She breathed heavily for a few moments, summoning strength and gathering her thoughts.
‘It started the Christmas before Trev died. I had a foreigner come to me for business. I’d just about given the work up because of your da, but I was in bad need of money that day. He spoke good English, this feller, but with an accent. Said he worked at the naval base and had heard of me through friends.’ She paused, as if to think through what she was going to say next. ‘But when I let him into the house it wasn’t sex he wanted. He was after Trevor. Showed me pictures he’d got of the two of us together on the bed. Somehow he’d hidden a camera in the room – we never found out how.’ Her eyes widened, as if still astonished at his ingenuity. ‘And he knew about you and your sister. Said he’d make sure the pictures got to you two kids as well as to your mother. He was ruthless. Said if Trevor didn’t give him what he wanted, the pictures would be in the post the next time he went away to sea.’
Sam frowned. ‘The man didn’t approach my father direct? He did it through you?’
‘Aye. I don’t know why.’
‘Did the man give you his name?’
‘Johann. Like Johann Sebastian Bach, he said.’
‘And this was a Russian?’
‘No. German. From the east. Working for all the peoples of free Europe, he said.’ She flicked up her eyes at the absurdity of it. ‘According to Johann, the Russians had been having trouble with MI5 and were using him because he could move around the country more easily than they could.’
‘I see.’ Sam remembered a spate of tit-for-tat spy expulsions at around that time. ‘And my father agreed to provide information?’ he asked, resigned to the worst. ‘So that my mother wouldn’t learn about your affair?’
Suddenly tears streamed down her face. She picked up the hem of the bed sheet and pressed it to her eyes. ‘It was because of you,’ she sobbed. ‘Not because of her.He didn’t care if your mother found out about us. She couldn’t think any worse of him than she did already. But he knew that you idolised him. And he couldn’t cope with the idea of seeing your crushed little face after you’d had an eyeful of those pictures o’ us together.’
He shook his head, dismayed that he himself could have been the ultimate reason for his father’s agreement to commit treason. ‘And he gave Johann some Navy secrets . . .’
‘No! No he never,’ she protested. ‘You mustn’t think that.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Nothing that mattered, anyway.’ She dried her eyes, her wan face totally washed out. ‘He gave Johann old signal codes – that’s what he told me. Information that looked right but which was already out of date.’
‘The Russians would have seen through that,’ Sam told her.
‘Oh aye. They did. The next time Trevor returned from a patrol Johann made the threats all over again.’
‘And?’
‘Your father played for time. Keeping them at bay until he worked out what to do.’
‘Which was what?’
‘He didn’t have to do nothing in the end. The headaches started and they found the brain tumour. Johann backed off when he realised Trevor was going to die.’
‘You mean that was it? Out-of-date signal codes was all he ever passed to them?’
‘Absolutely.’
Sam felt absurdly relieved. ‘You’re quite sure about that?’
‘It’s what Trevor told me. And he never did hide anything from me.’
‘And what about Johann? Did he just fade away?’
‘Aye. But he was kind to me. Keep your chin up, he said. Sounded odd the way he said it, like he’d read the words in a book. And then when Trevor died, he sent me money to buy a wreath for the funeral.’
‘You were there?’ Sam asked, astonished.
‘Och no! I couldn’t be. But I sent the flowers.’
He remembered the scent outside the crematorium, made heavy by the heat of summer.
As the woman recovered her breath Sam sat back and pondered. Through the wide window he saw a uniformed nurse helping a stick-thin man in a dressing gown inspect the flower beds.
‘The German, Johann, you never knew his proper name?’ he checked.
‘No. But . . .’ She put a hand on his arm, looking at him uncertainly for several seconds as if trying to think through the consequences of what she was about to tell him. ‘But there was something strange as happened a couple of years ago. I got a letter. Written by someone saying he was a friend of Johann.’
‘Really?’
‘He said that now the cold war was over, Johann wanted to say sorry for the pain he’d caused.’
