Walking in Darkness (41 page)

‘Tell me more about your . . . our . . . mother,’ she said, getting up and going to the window to curl up in a windowseat.

Sophie gave a little exclamation. ‘Of course, yes, but first . . . could I please . . . would you let me use your phone? To ring Mamma? After what Steve said about Vladimir telling her someone had tried to kill me, I must talk to her, reassure her, or she’ll make herself ill worrying.’

Cathy nodded. ‘Of course, use the phone there now, if you like.’

Sophie got up eagerly. ‘Will you talk to her? Anya? Will you, please?’

Cathy looked horrified, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know her, what could I say? I can’t talk to her, I really couldn’t.’

Sophie turned pleading eyes on her. ‘She’s dying, Anya, and she desperately needs to hear your voice.’

‘I can’t!’ Cathy refused fiercely, and didn’t move as Sophie sighed and went over to the phone. The sad, reproachful eyes made her uneasy, yet she resented Sophie’s insistence. It was so easy to make judgements from outside but when it was happening to you it wasn’t a simple matter.

This strange woman was dying and Cathy was expected to feel deeply about that, to be sad, grief-stricken, to feel all the emotions a bereaved daughter should feel. But how could she? She hadn’t even known this woman existed. She had never seen her, she didn’t know anything about her. She still wasn’t certain she believed that Johanna was her real mother. Oh, she accepted all the evidence now, but knowing with your mind was one thing – feeling it in your heart was something very different, and her heart was not ready to believe.

She heard Sophie’s soft, husky voice talking into the phone in her own language. Cathy didn’t understand Czech, couldn’t follow a word of what Sophie said until she lapsed into English, which Cathy realized was done for her own benefit.

‘And guess who is with me? Anya.’ She laughed, looking at Cathy. ‘Yes, really, Mamma – I’ve found her, talked to her, I told her everything. Yes, she’s here, hold on . . .’

Sophie turned and held out the phone, her eyes begged. ‘Please,’ she whispered.

Cathy sat stiffly, unable to move.

‘She’s dying, Cathy,’ Sophie whispered, covering the mouthpiece of the phone so that her mother shouldn’t hear. ‘This may be the only chance she has of hearing your voice, and you don’t have to say anything much, just hello and ask how she is – that will be enough for her, to hear your voice.’

Cathy swallowed, unable to make up her mind, then she slowly got up and unsteadily walked over to take the phone.

Sophie gave her a quick, warm hug. ‘Thank you.’

Cathy held the phone to her mouth. ‘Hello?’ she said in a voice that wavered.

There was a silence at the other end and then a woman’s voice breathed. ‘Anya . . . my Anya . . .’

Cathy put down the phone a few minutes later and turned away quickly before Sophie could see her face; she stood by the window, staring out, her back to the room. Sophie waited, watching her with sympathy. How did you talk to a woman you had never met but discovered was your mother? What did you say? The gap was so enormous; a whole lifetime. Everything Cathy knew had happened since she was taken away; she didn’t remember anything about the years before that day, the baby years. They were strangers who yet had the most intimate of relationships – mother and child. And what could you say to each other?

Cathy had said very little. She had listened and murmured a few comforting words now and then, in the spaces when there was no whispering, sobbing voice at the other end.

‘Yes. Yes, Sophie told me. Yes, I know. I understand how it happened. No, I don’t blame you, of course I don’t. Please, don’t upset yourself. Don’t cry, please. Yes, I forgive you. I do. I’ll try to come soon, I promise I’ll try. Yes, soon. As soon as I can, I promise.’

Sophie had felt tears in her own eyes and had brushed them away. All the years those two had lost, mother and daughter, so long apart that they couldn’t even talk to each other now. Don Gowrie had boasted of having given Cathy a wonderful life, the life of a princess – but did it really make up for what he had taken from her?

She watched Cathy struggling to deal with it all, and wished there was something she could say or do to help.

‘Thank you for talking to her,’ she said at last, and Cathy found an angry noise.

‘Thank you for talking to my own mother?’

‘It was tough, I know it was hard for you.’

‘Not as hard as it was for her.’ Cathy took a deep breath. ‘She kept crying. I wished she would stop; her English isn’t very good and when she kept crying it was harder to understand and I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed talking to my own mother!’ Her hands were clenched into fists, as if she wanted to hit something or someone.

‘Not surprising, after so many years,’ Sophie said gruffly. ‘She wouldn’t blame you. She understands how hard this must be for you.’

