Walking in Darkness

by Charlotte Lamb

  ‘Did you have a nightmare? You were screaming – are you OK?’

  She swallowed, fighting to shut the memory out. ‘Did I . . . make a noise?’ Her eyes moved, taking in the darkened cabin, the sleeping bodies on all sides, crumpled blankets roughly draped over them, heads slumped back or to one side, some of them snoring, one or two people still awake, in shirt-sleeves, a blanket draped over them, reading by an overhead light. Nobody looked back at her.

  ‘No,’ Steve said slowly, still watching her. ‘No, you were just moving about, breathing in a weird way, as if you were running, and your face was . . .’ He stopped and she bit her lip.

  ‘My face was what?’

  ‘Terrified,’ he said. ‘You are, aren’t you, Sophie? I wish to God you’d tell me what this is all about.’

  She wished she could. But she couldn’t. Turning away, she closed her eyes again.

  ‘Don’t keep asking me. Go back to sleep.’ That was the last thing she wanted to do herself, though. She was afraid of sleeping now; afraid of the dream coming back. The night dragged on.

  It was a bitter relief when the stewardess put on the lights and everyone sat up, grey-faced, yawned and stretched, went out to the lavatories, coming back washed and shaved, hair combed and brushed. The female passengers put on their make-up; men had changed their shirts and ties. Blankets were folded and put away.

  The stewards made the rounds with a trolley loaded with newspapers, and gave out cups of tea or coffee. A smell of synthetic breakfast filled the aeroplane, making Sophie feel sick.

  ‘Sleep much?’ asked Steve, inhaling the fragrance of his coffee with closed eyes.

  ‘Not much.’ Sophie smiled at the stewardess, accepted orange juice and cornflakes, took a roll and some marmalade but rejected a cooked breakfast with a rueful shake of the head.

  Flying back into London so soon after she had left gave her a sense of déjà vu. The last time she saw Heathrow it hadn’t entered her head that she might be back within such a short time; she had imagined it would be years before she returned. She had not known about Anya then. It was only when she flew home for a brief visit before going to the States that her mother told her the truth, a truth which still reverberated through Sophie’s life, like the aftershocks of an earthquake.

  Beside her she heard Steve take a sudden, sharp breath, felt his body stiffening, and looked round at him, but he was not looking at her. Face hard and wary, he was watching a woman who had walked down the aisle and was now standing beside them.

  Startled, Sophie looked up, not recognizing the smoothly made-up face, dominated by heavy horn-rimmed spectacles which balanced the formidable jawline. Older than herself, around the late thirties or early forties, thought Sophie; dressed to impress businessmen rather than attract them, in a pin-striped masculine suit and white shirt with a dove-grey silk tie, and yet worn with very high black patent heels, like some secret sign of femininity in direct contradiction of the rest of her clothes.

  ‘Miss Narodni?’ From behind the hornrims cold eyes inspected Sophie and were clearly contemptuous of what they saw. Without waiting for her to reply, the woman held out an envelope. Sophie stared at it and saw long, graceful fingers whose nails were pearly, showing the pink skin beneath their highly buffed surfaces, without a touch of varnish.

  Taking the envelope gingerly, as if it might explode, Sophie huskily asked, ‘What’s this?’ but the other woman had already turned on her heels and walked away.

  ‘Who was that?’ Sophie asked Steve, but had already guessed the answer before he gave it to her.

  ‘Gowrie’s secretary. The bionic woman. Scary, isn’t she?’ But he was looking at the envelope Sophie held. ‘Aren’t you going to open that?’

  She felt it crackle between her fingers. A card? She tore it open while Steve watched and took out a stiffly embossed invitation card, stared at the gold lettering on it, not quite taking it in at first. Her own name had been written on to it, in black, confident handwriting.

  Steve whistled. ‘Well, well – he’s sent you an invitation to the Guildhall dinner tomorrow night. Now I wonder why he’s done that?’

  He watched Sophie’s face and saw that she wondered too. He was beginning to recognize certain expressions of hers, to know when she was scared or worried, and he was sure she was both at this moment.

  They both suddenly became aware that someone else had halted beside their seats and was staring fixedly at the card Sophie held.

