Хилари Боннер - A Deep Deceit

Grant was a heavily built man with a head of thinning white hair and a wary look in his eyes, which probably came from years in the police force.

When I explained who I was and why I was there he didn’t seem very happy about it. ‘Messy case. I’d hoped it was ancient history,’ he muttered. But he invited us into a room full of rusting filing cabinets, which apparently served as his office, and even offered us a beer. We sat by a window overlooking the bay and he talked freely enough.

‘One of the nastiest motor accidents we’ve had around here. They found the girl’s body half in and half out of the car,’ he told us, taking a long pull at his bottle of Budweiser. ‘But her head was twenty yards away on the grass verge. Harry was sitting next to it stroking the hair. It took our boys several minutes to get him to leave it and let the medics cart it away along with the rest of her.’

Grant shuddered and had another drink of beer.

‘The accident was completely his fault. That was the worst of it for him, I think,’ he went on. ‘No other car involved, simply going too fast, driving like a madman. Harry blamed himself totally, from the start, but actually being charged with manslaughter was the final straw, I suppose. He took off right after we charged him. I got a lot of shit because I’d not impounded his passport. Tell the truth, it didn’t occur to me Harry would do a runner. I’d known him for years. We were buddies... well, till almost the end, that is...’

He stopped, but I got the feeling that he hadn’t finished what he had intended to say. I waited for him to continue. He didn’t.

‘What kind of a man was Harry Mendleson?’ I asked.

He looked at me curiously. I had told him I had lived with Carl for many years in England. It must have seemed like a strange question. But this was the first person I had ever met who had known Carl before I did, who may even have been close to him.

After a moment or two Grant shrugged his big shoulders. ‘Mixed up, like the rest of us in this Goddamn country,’ he said. ‘Likeable and weak, that’s the kind of man he was.’

And I’d always thought he was so strong. Strange really.

‘His wife didn’t find him likeable, though. He drove her round the bend. That’s why...’

His voice trailed off.

‘She had an affair, didn’t she?’ I prompted him. ‘There was someone else. That’s why she wanted to leave him.’

‘That’s not the only reason.’

He didn’t seem inclined to say any more, in spite of Mariette and me both encouraging him to.

‘Harry was always, you know...’ He paused again, as if searching for words. ‘Harry was always... different, always a bit of a strange one. After the accident he completely lost it. Still, none of us round here did much to help, that was for sure.’

His tone of voice surprised me. He sounded more than concerned, almost as if he felt guilty. The caring side of the Florida police department or something more? I had no way of telling. It was just that I had begun to question everything in my mind, to look beneath the surface all the time: a new way of thinking for me.

‘Where’s his wife now?’ I asked.

‘Islamarada. Remarried. Wexford Barrymore, a hotel keeper.’ Grant sighed. ‘Loaded, of course. Makes more in a year than I will in my lifetime, I reckon.’

I couldn’t quite see the relevance. I waited patiently until he continued to speak.

‘She’s had Harry declared legally dead. She won’t be too happy about his resurrection, our Claire, you can be certain of that. Wouldn’t be too pleased to see you two, either.’

Like you, I thought. You’re not pleased to see us. None the less I persuaded him to give us the name of the hotel – the Bay Point. Mariette and I checked the mile marker on our map. It was about half an hour’s drive away we reckoned.

We decided to call in there the next day on our way down to Key West.

From the moment we arrived at the Bay Point I could see what Theo Grant meant about its owner being loaded. The hotel was set in extensive, beautifully tended grounds with its own golf course and tennis courts. Accommodation was in a series of individual luxury bungalows and it took us a while to locate reception. Anything as common as an office obviously had to be camouflaged. The place just oozed wealth and I felt ridiculously nervous when we eventually approached the front desk.

If Mariette felt the same way, she did not show it. She strode forward boldly and with apparent confidence addressed a young woman receptionist who was so perfectly made-up and so extraordinarily even-featured that I did not think she could be quite real.

‘We’d like to speak to Mrs Barrymore, please,’ said Mariette in much more cut-glass English tones than she normally used. ‘We have a mutual acquaintance in the UK who asked if we would look her up.’

As the receptionist obediently picked up the phone I stared at Mariette in amazement.

‘Well, it’s almost true,’ she hissed under her breath. ‘A shared husband or as near as damn it has to qualify as a mutual acquaintance, surely.’

I said nothing. The receptionist told us that Mrs Barrymore would be out directly and asked us to take a seat.

My first sight of the woman who was probably still Carl’s legal wife shook me rigid. I was aware of Mariette stiffening by my side. Claire Mendleson Barrymore was dressed in a cream silk trouser suit straight off the pages of Vogue , and radiated elegance and sophistication. She was smiling when she strode confidently towards us, but the smile slipped when she saw me. Not surprising.

We were so alike we could have been doubles. Even her elaborately coiffured hair, with its shimmering reddish tint, and so many layers of immaculate make-up that they paled the receptionist’s efforts into insignificance, could not disguise how alike we were.

I falteringly introduced myself, although something told me I didn’t need to. Neither of us commented on our tremendous physical similarity, either then or later, but it was breathtakingly obvious. Only the window dressing differentiated us. I fancied that the receptionist was studying us curiously, too.

‘I was with Harry in the UK,’ I said ambiguously. ‘Something happened there. I don’t know if you know anything about it...’

She interrupted me sharply. ‘More than I want to. You’d better come into the office.’

Grant had been quite right. She was no longer smiling and was clearly not pleased to see us. Neither was she going to discuss her private business in a public area of the hotel. She led us to the privacy of a small computer-filled room at the back of the reception area and closed the door firmly behind us before speaking again.

‘I really had hoped he was dead.’ Anger bursting from her, she almost spat out the words.

I flinched. Mariette put a hand on my arm. I still didn’t speak.

‘What do you want with me anyway?’ asked Carl’s wife.

‘I wondered if Carl, I mean Harry, had been here, been in touch with you,’ I replied, and realised as I spoke how feeble I sounded.

‘No, thank God,’ she said. But she didn’t sound angry any more. Just weary. And sad. I could identify with that well enough.

‘The cops have been on to me, of course. Wanted to know that too,’ she went on. ‘I can’t believe he’d dare face me ever again. And you? I know what he did to you. Surely you haven’t come here looking for him, have you?’

I nodded, if a little tentatively.

‘You must be out of your mind. I never want to set eyes on the son of a bitch again. He killed my daughter and he’s still doing his best to wreck my life.’

I could understand her feelings. Not only had she lost a child, in horrific circumstances, but she thought she had escaped from her past. I was beginning to realise that nobody ever can. She had thought she was Mrs Wexford Barrymore. Now she wasn’t so sure any more. The Florida police had notified her when it had been discovered who Carl really was after his arrest in Cornwall, and contacted her again when he had escaped from custody it appeared. All of it had been seriously bad news for her, the very worst.