‘Extraordinary . . .’ Compassion wasn’t exactly commonplace in the spying business.
‘The letter asked me to write back and say how I was.’
‘And did you?’
‘No. I didn’t want to be reminded.’
Sam saw her flinch as some internal spasm took control.
‘Sometimes it shoots through me like a sliver of glass,’ she whispered.
‘D’you want me to call someone?’
‘No. I’m not allowed the injections too often. They’ll be round when it’s time.’ She closed her eyes and sank into the pillows, her mouth half open. ‘It’ll pass in a wee while.’
Sam knew he should let her be now, but there was more he wanted to know. For his own sake.
‘Will you tell me about my father? Why were you attracted to him more than the other sailors?’
Slowly her mouth formed into a smile which, if it hadn’t been contorted with the pain, might have been mischievous.
‘He was awful good in the sack,’ she whispered. ‘The best there ever was.’
‘That was it?’
‘Och no. But that was the start of it. He was just lovely. Kind. Funny.’
‘My mother and sister saw him in a rather different light,’ Sam murmured.
‘Your mother? Och, what d’you expect from a woman who tells her man there’ll be no more sex?’
‘She said that?’
‘It’s what your father told me. He said that after giving berrth to you she wouldn’t let him near her.’
‘No wonder he had a wandering eye.’
‘And hands.’ She managed a laugh. ‘He was dead sensual, you know.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Och I shouldna be saying such things to his son . . .’
‘Say whatever you like,’ he told her. ‘Did he . . . did he ever talk about my sister?’
‘Oh aye.’ Another spasm gripped her. Sam handed her the glass again. She swallowed some water, then breathed heavily and evenly to control the discomfort. ‘He was dead upset when Beryl took against him too.’ Her voice came out as a whisper. Sam could see she was fading. ‘Said your ma worked hard on her, poisoning her mind against him.’ She picked up the Rothesay photo again and managed a smile. ‘It was three days we had together in Bute. The longest we ever had alone. Three of the happiest days o’ my life.’
The door clicked open and the nurse came in.
‘You’ll be tiring her out, Mr Packer. I need to give her some medication.’
Jo Coggan grabbed his hand. ‘Don’t go just yet. I’ve talked too much. I want to hear about you.’
‘Would you wait outside while I do the injection,’ the nurse asked firmly.
‘Of course.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, Jo.’
Outside in the corridor he leaned against the white wall and sucked in air. Mysteries had been unlocked. He understood now about Beryl. And he’d learned that although his father had been a rogue, he had probably not been a traitor. The icon was torn, but not destroyed.
‘You can go back in now, Mr Packer,’ the nurse told him, holding open the door. ‘But not for long because she’ll be asleep soon.’
‘I understand.’
Already Jo Coggan was having trouble keeping her eyes open.
‘You,’ she whispered. ‘Tell me about you.’
‘I will. In a moment. But I have one more
question.’
‘Questions, questions . . .’
‘The man who wrote to you from abroad with the message from Johann. Do you remember his name?’
‘No. But . . .’ She turned her head towards the side of the room where a dark brown wardrobe stood. ‘In there.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘On the floor. A small green case.’
He opened the cupboard door. A few clothes hung from the rail. Below, next to a pair of trainers was a vanity bag.
‘This one?’ He held it up.
She nodded. He placed it on the bed and she indicated he should open it. When he lifted the lid she reached in and brought out a bundle of letters held together with an elastic band.
‘From your da, mostly,’ she croaked, sleep rapidly overtaking her. ‘But there’s one in there with a foreign stamp.’
Sam flicked through the letters, recognising his father’s immature hand. He dearly wanted to read them but knew it would be a mistake to do so. Eventually he found the envelope she’d meant. Franked in Vienna. From it he extracted a single sheet of white notepaper.
As he read the address at the head of the page, a shiver ran down his spine. It was startlingly familiar. He turned the letter over to be sure. The signature was neat and forward-leaning. The name – Günther Hoffmann.
