A Ghost at the Door (41 page)

The grave was in its own plot, covered in bleached pebbles and marked out by a narrow marble surround. Fresh flowers stood in a pot of water at the end of the grave but the elegance of the scene
was spoiled by a cheap plastic toy that someone had left. It was of a dragon and dressed in a bright red rugby shirt that marked the famous Welsh victory in the Grand Slam of the previous year. The
toy was propped up awkwardly, at an angle, embedded in the pebbles at the base of the headstone. It was no more than a trinket, a silly gesture for such a place, as though Johnnie were still
laughing at the world from the other side.

Harry said nothing for several minutes; Jemma could see his lips moving but it was a conversation he was having on the inside, alone with his father. She could see great sorrow in his eyes and
also resentment. Eventually he turned, whispered one word: ‘Enough.’ Then he left.

His stride was now purposeful, he wanted to leave, get out of this place, and Jemma was forced to hurry in order to catch up with him. He took her hand, held his head high to the setting sun,
trying to hide the tears, his thumb stroking the new ring on her finger as though in search of reassurance and some meaning to it all.

They had arrived back at the iron gate. Once again it complained as Harry stepped through it, but Jemma tarried, reluctant to leave. The tip of her nose was bobbing in the way that it did when
she was puzzled, or thoughtful, or both.

‘What’s the matter, Jem?’ he asked, impatient to get on.

‘I’m not sure. It’s nothing, but . . . Who put the flowers there, Harry? And that silly plastic toy?’

They found the caretaker in his hideaway at the back of the cemetery, beneath a rush awning that stuck out from the front of a ramshackle work shed. He was sitting on a battered
chair beside an equally forlorn table, cracking pistachios between his teeth and staring out towards the distant sea.

‘
Sighnomi
– excuse me,’ Jemma began, leaning on more of her youthful Greek.

The old man smiled in encouragement and pulled himself, willing but wearily, from his chair.

‘The flowers –
Louloudia
. Who put them on the grave?’

The old man tapped his chest. ‘Me,’ he replied, revealing broken English.

‘But why?’

He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in the universal language of money.

‘You want paying?’ Jemma asked, taken aback but nevertheless reaching into her bag.

‘No! No!’ the caretaker insisted, his cracked face suddenly flushed with insult. ‘Money, it come by post. Every year.’

‘But who? Who sends it?’

The old man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Three hundred fifty euro. Every year. In letter.’

‘From where?’

The old Greek struggled and spread his hands in a gesture of impotence.

Harry jumped in. ‘These letters. Do you still have them?’

The caretaker shook his head once more.

‘Then the toy, in the red shirt,’ Harry said, trying to draw its design on his own chest, ‘where did that come from?’

But the old man seemed bemused.

‘The red shirt!’ Harry said, more forcefully, as if raising his voice would help scatter the old man’s confusion.

The Greek gazed from Harry to Jemma, then back again. Their misery was unmistakable. Yet suddenly his face burst into a broad smile. He reached into his pocket and brought out his phone. He
called someone, gabbled a few words, placed a gnarled finger on the button to activate the speakerphone, and with an expression of pride held it out towards Harry. A woman’s voice came from
the phone, in accented but excellent English.

‘Mr Jones, my name is Iro. I am Mr Kottikas’s granddaughter. How can we help?’

‘Thank you. Thank you, Iro,’ Harry said, nodding his thanks to the old man. ‘Your grandfather has been very kind but . . .’

‘I’m afraid his English is like a banker’s virtue, Mr Jones. Sadly unreliable.’

‘I’ve been visiting my father’s grave. There are fresh flowers on it. Your grandfather says someone sends him money every year for them. I’d very much like to know
who.’

‘I’m sorry but we don’t know. It’s been going on ever since your father was buried. A note came asking for the grave to be tended and saying money would be sent every
year. And so it has. Cash. But never any name. It surprised us, too.’

‘Then what about the plastic doll? Where did that come from?’

‘Excuse me, Mr Jones, while I speak with my grandfather.’

A cascade of Greek followed before Iro returned her attention to Harry. ‘It seems the doll of which you speak was sent with last year’s money. In a small parcel.’

‘You must have some idea who sent it,’ Harry insisted, struggling to hide his exasperation.

‘I’m so very sorry but—’

Suddenly the old man gave a cry and began wagging a finger. ‘Stop, stop! One . . . minute!’ he exclaimed before disappearing inside his patched-up shed. Moments later he returned,
clutching a small cardboard box. He tipped its contents over the table. Screws, bolts and other fixings tumbled out, clattering onto the battered top. Then he handed the box to Harry. It was
robustly constructed, ideal for storing old screws, and just big enough to hold a small plastic doll.

There was nothing inside, no letter, no markings, but on the outside of the box, in carefully formed capital letters, was Mr Kottikas’s name and address. Two stamps were fixed to the
parcel to cover postage. British stamps, franked and cancelled by the seal of a local postmaster. A seal that was smudged but still legible.

As he read it Harry’s hand was shaking. ‘No, impossible. It can’t be,’ he whispered.

The Isle of Man. Part of Britain, but part not. An isolated and often storm-swept rock in the middle of the Irish Sea. There is a saying that on a clear day and from its
highest point a man can see five kingdoms: the kingdoms of England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales – and God. A place of raw beauty, of moorland, of mountain, of uninhabited beaches where oyster
catchers and seals keep a wary eye for intruders. Yet, despite its physical attractions, at least half of the inhabitants come to the island not for its views but because of its status as a tax
hideaway, for the island is also a place of investment funds, offshore advisers and audacious accounting.

