by F. C. Clark
Copyright © 2019 F. C. Clark
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador
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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Mum
Thank you for all your support and
encouragement.
Love you always.
Contents
Acknowledgments
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
Russia
Acknowledgments
Firstly, I would like to thank my amazing husband; here we go again my darling.
Of course my three babies, love you forever.
Thank you, to all my family and friends for your endless support.
A huge thank you to everyone who has read Harper’s Fate and fell in love with Kate and Luke.
A massive thank you to all my Facebook friends and followers, who have liked, shared and spread the word – I am truly grateful.
To the girls I have met on Instagram, thank you for your support.
A special thank you to Erica and Sophie at EKC.
To Luke and Brendan at FMC – sorry and thank you!
Lastly, to my editor Jane Hammett thank you for your guidance.
1
‘Katarina Varizin?’ the tallest man asks, in a strong Russian accent.
‘Kate Harper.’ I correct him.
‘You follow us,’ he says.
I nod.
He leads the way and his associate trails behind me.
I stop before I enter the cabin.
Holy shit, what am I doing?
I’m ushered to a seat and fasten my seatbelt, gripping my bag tightly. The first man faces me, while his friend sits next to me. I study them. Both men are dressed in identical black clothing, with matching stern expressions. Within minutes the plane begins to move. Fear rises in me, but it’s too late to escape.
When the plane reaches cruising altitude, both men unfasten their seatbelts. One moves to the rear of the plane, while the other disappears to the front. The first man returns.
‘Water.’ He hands me a plastic bottle, and resumes his position in front of me.
‘Thank you.’ Panic makes me need to speak. ‘How long is the flight?’
He holds up three fingers.
‘Three hours?’
He waves his hand from side to side.
‘Longer than three hours?’
He nods.
Silence again.
‘How long have you worked for Ivor Varizin?’
He glares. I’m not sure if he understood the question or is just unwilling to divulge information. He holds up a hand, his fingers spread wide.
‘Five years?’
He nods again. Jesus Christ. I admit defeat. I’ll stay silent from here on.
We continue the journey in silence, both men seated close to me. I look out of the window, watching England slowly disappear. My body is cold from shock. I unzip my bag and reach for Ivor’s letter. The words are clear: Ivor Varizin is our biological father! I close my eyes, recalling Harry’s face, watching my sister crumble in my arms. I should be with her and Mum, waiting for Dad to wake, not here.
I put the letter away and clasp my arms around my bag. I can’t think straight; thoughts of adoption and money circulate in my mind, but the only thought that remains strong is Luke. Longing for his protection, I bring my scarf to my nose, inhaling the scent of him, the Sutton scent. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes.
Someone nudges my shoulder and my eyes suddenly open wide. Crap! I fell asleep!
‘Are we here?’ I ask.
The first man nods.
Despite feeling terrified, I can’t ignore a small rush of curiosity.
The door opens and the warm air hits me. The day is sunny and the sky clear blue. I follow the first man down the metal steps. The plane is standing in what looks like an abandoned airfield. There is no passport control. Where the hell am I?
A black four-by-four waits nearby, with another man dressed in matching clothing. I climb in the back seat. The first man slides in next to me and the other two men get in the front.
The four-by-four moves fairly quickly along the poor roads. I strain to see outside: there is dense foliage and heavy woodland on either side. The long journey allows me to think of some questions to ask the man I’m about to meet.
Eventually we arrive at a set of large metal gates manned by yet more staff, carrying guns. The colour fades from my face and bile rises in my throat. I swallow hard as the gates open.
In the distance stands a large house – actually, it’s not a house. The only words to describe the property are ‘stately home’. I remember the first day I arrived at Luke’s enormous house, but this leaves me floored. The car drives slowly down the long gravel driveway. I’m lost for words. My biological father lives here?
The car stops. My anxiety levels rise. Another man ushers me out of the car towards the gothic front door, while scanning around us. For what, I don’t know. I step forward and enter a world I’m not accustomed to, nor wish to be. The house is huge: the hall is twice the size of the house I used to share with Harry. Large paintings and rugs hang from various walls, and an enormous dark-oak staircase sweeps around the edge of the hall, continuing high above us. With no time to absorb any more of my surroundings, I’m led further into the house – before I come to an abrupt stop.
A man appears in front of me. He must be in his late fifties. He’s tall, with thick dark hair that has a generous helping of grey streaks. He is striking and has strong dark eyes. He walks towards me, his hand extended. I stare at him as our matching eyes meet.