  Steve gave the newcomer a dry smile. ‘Well, hello, Bross. How are you? Coming to Europe to keep an eye on Gowrie? They must be scared he might get his nose in front, right?’

  ‘I’m not working, I’m taking a break to London, visiting old buddies, seeing the sights, that’s all,’ the other man said, but he was looking at Sophie not Steve and his eyes were very sharp. She felt as if she was being X-rayed, his stare piercing her to the very backbone. ‘Introduce me,’ he said, still not even looking at Steve, and held out his large hand, the back of it rough with thick black hair.

  She couldn’t refuse to take it, although it made her shudder to feel the hairs brushing against her skin.

  ‘Sophie Narodni,’ Steve reluctantly introduced. ‘One of our researchers. Sophie, this is Bross. How do you describe yourself now, Bross? Private eye? Detective?’

  ‘Investigator, I’m an investigator,’ Bross said shortly, his face resenting something in Steve’s tone. He turned his gaze back to Sophie. ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Narodni. What’s that . . . a Polish name? Russian?’

  ‘Czech.’ Sophie did not like him; there was something reptilian about him, for all his burly size and neat grey suit. His skin had a scaly texture to it, grey and large-pored, unhealthy; his eyes had a cold bloodless stare, and his bony jaw looked as if it could flap right back to allow him to swallow his prey whole.

  ‘Czech, huh?’ he said. ‘Do you know the senator?’

  She kept a blank expression pinned on her face.

  ‘No, huh? Never met him?’ Bross did not seem too certain he believed her. ‘Been in the States long?’

  ‘Hey, hey,’ Steve interrupted, scowling. ‘You don’t work for the Bureau now, Bross. Lay off her.’

  ‘Just making polite conversation.’ Bross kept his snake eyes on her, smiling in a way that made the skin on her neck prickle. ‘I did hear that you worked for some Czech press agency, Miss Narodni. When did you switch to working for this guy’s outfit?’

  Sophie was taken aback – so he already knew who she was before Steve introduced her? Again she felt that quiver of vertigo which was becoming so familiar to her – she was walking in the darkness on a taut, high wire, and every time she looked down she felt her head swim.

  Smoothly Steve told him, ‘She just did, OK? We needed a researcher and she’s worked in Europe for a few years, she could help us out.’ He stopped to listen to an announcement on the Tannoy above them, then gave the other man a cold smile. ‘You heard the captain – you should be sitting down with your seatbelt fastened, Bross. We’ll be landing soon.’

  Bross gave them both a nod. ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Narodni. I’ll be seeing you.’

  She shivered watching him walk away. ‘I didn’t like the way he said that.’

  ‘You weren’t meant to. He was just letting us know that he was on our case, hoping to surprise us into telling him something he didn’t already know.’ Steve seemed unbothered, though. He smiled at her. ‘Don’t let him get to you. Bross is harmless. It’s Gowrie and his people you have to watch out for, isn’t it?’

  She didn’t answer, turning her head to look down on grey, wintry London’s familiar outlines.

  ‘Look, there’s the Thames,’ she said, staring at the silvery gleam bending like a snake among the fields and houses below them.

  Two hours later Cathy Brougham stood on the grand staircase at Arbory House, watching a chandelier being lowered with the utmost care into a soft nest of piled sheets. The prisms chimed and glittered in wintry sunlight as they moved. The cha
ndelier had already been cleaned once, but that morning Paul Brougham, normally so calm and controlled, was almost jumpy with nerves over this visit, and, constantly going around the house checking that it shone with perfection, had noticed a spider’s web among the long, crystal drops, and, he swore, a film of dust there too. Over breakfast he had said, ‘Get it done properly this morning. We’re having some very important people here over the next few days. I don’t want them thinking they’ve come to stay with Miss Havisham.’

  She had laughed. ‘Well, I do still have some of our wedding-cake left – the bottom layer, darling. You’re supposed to keep it for the christening of your first baby – but it isn’t covered in cobwebs, it’s safely wrapped in foil and put away. Of course, I could wear Grandmama’s wedding dress – except that I gave it to Grandee after the wedding, and it’s back at Easton now.’

  ‘I see you’re in a playful mood,’ Paul said, watching her with sensual amusement, making her pulses beat fast. ‘I hope you feel the same tonight.’

