Cathy was oddly reluctant to take it; she felt a shiver of premonition, her skin icy, and hung back, her hands by her side. She had never been prone to belief in the supernatural, in second sight or having her fortune read, she didn’t believe in all that stuff, yet suddenly she was afraid, although she didn’t even know what it was that frightened her, only that, although her rational mind told her that this was all nonsense, she was afraid it might be true. No. No. Sophie Narodni must be trying to play some confidence trick on her. Hoping to get money out of her?
Yet she seemed genuine enough. Indeed her face was disturbingly convincing. That was real emotion in those blue eyes. She’s probably crazy, Cathy thought. She has to be. It isn’t true, any of it, but she believes it, so she must be mad.
‘Take it, Anya, look at yourself,’ Sophie said gently, pushing the photo into her hands.
Cathy took one look then sat down on the floor again, her knees giving under her, her eyes wide and dark with shock as she took in the identical faces. Both herself. She couldn’t deny it, but there had to be some other explanation, she just had to find it, and find it she would. She wasn’t being taken in by some photographic trick.
She looked angrily at Sophie Narodni. ‘Where did you get this picture of me? I’m not stupid, you know. I see how you played this trick – you got hold of newspaper photographs, and had them photocopied then re-photographed, very enlarged. It’s obvious how you did it. The press are always printing old photos from our family albums, and all my life I can remember posing for the press photographers too. This is a photo of me taken when we first came back to the States.’ But her eyes went back to the photograph of the young woman in a strange, old-fashioned wedding-dress, and she frowned, unable to explain that one.
Sophie saw her glance at it and frown; and gently said, ‘No, Anya, that is not you – it is our mother.’ Her eyes were full of sympathy and anxiety. She had expected disbelief but she had not understood quite how much of a shock it would be for her sister. Should she have come here? Should she have told her?
But I had to – I promised Mamma I would find Anya and bring her home. I just hadn’t realized what it would mean for Anya. She doesn’t want a sister, she has had a whole life of which I have no share. I have thought of her all my life, I have loved her, even when I believed her dead – but Anya has not even known I existed, and can I blame her if she hates me for what I am doing?
‘This is my mother.’ Cathy held out the silver-framed photo in a shaking hand. Sophie looked at it and sighed.
‘That is Mrs Gowrie. She may have been your mother for as long as you can remember, but she isn’t your real mother, and Mr Gowrie isn’t your real father.’
Cathy felt a stab of shock and pain. Her voice hoarse, she said, ‘Stop telling these lies! I don’t want to hear any more!’
‘It’s the truth. They adopted you, when you were two years old, just after this photo of you was taken for our mother. I was born a few weeks after you were taken away to America. My mother lied to me, told me you were dead, I used to be taken to visit your grave, I had no idea you were still alive until a couple of months ago when I was coming to the States and my mother told me the truth. She has leukaemia – she’s afraid she’ll die without ever seeing you again, and that nobody will ever know you’re still alive.’
‘Leukaemia?’ The shock of that news froze Cathy.
‘They’ve given her three months to live,’ Sophie added.
Huskily, Cathy said, ‘I’m sorry. That must be hard for you.’ The more she looked at the photos, at Sophie, the more she was afraid this might all be true. Instinct kept tugging at her like an importunate hand. Every time she looked into this other woman’s face she felt a pang of emotion she couldn’t quite define, had never felt before.
Sophie sighed. ‘Yes, it was a terrible shock when she told me, I couldn’t take it in at first. It came out of the blue. She always seemed so strong, and now suddenly she is very frail, she has no energy, she is so pale and limp, I hardly knew her last time I saw her.’
Cathy stared at the photo of the young girl in the wedding-dress, moved by the thought that time had ruined both of them, girl and dress, worn down their strength and left them fading, grown thin as a yellow leaf on an autumn tree.
‘I’m sorry. My own mother has been ill for a long time,’ she said.
‘She is your mother,’ Sophie said fiercely, tapping the photo. ‘I’m telling you the truth, Anya.’
Cathy’s temper flared again. ‘Don’t call me that! I’m Cathy Brougham. What are you after? Money? That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You want me to pay you to keep quiet. Well, you’ve got me wrong if you think I’ll fall for this cheap blackmail, I won’t pay you a cent, and when my husband finds out about this you’re going to regret it. You’ll end up in jail!’
Sadly Sophie said, ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Anya, believe me. I suppose I shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have told you – but I can’t let my mother die without seeing you again at least once. You don’t need to be afraid, I’m not here to blackmail you or threaten you, I just needed to see you, face to face. I think I only half-believed it until now. I do understand how you feel, you see. I was incredulous at first. It’s very hard to believe. But I guess that deep down I wanted to believe it. I’ve spent my whole life thinking about you. I used to go to the churchyard and sit by your grave and talk to you, I believed you could hear me in heaven and I needed a friend, needed someone to talk to, someone to care about.’
