Walking in Darkness (28 page)

‘Stop talking about graves! In fact, stop talking to me,’ Cathy interrupted. ‘Look, when the doctor has seen you, you’re going, you know, you’re leaving – whether you go to the hospital or just go back wherever you came from!’

‘If that’s what you want, I’ll go. And I’m sorry if I’ve told you something you didn’t want to hear. I thought about it for a long time, believe me, and I didn’t know what I ought to do, but it had meant so much to me, finding out you were alive. I thought it might mean something to you to find out you had a sister, a family you belonged to and had never met. At the very least it might mean something to discover the truth about yourself, I thought. And I had promised our mother that I would find you. I had to do it, for her sake. I couldn’t let her die without at least trying to find you. I didn’t know what you were like, how you might react. But I had to take the risk of finding you and telling you, hoping you would listen.’

Cathy didn’t answer, she was too busy searching Sophie’s face and seeing no threat, no attempt to blackmail or terrify, just pain and deep emotion in her eyes. The silence stretched between them like a thin, shining rope, tying them together, binding them, until it was broken by a tap on the door, which opened a second or two later.

‘The doctor, madam.’

Cathy slowly turned her head, blinking as if coming out of a daze. She got to her feet and forced a polite smile as a tall, attractive man in his thirties came towards them from the door. ‘Good evening, Dr Waring, I’m sorry to call you out on such a raw evening. Thank you for coming so promptly.’

Don Gowrie was in his shower, his weary body relaxing under the jets of warm water, washing off the sweat and making his skin tingle. The pleasure of the exercise was broken when he heard the phone ringing. He leaned out instantly, and reached for the phone on the bathroom wall.

‘Yes?’ He had been waiting for a call from Emily for hours. This must be it.

It wasn’t. It was Jack Beverley and he didn’t waste any time with courtesies. Curtly, he said, ‘I’m sorry. I have some bad news, I’m afraid, sir. Miss Sanderson has had an accident.’

Don leaned on the marble-tiled wall, feeling all his blood leave his heart. The warm relaxation was gone. ‘Is she badly hurt? What happened?’ His nerves chattered. Could she never do anything right? She kept failing; had she failed yet again? Had she fucked up badly? Been caught trying to kill that damned Narodni girl? If she’d been arrested . . . would she hold her tongue? What if she spilled her guts, told them . . . his mind raced ahead, imagining the worst, seeing himself arrested, charged with attempted murder.

Beverley’s voice was expressionless. ‘She crashed her car, sir.’

Relief made Don Gowrie sag. ‘Stupid bitch . . .’ he said, almost indulgently. ‘I hope she wasn’t hurt?’

He wasn’t expecting what Jack Beverley replied. The words hit him like bullets; he jerked, stiffened, twisted in agony.

‘She was doing about a hundred miles an hour when she hit a tree and the car burst into flames. She’s dead, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to be the one to give you this news. Thought you’d want to hear it right away. My people had been tailing Miss Narodni, as requested. They spotted Miss Sanderson tailing her, too, and phoned in from their mobile as soon as the accident happened.’

Don’s insides caved in; he closed his eyes, swallowing bile. Emily. Damn you, you stupid bitch, what have you done?

‘She must have been killed outright, sir. She wouldn’t have known much about it.’

Don hadn’t even noticed his teeth meeting in his lip; he was unaware of the red blood trickling down his chin. He couldn’t get a word out.

Jack Beverley politely told him, ‘Miss Narodni is now in Arbory House, sir.’

Finished. I’m finished, Don thought. It’s over. It will all be out now. That little bitch has done for me.

‘I suggest it’s time you were a little more frank with me,’ Jack Beverley said without emphasis. ‘Not over the phone, sir. But we should talk before you go to this dinner tonight.’

‘I’m getting dressed now. In ten minutes?’

‘I’ll be there. And, sir, I suggest a stiff bourbon, help you with your nerves. Shock plays havoc with nerves.’

Paul Brougham had been discussing circulation figures with his editor-in-chief for an hour when his eye fell on his watch. ‘Christ, got to go, have to dress for this Guildhall dinner,’ he groaned. He had totally forgotten about the evening in front of him; he wished he did not have to go to the dinner. He would far rather go home to Cathy.

The editor looked at his own watch. ‘Is that the time? I must get changed, too. I’m dining with the French ambassador.’