‘Katarina, pleased to meet you, and welcome to Russia. I am Ivor Varizin.’
I’m nervous; still, I take his hand in mine. ‘Kate.’
He nods, accepting that I’m not Katarina; Kate is the only name I’ve ever known. We size each other up, and I can’t help but look for similarities between us. Harry has the same hair as him, and we both have his eyes.
‘Come. You must be tired after your journey.’ He speaks to one of the men in Russian and gestures for me to follow him. ‘How was your flight?’ His English is clear, h
is accent faint.
‘OK,’ I answer, taking in my surroundings once again. We move towards the rear of the property and enter a large room. The grandness is breathtaking – there is dark, heavy furniture and a vaulted ceiling with intricate plaster mouldings. The room is austere, but a roaring fire softens the masculinity.
‘Sit, please.’
I lower myself into the huge, brick-coloured sofa.
A servant enters with a silver tray.
‘You like coffee, Kate?’
‘Yes.’ I look around the room. ‘These pictures – are they of your family?’
A smile spreads across his face. He appears pleased with my question. ‘Yes, and your family too. Some date back many years.’
I raise my brows. Wow! Mum has a ‘keep calm and drink tea’ picture on her wall. There’s no comparison.
‘Do you take milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk, please.’
He pours the coffee from a large silver pot and passes it to me.
‘Thank you.’
‘I apologise for meeting you under these circumstances.’
My head is full of questions. ‘Did you know my dad was attacked this morning? He’s in hospital, fighting for his life.’ I watch him closely.
‘Yes.’
I take a deep breath. Christ, has he been watching my entire family?
‘Did you do it?’ Even if he were involved, would he tell me?
‘No! I would not hurt the man who has protected my daughter.’ He scowls at my question.
‘I had to ask.’ Our eyes lock. ‘I have no reason to trust you.’
‘Katarina – sorry, Kate. I understand your need for questions and your reasons for not trusting me.’ His lips curl. ‘You are like your mother.’ He looks down at his coffee, clearly struggling with some emotion.
‘I wouldn’t know; I’ve never seen her.’ I can’t help but feel hostile towards this stranger – my father.
‘You speak your mind, like your mother.’ He smiles warmly.
‘How did she die?’
Ivor takes a deep breath. ‘Kate.’ His eyes meet mine, allowing me to see his pain. ‘The official paperwork says she committed suicide. But this is not true. She was one of the strongest women I have ever met’ – he places his hand over his heart – ‘in here. I know someone killed her. I was in prison when she died.’
My face drops. ‘She was murdered? Fuck!’ Shit – I hope he doesn’t understand English swear words. However, the raising of his brows indicates he does.
He nods. ‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Money, greed, or revenge – I wish I knew. As I said, I was in prison when your mother gave birth to you, and I was still there when she died. My family have had many enemies over the years. I accept vengeance may be the reason for her death. Her file… It does not speak the truth.’
‘She died in London?’
‘Yes.’
I can’t take much more; I feel overloaded by emotion. I pick up my coffee, hoping the caffeine will wake me from this nightmare. The heat trickles down my throat, confirming this is real and not a dream.
‘When you say files, do you mean death certificate?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe she was weaker than you thought.’
‘Please do not use words to hurt me.’
‘Hurt you! Oh, forgive me, please!’
He looks at the fire.
‘Let’s get on with it, shall we? You want my money.’ A direct approach is all I can offer.
‘I have no need of your inheritance. Look around you. This is about your safety.’ Ivor’s dark eyes connect with mine. Somehow, I know he’s telling the truth. Call it a gut instinct. ‘Your mother and I set up the fund when you were born. It was Katenka’s wish that you would receive the money on your twenty-seventh birthday.’
‘But why twenty-seven? Seems a bit odd.’
‘She wanted you to find your own path – not to have the money too young.’
‘I was finding my own path until yesterday, my twenty-seventh birthday!’
‘Money can change your direction,’ he says.
‘And bring problems to your door. Literally.’
Ivor looks directly into my eyes. ‘The people who attacked you are no longer a threat. As for the attack on your father, I will deal with that too.’
Deal with it? Shit – what does he mean? I’m guessing they won’t be having a chat…
‘I wanted to ask about Harry.’
He looks puzzled by my simple question.
‘The trust fund has only been left to me – there’s nothing for Harry. Why not?’
He raises his hands. ‘I assume your mother died before your sister was added to the fund.’
