tone two shades darker with every passing day.
I didn’t show Ed’s photo around anymore because I didn’t want word to get back to him, but by noon on the third day I was beginning to think I’d have to soon, otherwise my week would be up. Or perhaps I was destined to wander Mustique forever, like a sunburned and peeling ghost.
In the end I got my breakthrough in the swimwear shop, one of Mustique’s handful of chichi little stores, with their Hansel and Gretel carved decorations and pastel colours. I was browsing the bikinis – in the knowledge that if April was on the island, she would definitely pay a visit here at some point – when an English couple came in. The woman looked like a lollipop; massive head on a frame so spindly that it seemed it would never support her, teetering in on kitten-heel slides in transparent lime-green plastic, the sort of shoes a five-year-old girl would love if they had Disney princesses on each foot, but which probably cost about four hundred quid.