‘Stop talking about graves! In fact, stop talking to me,’ Cathy interrupted. ‘Look, when the doctor has seen you, you’re going, you know, you’re leaving – whether you go to the hospital or just go back wherever you came from!’
‘If that’s what you want, I’ll go. And I’m sorry if I’ve told you something you didn’t want to hear. I thought about it for a long time, believe me, and I didn’t know what I ought to do, but it had meant so much to me, finding out you were alive. I thought it might mean something to you to find out you had a sister, a family you belonged to and had never met. At the very least it might mean something to discover the truth about yourself, I thought. And I had promised our mother that I would find you. I had to do it, for her sake. I couldn’t let her die without at least trying to find you. I didn’t know what you were like, how you might react. But I had to take the risk of finding you and telling you, hoping you would listen.’
Cathy didn’t answer, she was too busy searching Sophie’s face and seeing no threat, no attempt to blackmail or terrify, just pain and deep emotion in her eyes. The silence stretched between them like a thin, shining rope, tying them together, binding them, until it was broken by a tap on the door, which opened a second or two later.
‘The doctor, madam.’
Cathy slowly turned her head, blinking as if coming out of a daze. She got to her feet and forced a polite smile as a tall, attractive man in his thirties came towards them from the door. ‘Good evening, Dr Waring, I’m sorry to call you out on such a raw evening. Thank you for coming so promptly.’
Don Gowrie was in his shower, his weary body relaxing under the jets of warm water, washing off the sweat and making his skin tingle. The pleasure of the exercise was broken when he heard the phone ringing. He leaned out instantly, and reached for the phone on the bathroom wall.
‘Yes?’ He had been waiting for a call from Emily for hours. This must be it.
It wasn’t. It was Jack Beverley and he didn’t waste any time with courtesies. Curtly, he said, ‘I’m sorry. I have some bad news, I’m afraid, sir. Miss Sanderson has had an accident.’
Don leaned on the marble-tiled wall, feeling all his blood leave his heart. The warm relaxation was gone. ‘Is she badly hurt? What happened?’ His nerves chattered. Could she never do anything right? She kept failing; had she failed yet again? Had she fucked up badly? Been caught trying to kill that damned Narodni girl? If she’d been arrested . . . would she hold her tongue? What if she spilled her guts, told
them . . . his mind raced ahead, imagining the worst, seeing himself arrested, charged with attempted murder.
Beverley’s voice was expressionless. ‘She crashed her car, sir.’
Relief made Don Gowrie sag. ‘Stupid bitch . . .’ he said, almost indulgently. ‘I hope she wasn’t hurt?’
He wasn’t expecting what Jack Beverley replied. The words hit him like bullets; he jerked, stiffened, twisted in agony.
‘She was doing about a hundred miles an hour when she hit a tree and the car burst into flames. She’s dead, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to be the one to give you this news. Thought you’d want to hear it right away. My people had been tailing Miss Narodni, as requested. They spotted Miss Sanderson tailing her, too, and phoned in from their mobile as soon as the accident happened.’
Don’s insides caved in; he closed his eyes, swallowing bile. Emily. Damn you, you stupid bitch, what have you done?
‘She must have been killed outright, sir. She wouldn’t have known much about it.’
Don hadn’t even noticed his teeth meeting in his lip; he was unaware of the red blood trickling down his chin. He couldn’t get a word out.
Jack Beverley politely told him, ‘Miss Narodni is now in Arbory House, sir.’
Finished. I’m finished, Don thought. It’s over. It will all be out now. That little bitch has done for me.
‘I suggest it’s time you were a little more frank with me,’ Jack Beverley said without emphasis. ‘Not over the phone, sir. But we should talk before you go to this dinner tonight.’
‘I’m getting dressed now. In ten minutes?’
‘I’ll be there. And, sir, I suggest a stiff bourbon, help you with your nerves. Shock plays havoc with nerves.’
Paul Brougham had been discussing circulation figures with his editor-in-chief for an hour when his eye fell on his watch. ‘Christ, got to go, have to dress for this Guildhall dinner,’ he groaned. He had totally forgotten about the evening in front of him; he wished he did not have to go to the dinner. He would far rather go home to Cathy.
The editor looked at his own watch. ‘Is that the time? I must get changed, too. I’m dining with the French ambassador.’
‘Give him my compliments,’ Paul said, grinning. The ambassador was a personal friend, they watched Rugby games together whenever France played England at Twickenham, and they shared other pleasures. Until Paul met Cathy they had even shared a woman once or twice, but now their mutual interests were food, good wine, and a love of the French language. Paul’s French was perfect, of course, so fluent that it would be easy to believe he had never lived anywhere else. He still went back to France as often as he could manage it, and owned a villa in the south of France, on the Côte d’Azur, not far from Cannes, his favourite place along that blue-gold coast. He disliked Nice; a beautiful but dangerous city, a glittering playground for some of the creatures that lurked in the murkier waters of French society.