‘Does she? I wonder –’

The telephone began to ring and they both started violently.

‘Shall I answer that?’ offered Sophie.

‘Would you?’ Cathy said huskily without looking round.

Sophie picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Mrs Brougham?’

Sophie opened her mouth, but before she could say she wasn’t Cathy the man’s voice at the other end went on, ‘I’ve still got Mr Colbourne’s colleague waiting down here at the gate, ma’am – he’s getting impatient, shall I let him through now?’

‘Wait a minute.’ Sophie turned to Cathy. ‘I think Vladimir is here – can he come up to the house? Is that OK?’

Cathy nodded. ‘Why not?’ she said indifferently, then suddenly wheeled and began to walk to the door. ‘I have a headache, I’m going to take a pill and lie down for a while.’

Sophie told the man at the gate to let Vladimir through, then hung up and ran after Cathy, called after her.

‘Can I get you anything? Do anything?’

‘No, I just want some peace and quiet,’ Cathy said, vanishing up the stairs without looking back.

Sophie stood in the magnificent hall, listening to the solemn ticking of the tall grandfather clock, watching wintry sunlight strike the polished floors, striking fire out of some bronzed branches of beech which stood in a tall urn near the hearth. Such a calm, ordered atmosphere. Her eye travelled upwards to admire the great chandelier hanging overhead. Had Cathy been happy here? Of course she must have been – she had had everything anyone could want, and she must have thought her life would always be like that.

The front door stood partly open; through it she heard the men’s voices and the sound of their feet crunching on the gravel. They were returning to the house. Had they made the deal Don Gowrie wanted? Want to bet? she asked herself, mouth twisting.

He had the measure of every one of them, knew exactly what to offer as a bribe or use as a threat. Politicians always did. Human beings were their stock in trade; they bought and sold them, manipulated and cheated them, used them without scruple. Somehow or other Don Gowrie would have cobbled together some sort of agreement with Steve and Paul.

Above their voices rose the sound of a vehicle. Was that Vlad? Sophie pushed the door wider and watched a Land-Rover parking right outside. Vlad stumbled from it, dishevelled as ever, brushing ash off his ancient tweed jacket and shabby raincoat. The man driving the vehicle drove off again and Vlad looked round, orientating himself, saw her, and held out his arms, grinning from ear to ear.

‘Sophie! Girl, I’ve been worried sick about you!’

She felt her spirits lift. Smiling as she ran, she threw herself into his waiting arms.

‘Vlad! Oh, Vlad, it’s so good to see you!’

He held her away after a warm hug and stared down into her face, searching her eyes, noting her pallor, her quivering lips.

‘You OK?’ His heavy features were anxious, concerned.

She made a face, shrugged. ‘I’ll survive.’

He hugged her again. ‘That’s my girl.’

Paul and Steve stood watching; she didn’t look their way because Steve’s shrewd eyes saw too much, she was afraid of what he would read in her eyes, and she didn’t want to give anything away to Paul, either.

In the house the phone began to ring again, rang on and on, and Paul turned his head to stare through the open door.

‘Where is everyone? Why doesn’t somebody answer that? Damn the thing! I’d like to have it cut off.’

The ringing stopped. They heard footsteps and the housekeeper came to the open front door. ‘It’s for you, sir. Mr Levinson.’

‘I’ll take it in my study,’ Paul said curtly. He glanced at the rest of them. ‘Sorry, excuse me.’

He vanished into the house and Vladimir turned to stare after him. ‘Is that the husband? The guy who married little Anya? I didn’t get a chance to take a good look at him. What do you think? Is he OK for her? Do you like him?’

Sophie nodded, ruefully smiling. ‘He has been very kind to me. Very sympathetic.’ She couldn’t betray her sister’s confidences, tell them that Cathy wasn’t certain of Paul, was afraid he might leave her now. Cathy might be way off the mark, her imagination working overtime. She was too upset to be able to think properly.

‘Where is she?’ Vlad demanded. ‘I am dying to see her. Last time I saw her she was a baby, just born – Jesus, that was a long, long time ago. Another world, nuh? This is going to make me feel very, very old.’

‘You are very, very old,’ Steve joked, and they grinned at each other.

Sophie was startled but loved the easy familiarity between them. How had they become friends so fast? But then they had so much in common: they were both newsmen, both cynical, hard-boiled, humorous, capable of great tenderness.

‘Anya is upstairs lying down,’ she said, then looked behind them. ‘Where’s Gowrie?’

