A Ghost at the Door (42 page)

‘The Aunt Emmas.’

Johnnie nodded. ‘But I was his best friend, you see, the very best. Loved his ugly face, his terrible jokes.’ Johnnie paused, summoning memories. ‘It was just before our annual
get-together. He called from Riyadh in a state of great excitement. Said he’d discovered something that might be the most important piece of information we’d ever had.’ He was
staring at Harry, making sure he had his son’s attention.

‘He told me of a weekend he’d just spent with a Saudi prince, one of the lowlife types with sticky fingers. A man who loved to drink and to brag. Like all of us, eh,
Jemma?’

He squeezed her hand and smiled, enjoying a little moment of mischief. She nodded in gentle agreement. Then the moment was gone and he returned to his tale of the darker side.

‘One night the prince had finished with his whores and was off his head to the point of incoherence. Kept mumbling about an attack on the United States that was going to change the world.
Something that was massive. And imminent. Ali thought it was no more than wild ramblings until in the morning the prince, now very sober, spent every hour shouting at his money men. Gambling
everything he had. We’re not talking just millions, but hundreds of them. That’s when Ali knew he was serious. The prince was piling into gold and oil and defence stocks, getting out of
things like the dollar, insurance. And airlines.’

‘When was this?’ Harry asked, his voice now cold.

‘Early September 2001.’

‘You can’t be serious. Nine-eleven?’ Harry gasped, incredulous.

‘Was it? Perhaps. We had no way of knowing. It was a few days before. We thought it was simply a massive raid on the markets, some sheiks consortium selling everything short. So Ali and I
did the same.’

‘But how could the prince have known?’ Jemma broke in.

‘The nine-eleven hijackers,’ Harry whispered, seeing through fog. ‘Most of them were Saudis.’

‘We had no idea what we were getting into; we made a monumental screw-up,’ Johnnie continued, his breathing shallow, punctuating every thought. ‘You remember what it was like
after the Twin Towers: they were days of chaos and conspiracy. And revenge. I was appalled to think I might have got myself involved in some way. So I made a mistake. A terrible mistake. I talked
to someone with connections to the intelligence services about it. Should never have trusted him. Never.’

‘Why?’ Jemma asked

‘Because almost immediately afterwards the Saudi prince disappeared, not a trace. And within days Ali was murdered, very publicly, along with his family, as a warning.’

‘Who would do that?’

‘No idea. But you wouldn’t have to look far for suspects, not with all that blood lust and retribution in the air. Could the Americans have done something like that? Of course they
could if they’d become convinced we were mixed up in it. And they never took much convincing, did they. Jump in, bang bang, mission accomplished. But for my money – and there’s
still a deal of that’, he said, eyeing Harry with an expression that was a mixture of both rebuke and pride – ‘It was more likely some Middle Eastern government or a group of
extremists who took fright. Some thing had gone wrong, the plan had leaked and we were a loose end that might lead right back to the source of it all. And whoever it was, they wouldn’t have
thought twice. Thousands had already died in the Towers, hundreds of thousands were soon to follow in the war. What did a few more matter? Ali’s execution was a warning and I was next in
line. So I started running.’

‘But it wasn’t just you,’ Jemma said. ‘What about the others? Finn, Susannah, McQuarrel? The bishop?’

‘I hadn’t mentioned any of them, hadn’t needed to. They were all fine, until Finn started digging around for material to put in one of his wretched books. Made himself a
target. That’s why he tried to disappear.’

‘He didn’t do it too well.’

‘I did it better. Took myself off the list. Spread a surprisingly modest amount of money around a Greek port and arranged a convenient heart attack.’

‘Letting me think you were dead,’ Harry said.

‘Remember this. Whoever killed Ali also killed his family. That was deliberate. Cruel beyond words. A warning. I wasn’t going to run the risk.’

He stared at Harry with piercing eyes; Harry glared back.

‘Don’t try to pretend you were protecting me!’ Harry snapped, bitter.

‘What are you complaining about? You didn’t seem to care very much about whether I was alive or dead. You’d already cut me out of your life.’

‘It was you – you who cut me. When I was eighteen.’

And all the years of hurt that had been locked away began flooding out once more.

‘I didn’t cut you. I made you,’ the old man bit back. ‘What would you have become if you’d arrived at your snotty university with your pockets stuffed full of my
cash? You needed to learn. About knocks and bruises. I forced you to stand on your own feet. Best bloody lesson you learned at Cambridge.’

