A Ghost at the Door (6 page)

He no longer had his own sofa. After his old friend and financial adviser ‘Sloppy’ Sopwith-Dane had flushed out his brains with alcohol and prescription painkillers and succeeded in
bringing Harry to the verge of bankruptcy, many things had changed in Harry’s life. The ready money was gone, along with the parliamentary seat and his political career, the Audi S5, the best
of the paintings, the collection of rare first editions, the holidays and almost everything else he’d lived with for so long. Somehow he’d managed to keep hold of the house in Mayfair
but it, and the sofas, were now rented out. He’d been told by many that it would be far simpler to declare himself bankrupt, simpler still to shop his old friend, but ‘Sloppy’ had
killed himself in remorse and dancing on his grave would have destroyed Sloppy’s widow and two young daughters. Harry didn’t do stuff like that. Anyway, he’d survived, not been
declared bankrupt. Just. Now he spent his time with Jemma, living off a modest parliamentary pension and his rental income while he searched for new meaning in his life. And something more reliable
to live on.

He sipped at his overheated coffee and opened the first envelope, using the spoon handle as a letter opener. For all the intensity of the paper on which it was printed, the corporate letterhead
itself was almost nouvelle cuisine, minimalist, leaving much to the imagination. ‘My dear Mr Jones,’ the letter began, written with a fountain pen, as was the signature at the bottom of
the single page, although the rest was printed.

Harry put his mug of coffee cautiously to one side.

Level of contacts? Once, for sure, but since he’d lost his seat he’d found that doors had a habit of closing quietly on him. And, as for his reputation, it was true he hadn’t
been charged after his arrest on suspicion of murder, but the smell hung around him like an old kipper.

Top end of the usual scale meant the best part of a hundred thou. He read on: ‘I am anxious to move forward quickly on this matter, and must ask for an early indication of your interest .
. .’

Harry fell back into the soft cushions, clutching the letter. He stared into space, into his past, into what this might mean for his future. The plight of many former MPs is extreme: they wake
up one cold, colourless morning to a world in which they have neither place nor profession. Sure, the system provides a comfort blanket in the form of a winding-up allowance and a limited pension,
but it’s rather like a guy’s manhood after he’s spent the night in a cold ditch: it’s never quite what it once seemed. How do you compensate for the loss of self-confidence
and the sense of humiliation that can gnaw away like a cancer? Some discarded politicians find it all unbearable. Harry knew of broken marriages, of former colleagues who were drowning in a sea of
alcohol or drugs or depression, one colleague who’d been driven to suicide, parked his car in the middle of his former constituency with a bottle of whisky in one hand, a hosepipe from his
exhaust in the other and a pathetic note on the dashboard that simply said ‘Sorry. Forgive’. Not much of an epitaph to cover twenty-eight years. Yesterday’s man.

There are turning points in lives when a switch is thrown, the tracks changed, a new direction found. This could be one of them. A chance to crush the doubts. Get things back together. Give
Jemma what she deserved.

The front door slammed and she was standing in the doorway, a bag of groceries in her hand, staring at him collapsed into the sofa. ‘You look as if someone’s just given you a damned
good shagging. I hope you’re not cheating on me already, Jones.’

In feeble response he waved the letter at her. She dropped the shopping and sat down beside him. He could feel her excitement rising as she read.

‘Who are these people?’ she asked.

‘Good question. I’m not entirely sure.’

‘The address looks like one of those holding companies in Mayfair, all front and not much furniture. Just round the corner from your old place.’

‘Has links with the aircraft and defence industries, I think.’

‘We’ll have to find out.’ And already she was interrogating her laptop. Typical. She was a research queen. Perhaps it was because of the endless questions she was asked by the
children in the primary school where she taught that she was always driven to unearth the answers; she was relentless.

As Jemma tapped away at the keyboard, throwing out frequent exclamations of surprise along with nuggets of information, Harry remembered the other letter. It had almost got lost down the side of
a cushion and peered at him like a cat in the dark. He retrieved it, inserted the spoon handle once more and struck. The flimsy envelope burst apart, tipping its contents into his lap.

It was a handwritten letter from Euripides Smith. ‘Sorry if I seemed a bit off-colour,’ he apologized,

For a moment Harry almost panicked – he couldn’t find the photograph; he scrabbled around and found it lurking even further down the side of the cushion.