‘He walked over to the helipad to talk to his security people,’ Steve told her drily. ‘He will be leaving soon, I gather.’ His eyes glinted with anger and contempt.

‘Having made a deal with you?’ She stared into those eyes, wondering why he had agreed to accept Gowrie’s terms. He was ambitious, but she couldn’t believe he would sell her and Cathy out just to help his own career.

‘Oh, yes, he got what he wanted, so he’s ready to leave. He says he wouldn’t feel safe here unless his men can stake out the house, and Paul won’t have that, he doesn’t want them around, so Gowrie is going. But first he says he’ll come to say goodbye to Cathy. He wants her to drive up to London to see his wife; they didn’t bring her with them in the chopper. In case something went wrong, Gowrie said, but he meant in case she overheard anything, picked up what was really going on here. The last thing he wants is for her to remember that Cathy isn’t . . .’ He broke off, gesturing.

‘Isn’t her Cathy,’ Sophie murmured, pitying the woman she had never met, a woman who had deferred her child’s death by nearly thirty years, yet had never been a real mother to Cathy, never close to her, because she had been in flight from herself and the truth, drifting between illusion and reality.

‘Could we have something to drink?’ Vlad asked wistfully. ‘I’ve been hanging about outside the gates for hours, they wouldn’t let me in for some reason. That wind is icy and I’m freezing.’

‘I’ll ask the housekeeper to make us some coffee,’ Sophie said, and he grimaced.

‘I was thinking of something stronger, nuh?’

Paul walked into his office, closed the door and sat down behind his desk. The telephone was already ringing; his housekeeper had switched the call through.

‘Hello? Freddy?’

‘Yes. Paul, I –’

‘I hope this is important. I’ll be back in town in a couple of hours. Can’t it wait?’

‘I saw Salmond last night,’ Freddy abruptly said, and Paul stiffened, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the phone. What was Freddy going to tell him? Had he sold out? Had Salmond bought him? Then he thought: no, not Freddy, Freddy wouldn’t rat on me, he never has and he never will. He’s been loyal to me from the beginning. Loyalty is his middle name. What the hell is the matter with me? I’ve been spending too much time with shits like Don Gowrie.

‘I was having dinner with my cousin and his wife last night,’ Freddy was saying. ‘Celebrating their wedding anniversary. I was paying, my present to them – she wanted to go to the Primavera, that new Italian place that’s all the rage at the moment, she’s that sort of woman, you know, loves to be in the latest fashion and –’

Paul erupted. ‘Freddy, for God’s sake – never mind your bloody family – what about Salmond?’

‘Sorry, I’m in quite a state this morning. Can’t think straight. I almost rang you last night, but we drank too much over dinner, you know how it is, cocktails, then wine, then brandy afterwards, and I don’t usually drink, as you know and –’

‘Get to the starting-price, damn you, Freddy!’

He audibly swallowed. ‘Yes. Sorry. I saw Salmond as we walked into the restaurant. He was at a corner table; he was having dinner with . . . you’ll never guess, I couldn’t believe my eyes –’

‘I don’t have time for guessing games, Freddy. Just tell me, will you?’ Paul was on tenterhooks waiting for the crunch – why wouldn’t Freddy spit out whatever bad news he had to tell?

‘Chantal Rousseau,’ Freddy gabbled out, and Paul jerked as if someone had kicked him in the guts.

‘What?’

‘I couldn’t believe it, either, when I saw them – I didn’t even know she knew the guy, after all he lives in the States, I had no idea . . .’

‘Salmond’s trying to persuade her to sell her shares to him, of course,’ Paul thought aloud.

‘That was the first thought I had. But I sat there for two hours and watched them,’ Freddy told him grimly. ‘And they never even noticed me, never once looked round, they were too engrossed in each other. There was no two ways about it, they kept touching hands, looking into each other’s eyes, I could even see under the table, their knees touching . . . he was moving his leg against hers. Paul, they’re having an affair.’

‘Shit,’ Paul said thickly. ‘That bitch, that two-faced bitch. Sweet as honey to me on the phone the other day, when all the time . . . She’s going to sell me out.’

Freddy sighed. ‘I remembered after a while that she had been going over to the States regularly over the last six months; her firm are associated with some American firm now, aren’t they? That’s how she and Salmond must have met. But of course that doesn’t mean she’ll sell him our shares. Well, we can’t be sure she’d do that. I mean, she wouldn’t confuse her private life with her business – she’s quite a cold-headed bitch, isn’t she? That was the impression I always had of her.’