‘You never took any interest, never made contact.’

‘Now isn’t that funny, son? I thought that’s what I was supposed to accuse you of. How many times did I write? Did you ever reply?’

‘Don’t you turn this on me. What I became was because I got you out of my life.’

‘Oh, really? It didn’t seem that way when you got your hands on half my fortune.’ Johnnie was panting now, the colour creeping into his pale face suggesting he wouldn’t
stop, even if it killed him. ‘Useful, wasn’t it, the odd fifteen million or so, just as you got yourself into Parliament, became a bloody politician? I remember an interview you gave
once, about how your money gave you independence, enabled you to be your own man. Very noble. Only bit you left out was that it wasn’t your money at all, it was mine.’

Harry flinched.

‘Tallon kept sending you money by the truckload. Took a while to unwind my affairs. He’s still doing it. The Brazilian rainforest, I think he told you. That’s bollocks.
It’s what I have left, squirreled away, what you’ll get when I die. Don’t lose it as quickly as you did the last lot.’

He paused, his eyes welling with an old man’s sadness. He waved his stick in anger at a seagull that had grown inquisitive and come too near. It flew off, circling on the breeze, crying in
disgust.

‘Good man, Tallon. The only one who knew. I even had him arrange for an old friend to offer you a directorship, to see you through the rough patch. You didn’t have the bloody sense
to accept it.’

‘You tried to own me!’ Harry spat back.

‘No!’ But the effort had become too much. Johnnie began spluttering, saliva trickling down his old chin. He wiped his mouth, struggled to regain his breath and with it his composure.
When he spoke again it was no longer with venom, as if he no longer cared. ‘I didn’t try to own you, Harry. I simply tried to help you. As best a father could.’

He flapped a hand to summon the nurse. It was over. But Harry was on his feet once more, overwhelmed by old nightmares.

‘You were never a father. And you were a pathetic excuse for a husband. I watched my mother die while you—’

His outburst was brought to a sudden halt. With surprising vigour Johnnie had raised his stick as if to strike him.

Harry stood his ground. ‘You’re not going to get away with that again.’

The words hit the old man as a storm hits an old ship and something broke inside Johnnie. He sagged, capsized, surrender flooding through his eyes. ‘I remember,’ he sobbed, wretched,
hiding his face in his handkerchief. When he spoke again his voice was little more than a gasp. ‘I did, didn’t I? Just the once. I’m sorry, Harry, son, I was ashamed. And I lashed
out to cover that shame because I didn’t know what else to do. It was a time in my life when I wasn’t doing so well. After your mother died.’

‘I remember those years. The screaming matches. You storming out. The weeks you disappeared instead of being at home with us.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘You betrayed us.’

‘Why do you hate me so?’

‘You broke my mother to pieces!’

‘Harry, you were young. You don’t understand.’

‘I can still see her in the bedroom where she died. You didn’t even have the decency to bring me back from school to say goodbye to her.’

‘You were thirteen. I was trying to protect you. When your mother died I didn’t know what to do.’ The breeze had picked up, scratching at his old eyes, making them watery,
sending tears down his dry cheeks. ‘Your mother . . .’ He gasped in pain, then he raised his eyes in defiance, staring at his son. ‘Jessie was a pearl. To me she was priceless.
Not perfect, who is? But what does it matter if the woman you love has a few flaws? And I loved her so very much. But all she saw was the flaws in herself and the closer she looked, the larger they
came to seem. It got too much for her, something inside telling her she was inadequate, unworthy. And it ate her away.’ He groaned in misery. ‘Past mistakes. Things she should have
forgotten. Things I knew about and which ought to have been pushed to one side. But instead she pushed me aside. Said I reminded her of all her guilt.’

‘You left us!’

Johnnie shook his head. ‘That was her choice, not mine. Never mine.’

‘There were so many other women.’

‘Only after Jessie had died and none that mattered. That’s why when I staged my own death it didn’t really matter to me. There was no one else. Even you had forgotten me. So I
came back here, to my old world, this Elba in the Irish Sea. No one would find me here. And it was where I spent the happiest years of my life, with Jessie.’

‘You bastard, I don’t believe a word of it!’ Harry cried, but Jemma was in his arms, her fingers to his lips, silencing him.

‘It’s true, Harry, believe me,’ she whispered.

‘How the hell do you know?’

‘McQuarrel told me much of it.’