‘Give him my compliments,’ Paul said, grinning. The ambassador was a personal friend, they watched Rugby games together whenever France played England at Twickenham, and they shared other pleasures. Until Paul met Cathy they had even shared a woman once or twice, but now their mutual interests were food, good wine, and a love of the French language. Paul’s French was perfect, of course, so fluent that it would be easy to believe he had never lived anywhere else. He still went back to France as often as he could manage it, and owned a villa in the south of France, on the Côte d’Azur, not far from Cannes, his favourite place along that blue-gold coast. He disliked Nice; a beautiful but dangerous city, a glittering playground for some of the creatures that lurked in the murkier waters of French society.

When the editor had gone, Paul was about to take the lift to his penthouse flat above the newspaper, where he would change into evening dress to attend the dinner at the Guildhall at which his father-in-law was to be guest of honour, when the phone rang.

‘Your wife, sir, she says it’s urgent.’

‘Put her through, then.’ A click, then Cathy’s voice, breathless, quivering.

‘Paul?’

‘Hello, darling – what’s the problem? I was just going to get dressed.’

‘Paul . . . I need you, will you come home at once, instead of going to the dinner tonight?’

‘Skip the dinner?’ Paul felt a leap of fear in his chest. ‘Why? What is all this? Has something happened, Cathy?’

‘I can’t talk on the phone. I’d just like you to get here as fast as possible. Take a helicopter, don’t drive home.’ Her voice sounded shaky, scared. ‘I don’t want you hurrying on the roads tonight.’

‘Are you ill? For God’s sake, Cathy, what is all this?’

‘I’ll explain when you get here.’

‘What shall I say to your father? He expects –’

‘Don’t tell him anything! Don’t even tell him you won’t be at the dinner. Just come.

The phone went dead. Paul stood there stupidly, staring at it, his mind racing with questions, with terror. Cathy had sounded so weird. Terrified, yes, she had sounded terrified. He thought of everything that could have happened to her – his imagination went crazy. Terrorists could have snatched Cathy as a hostage to use against her father, these things happened all the time. Or the Mafia could have grabbed her for ransom. Ever since Don Gowrie let them know he would be visiting England and would come to Arbory there had been an awareness of risk at the back of their minds. Why else had Gowrie’s security people visited the house to check it out? They expected trouble. Paul had thought it was just the usual paranoia that hung around the American presidency like a fog, making anyone within reach of it feel threatened by invisible forces.

But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe someone had got into Arbory and was threatening Don Gowrie through his daughter?

But why would someone like that let her ring him? Her father wasn’t due at Arbory until tomorrow. Maybe she had had an accident. What if she was badly injured? Oh, but she had rung him herself, so she was alive, it couldn’t be that serious. Maybe she had just found out that she was ill? Cancer, leukaemia, brain tumour . . . his mind was rushing with terrifying suggestions.

Icy sweat dewed his forehead; he was shivering as if in a high wind. His hand shot out to press down a key on his office console.

‘Yes, sir?’ his secretary asked.

‘My plans have changed. I’m not going to the Guildhall dinner. Get me my chauffeur, then get me the helipad, I’m flying home right away.’

Nursing a whisky, Jack Beverley listened to Gowrie’s muttered story. His face did not betray what he was thinking; his cold, shrewd eyes simply watched the other man, skewering him in his chair.

When Gowrie had finished, Beverley said, ‘This is serious, sir. Well, if you aren’t to walk away from the presidency, which might be the wise thing to do at this stage . . .’ His eyes queried Gowrie’s and the other man shook his head angrily.

‘Not unless there’s no alternative!’

Beverley nodded. ‘OK, then we must start some immediate damage-limitation. You should have told me at once. A lot of time has been wasted. Firstly, I’m afraid you have to talk to your daughter, to Mrs Brougham.’

Bitterly, Don Gowrie said, ‘You can bet that that Czech bitch is doing so right now. I wish to God I’d dealt with her myself. Or got you to do it.’

‘Yes, you should have done that, sir. But there’s no point in crying about spilt milk. OK, my men are outside the grounds of Arbory House at the moment. There are police all over the place, fire engines, ambulances, and crowds of people watching what’s going on – my men won’t even be noticed. But before the police can talk to Miss Narodni I think my men should move in to Arbory House and snatch her. We’ll need a good story. My men will talk to your daughter and explain that whatever Miss Narodni has told her, the truth is that she’s in the UK to cause trouble for you. She’s a political extremist, dangerous – she wanted to get into Arbory House so that she could assassinate you. That should counter whatever the girl has been telling Mrs Brougham.’

