The Turtle Run (33 page)

‘Monday night,' said Matthew. ‘I'll probably start them again on Monday.'

He had said he would take her ‘next time' and, while she had zero interest in an evening of cards or throwing dice, it would be nice to know he had meant it. Becky waited but he didn't repeat his previous offer.

‘What is it with gambling and the full moon?'

‘You'll see.'

If that was an invitation, it certainly wasn't an inviting one.

Becky didn't bother attempting conversation again but sat back in her seat, baffled and a little hurt by his gloomy silence. They were still travelling up the west coast and she recognised the odd house in a field or the occasional signpost. Of course, she'd been this way with Francesca and Clara. They drove through Holetown and, later on, through Speightstown with its mix of brightly painted rum shops and decaying old colonial buildings. It was only after Matthew had turned right, heading north-east into St Lucy, that he spoke.

‘Exactly where is Richard taking you?'

‘I don't know. For a meal so I guess a restaurant somewhere.' Was he jealous? Or was this about a wider rivalry with Richard?

‘You could cancel,' Matthew said, a few minutes later.

‘It's a bit late. He may have booked somewhere.' Two hours ago she had been thinking of excuses to cancel her date but Matthew's moody behaviour was starting to make an evening out with Richard seem quite pleasant.

‘I don't suppose you've any idea when Richard's bringing you back?'

‘No. I'm sure he'll bring me straight back if I say I want to go to bed.'

‘If you say you want to go to bed then he won't bring you back at all,' Matthew said darkly.

Becky gave him a look. ‘You need to talk to me. Is there a reason you don't want me to go tonight?'

He didn't answer but his grip suddenly tightened on the wheel. ‘Hang on. How did you know about the sealed bid? Did Alex tell you?'

Becky sighed. ‘No he didn't.'

‘Did you speak to Frank at the party?'

‘I'm afraid I accidentally saw it on your screen.'

‘I see.' There was a long silence. ‘And does Richard know this?'

‘Of course not,' she snapped. ‘Richard hasn't asked me anything about your business. And even if I did know something, I wouldn't tell him.'

‘But you do know something,' muttered Matthew.

So it wasn't that he was jealous that Richard liked her; this was really about his concern that he would be wrong-footed by a business rival. Feeling annoyed she remembered what she had learnt over the last twenty-four hours: although it was near impossible to imagine Matthew's relatives working for the Carrington family it must make the situation very difficult. The trouble was she couldn't think of anything to say that would make Matthew feel better about it. They drove the rest of the way in heavy silence.

It occurred to Becky she might be being naïve. Maybe Richard's invitation did have a more sinister intention but she thought it unlikely. Richard was basically shallow and frivolous; she just couldn't imagine him having the guile to plan a dinner date with an underlying business motive. All the same she would make sure she stayed in control – no drinking.

When they reached Copper Mill she got straight out rather than risk more uncomfortable exchanges in the sealed world of Matthew's car. He got out too, looking murderously at the ground.

‘Thank you,' she said, politely, ‘for helping me find my father's grave.'

‘And after that? Did you enjoy the afternoon?'

She nodded. ‘I did. It was a lovely fantasy.' She turned away quickly and went up the veranda steps. Fortunately Clara was not around as she would have been naturally interested in the cemetery visit and Becky really couldn't face talking about any aspect of the day.

She went to her room and lay on her bed for twenty minutes, her mind rambling and blundering around like a clumsy trapped animal. Eventually she decided whatever the history between Matthew and Richard it was nothing to do with her. She had done nothing wrong and she would make sure she did nothing wrong tonight.

Chapter Twenty

Becky had just finished getting ready when she heard a car coming at speed up the mahogany-lined lane. She closed her bedroom door (or was it Richard's old bedroom door?) and reached the veranda just as a silver Italian sports car turned into the yard, provoking the security light into announcing the arrival of an intruder. Becky watched while Richard did a similar spinning-wheel manoeuvre to Francesca, turning the car so it was ready to depart promptly.