‘McQuarrel!’ Harry scoffed in dismissal.

‘He thought I was dying at the time. He had no reason to lie.’

A fog of confusion settled on Harry. It was too much. He couldn’t rewrite his entire life in five minutes. ‘I still don’t believe you,’ he said.

‘Perhaps you were too young to remember the good times, Harry, when we were in London, when your mother was in better health. Why, we had so much fun, Jessie and me, watching you
grow.’

Harry was trembling. Jemma held him in her arms, then led him back to the bench where his father sat. She settled between them once more, took Harry’s hand, then that of his father,
joining the three of them.

‘McQuarrel told me many things, Harry.’

Johnnie tensed in concern, she squeezed his hand in reassurance as she continued. ‘How your father would come to their reunions bubbling with stories. About you. What you had done. How
proud he was of you.’

The old man was nodding, a teardrop dancing down the ridge of his nose that he didn’t bother to hide.

‘McQuarrel also told me about how much your father loved your mother, through the thick and the thin, and for all the mistakes she made. You Jones boys, father, son – to hell with
it, Harry, you two are so much alike.’

They fell to silence, each in the grip of their different thoughts, all three of them in pain. The sun stood high in the sky, warming the breeze that rippled through the heather on its way to
the sea. The old man’s nurse was standing at a respectful distance, waiting to take him back.

‘That is a lovely ring,’ Johnnie said, gazing down at Jemma’s hand, which was still tightly locked around his own.

‘He does well, your son. At times.’

‘Dad?’

A single word. The old man looked up. It was the first time he had heard that word since a time so long ago it had almost disappeared.

‘Dad, why don’t you come home with us?’

So Johnnie was alive and had even become a grandfather. The Joneses are full of surprises. I hope the reader will forgive me for making the Jones family such an untidy unit but
it has opened up all sorts of adventures for them. If you would like to find out more about Ruari, Harry’s fascinating son, you will need to read
Old Enemies
.

A Ghost at the Door
is Harry’s sixth adventure and for anyone familiar with his escapades I have the usual list of suspects to thank. Ian Patterson has been an inspiration from
the start of the series, as has Andrei Vandoros, and they continue to be a huge source of strength, humour and knowledge. As he was with
A Sentimental Traitor
, Sean Cunningham has been
extraordinarily patient and supportive on the many occasions I have pestered him about police procedure.

A friend of many years standing – although she remains everlastingly young – is Sarah Maltby, with whom I used to work at Saatchi & Saatchi before we both went our different
ways. Sarah ended up in Bermuda and has helped refresh many of my memories about that lovely island.

Another destination that featured heavily in the research and writing of this book is the Ionian island of Meganissi. It is small but wonderfully hospitable and I wanted to show my gratitude by
naming one of the characters after Iro Kottikas, who has patiently provided so many of the Greek details.

Professor John Dodds is another friend from that part of the world who appears yet again on the list of thanks. He helped me with much of the background for the city of Trieste that featured
prominently in
Old Enemies
. Evidently he didn’t find the process too painful because he has continued to provide guidance about consular procedures.

Mrs Stephanie Harwood was a delightful host when I wanted to research houseboats on the Thames at Chelsea, while Dr Ian Plummer of Balliol College was very helpful with his unparalleled
experience of the sport of croquet at Oxford. I only wish I could have used more than a tiny fraction of the fascinating information he made available to me. Also at Oxford I must thank those at my
old college of Christ Church, and in particular Helen Camunas-Lopez in the Steward’s Office, who tolerated my frivolous enquiries with a cheerfulness I probably didn’t deserve.

I owe several debts of gratitude to those who have helped me on Church matters. My long-standing friend Sir Tony Baldry is a Church Estates Commissioner who shares no resemblance whatsoever with
the character of Cyrus Harefield MP. This may be at Tony’s insistence rather than mine. Archdeacon Emeritus Peter Delaney allowed me to wander around the Wren church of St Stephen Walbrook
and to clamber up its somewhat precarious tower. St Stephen’s is a place of breathtaking beauty and peace; if you don’t know it, I recommend a visit. My old Christ Church friend
Alastair Redfern helped steer me around some of the ecclesiastical rocks – although in the case of Bishop Randall I fear I may have got myself firmly stuck on them. Alastair and I used to row
together at Christ Church; he sat higher up the boat than me. He still does. Nowadays he is better known as the Bishop of Derby and is a colleague in the House of Lords.