‘And where my parents lived when they first got married,’ Harry had explained to Jemma in a voice that kept stalling. ‘In Kirk Bride. Where the parcel was posted.’

Kirk Bride was a hamlet on the northern tip of the island, away from the towns, set in rolling farmland that melded into a heather-covered coastline. They’d been there two days and had
knocked on every door they could find. They had tea with the vicar, interrogated the local postmistress, who also ran the tearooms. ‘We get lots of tourists,’ the postmistress had
explained, shrugging off any knowledge of the parcel that Harry waved at her. No one could help, which was perhaps not surprising, since Harry and Jemma had precious little idea of what they were
looking for. Not a soul could remember tell of anyone called Jones who had lived in these parts, even after Harry had tracked down his parents’ entry in the church’s marriage register.
Their spirits began to flag. This was the sad time of year with summer gone and the harvest in, after the tourists had fled and when doors were closed. Kirk Bride was battening down for the winter,
which could be long in these parts.

‘Why did they choose this spot?’ Jemma asked, on their third morning when they had taken the road out to the lighthouse on the point. It was a clear, sharp morning with a testing
breeze and a view that stretched across the sea to the Solway Firth and the distant purple-brown mounds of land that was Cumbria.

‘Money, I guess. This is bandit country, or used to be, and you know what my father was like. They moved to London when I came along.’

‘For you.’

‘For me? I hadn’t thought about it in that way. I’d assumed it was more for the buzz, the social life, Harrods. When they’d grown tired of being alone with
themselves.’

She remembered what McQuarrel had told her about Jessie: perhaps she’d had other needs, needs she would never satisfy here, on the empty heath.

The breeze was stiffening, building white caps on the water, wrestling with the faded summer heather and gorse that had burst into brilliant yellow flower. Jemma retreated inside her coat.

‘I hate this bloody place,’ Harry muttered forlornly. ‘Come on, Jem, let’s go home.’ His words were filled with frustration and confusion, and more than a little
anger.

He took her hand and they turned. As they did so another couple came into view. The pair had parked their car a little way down the track, by the red-and-white-striped lighthouse, and it was
evident they were taking the air rather than planning a long walk across the heath. The man was elderly, wrapped up inside an overcoat and muffler with a soft trilby pushed down on his head. He was
bent into the breeze and leaning heavily on his walking stick. The woman at his side was much younger and had the practical appearance of a nurse. Harry guessed this was the daily outing for the
old man, a gentle totter in the shelter of the lighthouse, a lungful of sea air and an eyeful of Scotland before the nurse returned him to his home and a blazing hearth. Their presence made Harry
feel like an intruder; as the other couple drew close he took Jemma’s hand more firmly and began heading back. The old man’s stick tapped upon the ground, step after slow step, his free
hand stuffed inside his overcoat pocket for warmth and to stifle the palsied tremor that ran through it. Despite his affliction, as they passed, the man raised his hat in silent greeting.

Harry stopped dead. The old man did the same.

‘I knew you’d find me. Eventually,’ he said. ‘What took you so long, son?’

The two men sat on a bench in a nearby windbreak, with Jemma in the middle, separating them. The nurse was dismissed to the car. Harry hadn’t said a word. He sat with his
head in his hands as though praying that his eyes were deceiving him.

‘Mr Maltravers-Jones? I’m Jemma,’ she said, deciding to break the tension.

‘I know,’ the old man said in a voice that came close to a wheeze. ‘Tallon told me.’

‘Forgive me for mentioning it but you’re supposed to be dead.’

He nodded stiffly. ‘Soon will be.’ He tapped his chest, his breathlessness gave away the rest. ‘Let’s not hurry things, eh? And you can call me Johnnie.’ The eyes
were red, hollow, told of some incurable exhaustion, yet still they managed a little jig of pleasure as they gazed at Jemma.

‘Silly question but . . .?’

‘What am I doing here?’ He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe a dribble of spittle from his lips. ‘I’m hiding, of course.’

‘From whom? The taxman?’

Johnnie gave a dry laugh. ‘No. It’s never been about money.’

Suddenly Harry twitched into life, turning on his father as though he’d been bitten. ‘It’s always been about money. It’s your life’s work!’

The old man shook his head, didn’t try to match his son’s passion; perhaps he was no longer able. ‘No, never that. Money’s been more of a hobby. Some people collect
stamps. I collected ideas. Gave them a little exercise.’

‘So why did you disappear? Lie to everyone?’

‘There were some very serious people who didn’t care for what I was doing. They intended to kill me. Just like they did with Ali.’

Harry jumped to his feet. He was no longer able to control the storm of emotion welling inside. ‘I wish they . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence. Not even he was sure of what
he might have said.

‘If you sit down, son, I’ll try to explain.’

Harry glared at his father in turmoil, the old resentment returned with all its fury, a scene that had been repeated many times but not for many years. Only reluctantly did he do as he was
told.

‘Ali was my closest friend, almost a brother. A bloody Arab, of course. Called me a Son of a Britsch, but that was nothing to what I called him. Like all Arabs he enjoyed making money but
he was also an idealist. Wanted peace for his homeland, a respite from all the killing. Pathetic, I know, but . . . a good man – yes, a very good man, was Ali. And a devoted friend. Shared
what he had with us.’