He got out into the security spotlight and shouted a cheerful ‘hello' and Becky was surprised to hear Matthew answer with a terse ‘Richard'. She stepped forward and saw Matthew sitting on a chair, staring at Richard in a manner that could not be described as friendly. All that was missing was a shotgun across his knee. Beyond the light that illuminated the two men, the night throbbed with darkness as the frogs whistled warnings.

‘So,' called Richard lazily. ‘Got your bid in yet?'

‘Not yet. You?'

‘No, I'm not in a rush.' Richard turned to look at Becky and even from where she was standing she could see he was running his eyes over her appreciatively. ‘Well, hello.'

‘Hi,' she said, evenly.

Matthew rose and walked over to Becky. ‘Before you go, do you have my mobile number?'

Becky shook her head.

‘Do you know the number of the landline?'

Becky had only answered the phone; she'd never had to dial the number. ‘No.'

Matthew grunted as though exasperated. ‘I wrote both down in case you need them later.' He handed her a piece of paper, which she put in her handbag.

‘You are a fusspot, Matthew,' drawled Richard. ‘Why on earth would she need to ring you?'

Matthew didn't answer but Becky could feel his eyes on her as she went down the steps and got into Richard's car. She deliberately didn't look back. The sight of Matthew staring balefully at their departing car would not put her in the right frame of mind for what she still hoped would be a light-hearted evening.

‘Yee hah!' cried Richard, delightedly, as he pulled out of the yard. ‘I feel like I've rescued you from the clutches of the Prince of Darkness. He's always such a grim man.'

Yet just that morning she and Matthew had been soaking each other with a garden hose and squealing like children. ‘He's quite protective of me,' she said.

‘I hope you warned him you're going to be late coming home.'

‘Am I?'

‘Very.'

‘Richard, I can't be too late. You have no idea what security locks are on that door.'

‘Matthew'll have to leave it unlocked then.'

For a dreadful moment Becky wondered if the whole evening had been engineered to compromise the security system at Copper Mill so mysterious men could break into Matthew's office. Then she chastised herself; she was not going to let Matthew's paranoia rub off on her.

Richard gave her a roguish grin and switched on some music. Becky couldn't name the genre other than it sounded Brazilian: full of drums and carnival and sex. Richard seemed to revel in the decibels he was broadcasting to the countryside, obliterating the normally insistent cries and whistles of the nightlife. Becky had always worried that drivers listening to loud music drove erratically and her view was confirmed by the way he was navigating the road as if he were playing pinball.

If they were going to be very late they must be eating at a hotel where, during the tourist season, cabarets were staged after dinner. Alex had confided that the late nights at the Monmouth were ‘doing his head in', because either he or Matthew had to be present to ensure that whatever entertainment was scheduled ran smoothly and this could mean the working day only finished at 11 p.m. Maybe that's what Richard had planned for tonight.

Assuming they didn't end up in the middle of a sugarcane field – or worse vertical in a ditch – which seemed a more likely outcome at the moment.

‘Which restaurant are we going to?' she shouted. She had to yell her question several times as Richard seemed to favour repetition over turning down the volume.

‘
Chez moi
,' he yelled back. Becky hoped that was the name of the restaurant but had an uncomfortable suspicion Richard meant his own home.

He turned down the music a little and looked at her sideways before rapidly adjusting the steering wheel to reclaim the road. ‘You don't mind, do you? I really want you to see my house. Plus I love showing off my cooking.'

‘OK,' said Becky, aware a more sensitive person would have picked up from her tone that it wasn't really OK. She had been so determined she wouldn't be tricked into divulging details of Matthew's intended bid she had forgotten the other unwelcome possibility. A snippet of conversation between Francesca and Clara came back to her: ‘the girl is insisting Richard Carrington is the father – we're all waiting to see if he agrees to take the paternity test.' Even if Francesca's gossip was unreliable, Becky felt a wave of apprehension. Maybe it was just as well Matthew had given her those phone numbers.

‘It's taken years between me first buying the land, then doing the design, getting it built and actually being able to move in,' Richard said. ‘I hope you're going to like it.'