  She put a finger to her lips, kissed it, brushed it along his mouth in a lingering caress, her eyes smouldering. ‘I will,’ she promised.

  The sexual excitement between them showed no signs of fading or dying down. Paul put his hand under the table and slid it over her silk-clad thigh, his fingers exploring the warmth between her legs. She closed her eyes, quivering.

  Paul sighed. ‘No time, got to go, darling. Hold that mood.’ He stood up and kissed the top of her head before striding out.

  Coming out of her sensual trance, Cathy had sighed before going upstairs to get dressed. She knew she had no time for her usual morning ride. Mr Tiffany would be petulant next time she went out to the stables, but she would take him an extra apple and maybe even a piece of the forbidden sugar he loved so much. Before she got dressed, however, she rang the housekeeper and gave the order to have the chandelier let down and cleaned.

  ‘And this time make sure it is utterly spotless. Mr Brougham has eagle eyes, remember, he notices every detail.’ And expected his orders to be followed to the letter, as every member of his staff both at home and work knew only too well.

  Glancing at her watch now, Cathy smiled. Her father would have landed at Heathrow, might already be on his way into London to his hotel. As soon as he had checked in he had promised to ring her.

  The servants gathered on their knees around the landed chandelier began to work with softest chamois leather, heads bent in concentration.

  Cathy went back to her private sitting-room and sat down at an elegant little walnut bureau to write letters; one to her best friend from school, Bella, who was now married to a Swiss hotelier and living in Geneva, and one to her grandfather, who liked to hear from her as often as possible, even if it was only a few lines on a postcard. Whenever Cathy visited interesting places she bought postcards to send him at some future time – postcards of Brighton Pavilion, postcards of Salisbury Cathedral, Edinburgh Castle, views of the Highlands with deer grazing, views of Paris by night, of Big Ben by day. She wouldn’t get much time to herself over the next week. She could manage just half an hour now.

  ‘Darling Grandee,’ she began, and was soon deep in a detailed description of the preparations for her father’s visit, aiming to make her grandfather feel he could see through her eyes. When she had addressed the envelope she reached for another sheet of headed paper but before she had taken it the phone rang, and she sighed and reached for that instead, knowing that her housekeeper would be busy with the chandelier. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello? I want to . . . could I please speak to . . . Mrs Brougham, please?’ The voice was unfamiliar, husky, a little breathless.

  ‘Who’s speaking?’ Cathy guardedly enquired.

  There was a pause and then the voice whispered, ‘Anya? Is that you?’

  ‘What? Who’s Anya?’ Puzzled, Cathy listened to the breathing on the other end of the line. ‘Who is this?’

  The line went dead. Slowly, Cathy hung up. Now what had all that been about?

  A few moments later the phone rang again; Cathy hesitated this time before picking it up.

  ‘Yes?’

  A silence, then her father’s familiar voice said, ‘Am I ringing at a bad time?’

  ‘Dad! You’re in London? Oh, great. Did you have a good flight? Bet you’re tired. I always am after crossing the Atlantic.’

  ‘I feel a few degrees under. We did discuss coming by Concorde, but the timings didn’t work out,’ he admitted. ‘And we were able to work all the way coming by regular flight.’

  ‘Oh, work! That’s all you men ever think about. Paul’s the same. But never mind, I forgive you both. I’m dying for you to get here, Dad, we’ll go for a long ride, won’t we, just the two of us, like the old days at Easton, and talk where no one can hear us? And you can tell me how you feel and all about the campaign. I miss all that, you know – the work and the excitement, and the sheer damn fun.’

  ‘I miss you being there,’ he agreed soberly. ‘You were the only one I could trust to be right behind me with no hidden agendas and no secret resentments. Life’s a damn sight too complicated, darling.’

  She frowned, wishing she could see his face. ‘You sound tired, Dad – is the pressure getting to you?’

  ‘It was a long flight, I guess I’m tired.’

  ‘Yes, I hate those transatlantic flights too. What about Mummy? How is she? Did she find the flight very tiring?’

  His voice changed slightly, grew more careful, and she heard the neutral tone with a pang of distress. Her mother wasn’t getting any better, then; getting worse, no doubt, as Paul had warned her she would as she got older. She recognized that tone in her father’s voice, the will not to give anything away.