The photograph was unloved, its colours a little faded, and it had been bent in two in order to get it into the envelope. It was taken from the dockside, looking up at a large, white-hulled
luxury yacht of around forty metres, Harry reckoned, whose sleek lines disappeared into the distance. Standing in front of his yacht was the captain, in uniform with bare forearms and dark glasses.
Beside him, on the other side of the crease, dressed in a white blouse and bright cotton floral print, was a woman. She was thin-faced, greying, a little scrawny and defiantly old-fashioned to
Harry’s eye, distinctly pale in comparison with the captain, squinting awkwardly in the fierce light. Not the type to be slipping and sliding on his father’s sun deck. He flipped the
photograph and found scratchy writing on the back: ‘SS
Adriana
’. Beneath that, a name: ‘Capt. Kouropoulos’. And still another: ‘Sue Ranelagh’. At his
side Jemma was erupting with excitement and corporate highlights, but he was no longer listening.

They sat side by side on the sofa, bent over their respective laptops.

‘Their website’s full of smiles and expensive orthodontics,’ Jemma said, with a hint of suspicion. ‘Its parent company’s based in Andorra.’

‘Tax haven.’

‘Not too much about it. No negative stuff. You’re right, it’s deep into military bits. Fancy end. Software rather than bayonets.’ She turned, her nose wrinkled in
concern. ‘Is that a problem for us, darling?’

Without looking up he arched an eyebrow. His career in the British Army had included the Paras, the Pathfinders, the 22 Special Air Service Regiment and mortal combat on four different
continents. Occasional visits to an office in Mayfair was unlikely to cause him sleepless nights.

‘There are bits here about new ventures into what they call cleantech industries,’ she added, more enthusiastically.

‘Sounds almost charitable.’

‘Er . . .’ – she hammered away at the keyboard – ‘one of the big accountancy firms does their audits. That’s important, too, isn’t it?’

‘Enron thought so.’

‘Harry, what’s your problem?’ she snapped, slamming down the lid of her laptop. ‘They offer you a way out of jail and you don’t seem to give a damn!’

‘This is the problem,’ he said, holding up the creased photograph. ‘Sue Ranelagh. She was on the boat when my father died. But who the hell is she?’

‘You’ve Googled?’

‘Of course.’

‘I suppose there are hundreds on the Internet.’

‘Many thousands.’

‘So we know nothing about her.’

‘Well, we do. This photo was taken in 2001, so she’s – what – in her sixties by now?’

‘If she’s still alive.’

‘We know she’s rather conservative in her dress sense and probably her outlook. North European, at a guess. And probably had money.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘She wasn’t on board because she was all teeth and tits. She was a passenger, a guest. One who could mix with the likes of oligarchs and other wealthy arseholes. Like my
father.’

‘Still doesn’t help us very much.’

‘Oh, but I think it does. I couldn’t wade through the tide of Sue Ranelaghs that the computer threw up, or even those that call themselves Susan. But I thought: money, traditional,
bit posh. So for the hell of it I tried the name Susannah.’ He swivelled the laptop so it was facing her. ‘And there she is.’

Jemma examined the page on the screen. Just one entry, but enough. A photograph of a Miss Susannah Ranelagh, President and Patron of the Bermuda Arts and Cultural Foundation, pictured making an
award to three black music students. A couple of years old. A short caption, no supporting text.

‘But you can’t be—’ She was about to suggest he couldn’t be certain, until he expanded the photograph. The same face, somewhat greyer hair, and identical dress
sense.

‘I need to go and see Miss Ranelagh,’ he said in a voice that seemed strange, as though it had been sieved through filters somewhere inside.

‘No rush,’ she said, opening up her laptop once more.

‘I think there is.’

‘You’ve waited this long, what difference—’

‘As you said, she’s old.’

‘But you can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’ve got this to deal with.’ She waved the letter.

‘It can wait.’

‘No, he explicitly says this is a matter of urgency.’

‘If he wants me that much, he’ll wait. A few days.’

‘But bloody Bermuda? You can’t afford it. Why not call her?’

‘Because I need to see her. She was one of the last people to see my father alive.’

‘Harry!’ Jemma pounded the cushions in frustration. ‘This . . .’ She grabbed the letter once more, threw it angrily into his lap. It was growing into an argument, a big
one, their first. ‘Accept this and many more could follow. You become flavour of the month once again – Harry Jones, the man everyone admires and wants a piece of. Oh, perhaps you
don’t want to become a corporate creature, not for ever, but this is a chance for you to get back on your feet. For us to move forward, Harry. I love you, I’ve hated watching you
suffer. This could be our future. We don’t need the past.’

‘That’s not what you said before.’

‘Please?’

She was pleading, but he wouldn’t respond. He stared, not just defiantly but in raw and rough-edged anger; it was a passion that bubbled up from somewhere so deep within and so up close
that it frightened her. Suddenly she was looking at a part of him she scarcely knew. This was a man who couldn’t be stopped, not just because he was simply determined but because the stupid
bastard didn’t know when to stop. That could be dangerous. And it terrified her.