With a wild leap of hope, Don Gowrie said eagerly, ‘That’s clever. It could work, it’s convincing, Cathy knows how crazy some people can get over politics.’ He began to breathe properly for the first time since he heard the news about Emily. ‘How soon can your men get in there, get her away from Cathy?’

‘I’ll ring them back on their mobile at once and give them their orders.’

‘What will you do with the girl?’

‘We’ll think about that later. First we must talk to her, find out exactly what she is up to, whether or not she has accomplices, who else knows the story,’ Jack Beverley said. ‘We must snuff this story out immediately, leave no loose ends. Ring your daughter now, explain that we’re coming, don’t discuss anything about Miss Narodni’s story, just tell her to let us deal with Miss Narodni. Say it is a security matter you can’t discuss over the phone. Then you go off to your dinner, sir, and leave this to us. You should have talked to us earlier. We are the professionals. It was unwise to let an amateur deal with the problem.’

Don Gowrie picked up the phone on a nearby table and dialled. A polite English voice answered; he asked for his daughter.

‘I’m sorry, sir, she is not available.’

‘What do you mean, not available? This is her father – I need to speak with her urgently.’

‘Mrs Brougham is out, sir. Can I get her to ring you when she gets back?’

‘Hold the line a second.’ Gowrie looked at Jack Beverley. ‘She’s out.’

Beverley frowned. ‘My men said she had gone back to her house with the Narodni girl. Maybe she went out again?’

‘Shall I ask my daughter to ring me?’

‘Hang on while I think.’ Beverley bit on his index finger, his brows heavy. ‘No, she might not ring until after you had left for this dinner. OK, leave a message for her, saying that there is a security problem. Your security people will be coming to collect Miss Narodni.’

Don lifted the phone to his mouth again and repeated this message. ‘Have you got that?’

The English voice was calm. ‘Yes, sir. Security people will be coming here tonight for Miss Narodni.’

‘She is there, isn’t she?’

‘I couldn’t say, sir. But I’ll give Mrs Brougham that message.’

Don hung up. ‘I don’t like it. I didn’t like that woman’s tone. I’ll swear Cathy was there – why wouldn’t they put me through to her?’

Without replying, Beverley moved towards the door. ‘Must get on, sir.’ He added, with no visible sign of sarcasm, ‘Enjoy your dinner.’

Gowrie stared after him. He didn’t know how he was going to get through this meal. If he could have done so safely he would have pulled out of the dinner, but the Anglo-American Friendship Society was too important to be offended. Many very famous people on both sides of the Atlantic were members. Being asked to speak to them was a significant honour. He had first met his future son-in-law at one of these occasions, in Washington, around seven years ago.

No, he had to show up and give his speech, and somehow pretend everything was just fine. He wouldn’t think about Emily. His skin shrivelled at the very thought of her death. No, he had no time to dwell on all that. Emily had let him down. He should never have asked her to deal with the problem. Jack was right, he should have confided in him. Well, now he had. Jack would deal with Sophie Narodni. Gowrie knew how few scruples Jack had; he was a man for whom killing was a job and he would do that job without a qualm.

Steve had been sitting in the bar with Vladimir for over an hour before he thought of trying to get hold of Sophie again. His head was ringing with the story the old Czech had told him. He felt as if he had been beaten endlessly with a brass gong, the echoes reverberating round and round his skull making him almost deaf. He couldn’t think clearly about what he had heard; he just sat staring at the bristling moustache, flecked with grey ash as Vladimir drew slowly on yet another of his heavily perfumed cigars.

‘Gowrie must have been crazy to take such a risk,’ Steve said again, having said it a dozen times over the past hour. ‘How on earth did he think he could get away with it? I mean, his wife might have blurted it out to her parents, or Sophie’s mother might have told her new husband, they might have tried to blackmail Gowrie, demanding money, or wanted him to get them into the States.’

‘She had begged him to do that, in the beginning, but he convinced her he couldn’t get her out. I’m sure he was right – the Russians wouldn’t have let Pavel Narodni’s family leave at that time. He had just been killed but they probably intended to make his wife talk, give them names, tell them everything she knew. They interrogated her, on and off, for weeks; they didn’t give up on her until they were finally convinced that she knew nothing at all about student politics, that she was just a peasant girl. She was very young, remember; only twenty-one herself then; she’d stayed at home in her tiny village, while her husband went to university. That year he had hardly been home at all.’