  ‘She’s borne up quite well, she slept on the plane, took a sleeping pill and zonked out, and she’s lying down now, but she sends her love. She’s very excited about seeing you.’ He paused, then asked, ‘Why did you sound so odd when you answered the phone, Cathy? Any problems your end?’

  ‘No, no, it was just that . . . oh, some weirdo had rung and I was afraid it would be her again.’

  ‘Weirdo?’ he sharply asked. ‘What kind of weirdo?’

  ‘Some woman who asked for me and then suddenly said, “Is that you, Anya?” I’ve no idea who she meant – there’s nobody called Anya here.’

  Silence, then, ‘What did she want?’ Her father sounded hoarse, as if he had got a sore throat. When you made that long flight from the States you often picked up some bug, she hoped he hadn’t done that. Lately she had felt he wasn’t as strong as he had been most of his life. He was the wiry type; tougher than he looked with a lot of energy burning him up so that he never put on weight.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Cathy said. ‘She hung up.’

  ‘Without saying anything else?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She heard him take a long breath. ‘You shouldn’t answer the phone yourself, Cathy, you really shouldn’t. It isn’t wise, especially now. All sorts of crazies ring people in the public eye. In future, get your housekeeper to do it. Promise me you won’t pick the outside phone up again until you know who’s on the line?’

  He was worried, really worried about her, she realized and it touched her. ‘OK, Dad, I’ll remember, don’t worry about me. You have enough to worry about without me adding to your problems.’

  ‘Good girl.’ His voice held a smile now. ‘Look, sorry, darling, I’ve got to go now. There’s a lot to get through today. I’m meeting with some of the opposition politicians this afternoon, and I’ll be seeing your husband later today. Take care of yourself, see you real soon.’

  In London, Don Gowrie turned to his secretary, his face tight and pale. She was replacing the receiver of a phone on the other side of the room, having listened to the entire conversation. ‘Damn it to hell. It never occurred to me that she would ring Cathy. Get me Jack Beverley on the phone, I want security tightened up around my son-in-law’s place. I don’t want the Narodni girl getting within a mile
of the house, and I don’t want her getting through to Cathy on the phone again.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she’ll talk to her openly on the phone, she’ll be counting on a chance to talk to her in person, face to face. And she can’t do that until after the Guildhall dinner. She accepted the invitation to it, she’ll be there.’

  He frowned angrily. ‘We can’t wait another day. She has got to be dealt with, and quickly. Tonight. There’s already been too long a delay. Get Jack on the phone now.’

  ‘You couldn’t tell your son-in-law the truth and what’s at stake?’

  Don Gowrie’s fingers tightened on a pencil he had picked up; it snapped and he threw it down with a scowl.

  ‘Too big a risk. He might divorce her if he knew there was a chance, however remote, that she wouldn’t inherit.’

  His secretary’s eyes opened wide behind her spectacles. ‘You really think so? I had the impression it was a real love-match, the way they look at each other. And he would have to pay her hefty alimony, if he divorced her for a reason like that. Not being the heir to a fortune is hardly grounds for divorce. Anyway, I thought you and he got on well.’

  ‘I guess we do, but there’s something about him that bugs me. He’s very cagey; clams up if you ask questions, especially about money.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s pretty normal with businessmen.’

  ‘Yeah, but when she first met him I had him investigated, and my people couldn’t come up with much about his early life before he left France. He came from a very remote village originally, but none of his family still lived there, and nobody remembered much about them. There were family graves in the little churchyard, his grandparents were buried there and a couple of uncles, but some sort of massacre happened there during the Second World War, and the church itself had got hit by bombs later. There were no documents surviving.’

  Emily’s brows rose. ‘You suspect he could be lying about his background?’

  Gowrie frowned, shaking his head. ‘No, his name turned up in local government records – where he went to school, what exams he passed, and so on – but my guys couldn’t find a living soul who remembered him.’ He grimaced. ‘Mind you, the French can be awkward sons of bitches, especially when they’re talking to an American – my people weren’t sure if they were getting the run-around or not. The French love to pretend they don’t speak English. And Brougham checked out in Paris, that’s for sure. A lot of people knew him there. Oh, maybe I don’t trust him because he’s a goddamned Frenchman. Whatever, I’m not ready to tell him the truth about Cathy. So get me Jack.’