‘Oh.’ Why does he seem disconnected from her name? Perhaps I’m reading too much into every detail – it’s been a long day.
A man enters the room and leans down to Ivor, speaking in a low tone. Hey, I don’t speak Russian – there’s no need to whisper!
‘The man from the bank is on his way. You must learn the code for your account.’
‘Code!’ I swallow hard. Is he kidding?
‘Yes. I have a passport here for you as ID, but you need to input a code to activate your account.’
‘Oh.’ A passport – how the hell did he manage to get me a Russian passport? I’m too afraid to ask. Besides this could potentially go tits up. My head is all over the place – how the hell am I going to remember a code?
He hands me a piece of paper with a long line of digits.
‘Is this why I couldn’t sign the money over from London?’
‘The bank has strict rules and, due to the amount of money involved, there were stipulations attached to the trust fund when we set it up. A physical presence is needed, and you must remember these numbers – it is very important. You will also have to sign your name as Katarina Varizin; your signature is on the passport.’
‘OK.’ I gaze at the numbers. He wasn’t lying.
‘I have to leave you for a moment, but please do not be afraid. I understand how frightening this is for you.’ His eyes lock on to mine, offering me warmth.
‘I need to call home; they’re expecting to hear from me.’
‘Yes.’ He looks at his watch and then rubs his jaw. ‘You have thirty seconds.’
I frown.
‘I do not want your number to be traced – once again, this is for your safety.’
My number traced? Shit. Who is this man?
I nod.
He exits the room and leaves one of his sidekicks watching me. This place is henchman city: everywhere I look, another man appears.
I keep my scarf securely around my neck and slip off my jacket, placing it in my bag. I grab my phone and dial Kiki’s number.
‘Kate, thank God. Are you OK? Please tell me you’re safe,’ she says. I can hear the relief in her voice.
‘I’m fine. I only have thirty seconds, so have to be quick. How’s Dad? Have the doctors seen him?’
‘They’ve just finished their rounds. Nurse Kelly says he’s stable. She said stable was good – I guess that means he hasn’t gotten any worse.’
‘I guess. How are Mum and Harry?’
‘They’re fine. Barney is providing the entertainment – say no more! He told your mum that you have sickness and diarrhoea.’
‘Cheers, Barney!’
‘It stopped her asking questions.’
‘And Luke?’
‘No, nothing – has he called you?’
‘No. Text me – keep me updated.’
‘Sure.’
Ivor’s man checks his watch. Is he timing me?
‘I have to go – love you.’
I end the call and wave my phone from side to side. Satisfied
, the guard returns to his post in front of the door.
I place my phone in my bag. The time has arrived. I scan the digits: 309010024189. Hell, I can barely cope with four. Jeez. Think, Harper, think. Food – it’s the only way.
I break the numbers down into ingredients. Sugar 30g, flour 90g, butter 100g, eggs 24, and baking powder 189 teaspoons… I repeat the ingredients for a Russian Victoria sponge cake over and over again. On a piece of paper I copy the name Katrina Varizin. That part is easy!
Feeling jittery, I move towards the door and attempt to open it, but the man appears at my side, placing his hand over the door.
‘No.’
‘Where is Ivor?’
His fixed gaze is blank. Can he understand English?
‘Where… is… Ivor… you… moron?’
Nothing. Not even a blink of an eye.
I bang on the door.
‘Sit,’ the henchman commands.
‘I don’t want to sit – do you understand that?’
‘Sit.’
OK. This isn’t going well.
‘Whatever!’
As I sit back down, the door opens and Ivor appears.
‘I apologise. I had business to take care of. How is Malcolm?’
‘Dad is stable.’
Ivor’s expression alters hearing me say the word ‘Dad’ – I’m not willing to extend the title in his direction.
‘Your henchman wouldn’t let me open the door.’ I fold my arms.
‘He is ordered to protect you. This is my request. He does speak English and will understand the word “moron”.’ Ivor offers me a look, like a father chastising his daughter.
‘In that case, it’s rude not to answer when you’re being spoken to.’
Ivor smirks. ‘You are a vision of light, Kate. You have the spirit of Katenka – fire in your core. Your mother would be very proud of your ability to speak your mind.’
‘I always have.’ I turn and walk towards the fire. The heat warms my body, but no fire can thaw my feelings of abandonment.
‘Have you remembered the code?’
‘I think so. When is the man from the bank coming, and when can I go home?’ Ivor looks wounded. Does he think I want to be in his company? Maybe I do, but not like this, under duress.