Sam shook his head in amazement. This was extraordinary. The letter had been written by a former Stasi officer whom he’d helped debrief several years ago.
He felt a hand on his arm. The woman was almost asleep, but she knew he was about to go.
‘Will ye come an’ see me again?’ she whispered.
‘I will,’ he promised, staring disbelievingly at the page.
Her lips quivered as she summoned up her failing strength.
‘We were to be married, you know, your da and me. I’d have been your step-mummy, Sammy. Would you have liked that, d’you think?’
She fell asleep before he could think of a reply.
12
London
FROM THE POLICE station in Paddington Julie had returned to Acton to collect a bag before heading for Woodbridge. She’d found photographers outside her flat. Before they could spot her she’d fled back to the underground and thrown herself onto the first train. She had a desperate need to be away from people – from everybody. At Hammersmith she’d left the tube and walked over the bridge to the south bank of the river, finding a bench amongst the horse chestnut trees.
An hour later she was still sitting there, watching a rowing club eight carry their razor-shell craft down to the water. Strongly built boys and girls with nice accents. Normal teenagers at the end of the summer hols. She imagined secure, two-parent homes with siblings and dogs, and she envied them. On the bank opposite, people in suits stood outside pubs, enjoying an extended lunch break in one of the few bursts of good weather they’d had that summer. Her spectacles were smudged. She took them off, polished them with a soft cloth from her bag, then watched a police launch purr past, heading upriver.
She knew that if she didn’t talk to someone about the mess she’d got herself into she would probably explode. It wasn’t just the Simon Foster business. Her personal relationships had always been a mess. For the past year she’d been having an affair with a man much older than herself which was going nowhere. The man, who was married, was kind and generous and seemed happy for their arrangement to continue indefinitely, but she knew it couldn’t. She didn’t love him. Never had. The relationship had been fun, jet-setting, and trouble-free. It had taken her out of herself. But its very easiness was stopping her looking for the soul mate she’d always hoped to meet.
Her mother was too judgmental to talk to in situations like this. And anyway Julie hadn’t told her about the affair. Most of her friends were too preoccupied with their own problems to be interested in hers, but there was one she could talk to – a girl she’d met at university – not through her studies, but through the shared misfortune of having unplanned children. They’d met at the ante-natal clinic, both grossly pregnant by men who’d abandoned them. Rosemary Smith had given birth on the same day as Julie and the traumas of single-motherhood had forged a bond between them which had lasted.
Soon after their confinements, their paths had separated, Julie returning home to her mum and Rosie getting lucky with a man. A westernised Iranian postgrad studying textile technology had fallen in love with her and her darkly beautiful child and insisted she should marry him. She’d abandoned her degree course and become a housewife. Her husband now traded in oriental carpets and they lived in some affluence in north London. Rosie was a kind and constant friend, but above all she was a listener.
Julie got up from the bench and walked back towards the bridge to look for a telephone box.
Rosemary’s apartment in St John’s Wood was paved in marble and dotted with gilded objets and classical bronze statuettes. Julie didn’t know whether it was good taste or bad. All she was certain of was that Rosie’s life was very different from her own.
‘How’s Liam?’ Rosemary asked within seconds of her welcoming embrace. ‘Gosh! New glasses?’ she commented, not waiting for a reply.
‘He’s fine and yes they are,’ Julie answered. ‘Got to keep up with the fashion.’
She was led through into what her friend called the ‘family room’, a spacious extension of the kitchen where the furnishings were more child-friendly. The two younger ones were there, being given their tea by a dumpy Filipina.
‘Andrew will be back in a minute,’ Rosemary told her. ‘He’ll be thrilled to see you, Julie. Absolutely thrilled. That’s if the football practice hasn’t totally worn him out. I think it’s ridiculous making them do so many things when they’re that young, but the head insists it does them no harm and the school’s academic results are fanta-astic.’ She whispered the last word as if afraid the whole world would discover how successful the place was at getting their pupils into the best public schools.