He made it sound as if her approval of his newly built house was of the utmost importance to him and went into detail about where the various materials had come from, including the kitchen marble tops specially imported from Italy. Becky didn't do very much but smile and nod for the rest of the drive – pointless actions in the dark but she was worried that a conversation would further distract him from following the sinuous road. She was finding it hard to get her bearings but sensed they were heading south-west, back towards the coast road she and Matthew had driven up earlier. And yet the car seemed to be climbing slightly, which wouldn't fit with driving down to the coast.

After twenty minutes Richard slowed down so she could fully appreciate the first sight of his house. It was certainly striking and lit up in a very un-eco-friendly way. Unlike Matthew's sedate plantation house, Richard's home was a modern metal and glass affair with rooms jutting out so that it looked like a series of goldfish tanks piled on top of one another. Whatever you thought of modern architecture there was no denying he'd maximised his own view. Becky knew that Barbados could not boast a surfeit of commanding heights and yet Richard had managed to find himself a definite rise in the landscape – he could overlook his neighbour. Except, Becky noticed, he didn't have any neighbours to overlook.

He stopped the car on a large gravel area at the foot of the house. Becky got out and looked around, momentarily disorientated by the absence of lights close by; it was as though Richard's home was using up all the available energy in the surrounding area, plunging the immediate district into darkness. ‘Isolated splendour you've got yourself here?' she said, as he joined her.

‘Yep,' he said proudly, ‘and that's the way I like it. No intrusive neighbours popping in at inappropriate moments. No stray tourists wanting directions to Cobblers Cove. Come up and see my view.'

He led her up some steps and unlocked the door to the first goldfish tank, which was a huge open plan area. Becky could not find a conventional name for it: lounge? front room? There wasn't anything that adequately described the expanse of space with such an all-round view. She could see a far corner of it was a recognisable kitchen and there was also an area of seating grouped around a coffee table.

Richard was standing in an open doorway, watching her with amusement. ‘Come on,' he said and Becky followed him on to a terrace to find a table already laid with linen napkins, gleaming silver cutlery and tall candles waiting to be lit. Richard beckoned her over to the railings. She looked out and had to admit – this was amazing. The elevated position of the terrace gave them a panoramic view of the western coastline. ‘Please note that I arranged to have that liner steam past right at this moment especially for you.'

‘That's most kind, Richard.' Yes, there really was a cruise ship, ablaze with lights, gliding parallel with the shore. ‘I'm impressed.'

‘You're worth impressing.' He was standing just that bit too close for comfort and Becky found herself moving away, involuntarily. He automatically came nearer.

‘Richard,' she said, straining her face away from his. ‘Who else is here?' There had to be other people in this huge house: brothers, or hired helps, or someone.

She heard his chuckle close to her ear. ‘Just us. Really, I don't need anyone to help me prepare dinner or set the table.'

‘Looks like you've gone to a lot of trouble.'

‘True,' he said cheerfully.

‘You are just planning on dinner?'

‘Yes, dinner. And dessert.'

She decided to ignore what she assumed was meant to be a double entendre. ‘Can I have a coke?'

‘A coke? You can't drink coke in my house.' He took himself off to the kitchen.

Becky peered over the railings to see Richard's car parked below and remembered she hadn't seen him lock it; clearly he was a man who had no worries about his own security. She heard the pop of a cork; minutes later he brought out a tray and two flutes of champagne.

‘Like it?' he asked after he'd insisted they clink glasses and have a sip.

‘Yes, it's quite nice.' She didn't want him to know how nice it was; otherwise he would be refilling her glass and her resolution to stay sober would be weakened.

‘I'm down to my last two bottles of a case the old man gave me at Christmas.'

She looked at her glass then back at him. ‘I'm afraid this is wasted on me. To be honest I can't tell it from Babycham.'

‘Babycham?' He frowned. ‘Then we must make you a connoisseur. I'd adore teaching you about fine champagne,' he enthused. ‘Bring your glass into the kitchen. I just need to do the salad and the finishing touches to the Lobster Carrington.'