Andrew. Such an unsuitable name for a child with dark Arab looks. The father who’d vanished had been an overseas student from Kuwait.
‘Cup of tea? It’s so good to see you again.’
‘That would be wonderful. And it’s great to see you too.’ Julie decided her friend had put on weight since they’d last met, but refrained from commenting on it.
Rosemary plugged in the kettle. She was dark haired and had a nose that most Englishmen would consider indelicately large. She wore a voluminous purple patterned dress that was probably made of silk.
‘How sweet of you to ring,’ she said, pouring water into a silver teapot. ‘Only the other day I saw a little boy in the supermarket who reminded me so much of your Liam. I’ve been wanting to get in touch for ages, but you’re so high-powered and busy these days.’
Typical, thought Julie. Blaming her for her own failure to communicate. ‘Busy, yes. High-powered? Hardly.’
Rosemary gave a knowing smile as if ‘modesty’ was Julie’s middle name. ‘Well . . . I’m so glad you rang. How’s things?’
Julie looked about her to see if there was a newspaper in evidence. ‘You don’t take the Chronicle, do you?’ It would be easier if Rosemary had seen the story already.
‘No. Mehdi reads the FT. I don’t have time for papers. Get my news from the TV.’ Suddenly her eyes lit up and she clamped a hand to her mouth. ‘Don’t tell me! I’ve missed it. There was an announcement. You’re getting married!’
Julie shook her head. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
‘Oh, no. I’m sorry. Always saying the wrong thing . . .’ One of the little girls came over to complain about her sister. Rosemary picked the child up and cuddled her. ‘What about your Austrian millionaire?’
‘Sort of still happening,’ Julie told her. ‘But I’m not sure I want it to. Could we . . .?’
The doorbell rang before she could suggest they went somewhere more private to talk.
‘That’ll be Andrew.’ Rosemary put her daughter down and headed for the
hall. ‘We have a rota for the school run. My day off, but it’s still bedlam at this time of day.’ Just before the door she stopped and turned. ‘Once I’ve got him settled, you and I will go into the drawing room and put a “do not disturb” sign on the door.’ She winked conspiratorially.
Julie crouched down to talk to the two girls. They were nice children, relaxed and open with adults. ‘Have you been to my house before?’ one of them asked.
‘Yes, but the last time I came you’d gone to bed already.’
When Andrew was wheeled in he solemnly shook hands with Julie, his dark eyes anything but thrilled to see her. He was dog-tired, his mind full of the day just passed. Dressed in the smart, private school blazer and grey shorts which set him apart from her own son, a smudge of earth on his forehead showed he was a boy like any other. The Filipina took charge of him.
Rosemary touched Julie on the arm and beckoned.
The large living room had a huge Persian rug on the floor and a window bay that had been extended and glazed like a conservatory. Yuccas and flowering plants decorated it. They sat on softly upholstered cane chairs and put their teacups on a small glass table.
‘So why did you ask if I read the Chronicle?’ Rosemary asked, burning with curiosity. Julie bent down and extracted the cutting from her handbag.
‘Because of this.’
Rosemary took it from her. As she read it, her jaw dropped. ‘Oh Julie, how awful for you! And God . . . your father! I had no idea. I’m so sorry.’ She leaned forward and put her hand on Julie’s knee. ‘It must have been a dreadful shock.’
‘It was. But what d’you think?’
Rosemary frowned. ‘About . . .?’
‘The article. Was I mad to get involved in defending him? You know what a crook he was.’
‘Yes but he was your dad. You loved him.’
Julie had always envied Rosemary’s uncomplicated perspective on relationships, but on this occasion it wasn’t enough. ‘You’re not answering my question, Rosie.’
‘Aren’t I? I can’t really say any more than that.’
‘Why not? You must have a view.’
‘Don’t be silly!’ she scolded. ‘I don’t have views. Except on things to do with children. But I can see that you think you were mad to get involved. It’s written all over your face.’
The Lucifer Network Page 17