When the editor had gone, Paul was about to take the lift to his penthouse flat above the newspaper, where he would change into evening dress to attend the dinner at the Guildhall at which his father-in-law was to be guest of honour, when the phone rang.
‘Your wife, sir, she says it’s urgent.’
‘Put her through, then.’ A click, then Cathy’s voice, breathless, quivering.
‘Paul?’
‘Hello, darling – what’s the problem? I was just going to get dressed.’
‘Paul . . . I need you, will you come home at once, instead of going to the dinner tonight?’
‘Skip the dinner?’ Paul felt a leap of fear in his chest. ‘Why? What is all this? Has something happened, Cathy?’
‘I can’t talk on the phone. I’d just like you to get here as fast as possible. Take a helicopter, don’t drive home.’ Her voice sounded shaky, scared. ‘I don’t want you hurrying on the roads tonight.’
‘Are you ill? For God’s sake, Cathy, what is all this?’
‘I’ll explain when you get here.’
‘What shall I say to your father? He expects –’
‘Don’t tell him anything! Don’t even tell him you won’t be at the dinner. Just come.
The phone went dead. Paul stood there stupidly, staring at it, his mind racing with questions, with terror. Cathy had sounded so weird. Terrified, yes, she had sounded terrified. He thought of everything that could have happened to her – his imagination went crazy. Terrorists could have snatched Cathy as a hostage to use against her father, these things happened all the time. Or the Mafia could have grabbed her for ransom. Ever since Don Gowrie let them know he would be visiting England and would come to Arbory there had been an awareness of risk at the back of their minds. Why else had Gowrie’s security people visited the house to check it out? They expected trouble. Paul had thought it was just the usual paranoia that hung around the American presidency like a fog, making anyone within reach of it feel threatened by invisible forces.
But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe someone had got into Arbory and was threatening Don Gowrie through his daughter?
But why would someone like that let her ring him? Her father wasn’t due at Arbory until tomorrow. Maybe she had had an accident. What if she was badly injured? Oh, but she had rung him herself, so she was alive, it couldn’t be that serious. Maybe she had just found out that she was ill? Cancer, leukaemia, brain tumour . . . his mind was rushing with terrifying suggestions.
Icy sweat dewed his forehead; he was shivering as if in a high wind. His hand shot out to press down a key on his office console.
‘Yes, sir?’ his secretary asked.
‘My plans have changed. I’m not going to the Guildhall dinner. Get me my chauffeur, then get me the helipad, I’m flying home right away.’
Nursing a whisky, Jack Beverley listened to Gowrie’s muttered story. His face did not betray what he was thinking; his cold, shrewd eyes simply watched the other man, skewering him in his chair.
When Gowrie had finished, Beverley said, ‘This is serious, sir. Well, if you aren’t to walk away from the presidency, which might be the wise thing to do at this stage . . .’ His eyes queried Gowrie’s and the other man shook his head angrily.
‘Not unless there’s no alternative!’
Beverley nodded. ‘OK, then we must start some immediate damage-limitation. You should have told me at once. A lot of time has been wasted. Firstly, I’m afraid you have to talk to your daughter, to Mrs Brougham.’
Bitterly, Don Gowrie said, ‘You can bet that that Czech bitch is doing so right now. I wish to God I’d dealt with her myself. Or got you to do it.’
‘Yes, you should have done that, sir. But there’s no point in crying about spilt milk. OK, my men are outside the grounds of Arbory House at the moment. There are police all over the place, fire engines, ambulances, and crowds of people watching what’s going on – my men won’t even be noticed. But before the police can talk to Miss Narodni I think my men should move in to Arbory House and snatch her. We’ll need a good story. My men will talk to your daughter and explain that whatever Miss Narodni has told her, the truth is that she’s in the UK to cause trouble for you. She’s a political extremist, dangerous – she wanted to get into Arbory House so that she could assassinate you. That should counter whatever the girl has been telling Mrs Brougham.’
With a wild leap of hope, Don Gowrie said eagerly, ‘That’s clever. It could work, it’s convincing, Cathy knows how crazy some people can get over politics.’ He began to breathe properly for the first time since he heard the news about Emily. ‘How soon can your men get in there, get her away from Cathy?’
‘I’ll ring them back on their mobile at once and give them their orders.’
‘What will you do with the girl?’
‘We’ll think about that later. First we must talk to her, find out exactly what she is up to, whether or not she has accomplices, who else knows the story,’ Jack Beverley said. ‘We must snuff this story out immediately, leave no loose ends. Ring your daughter now, explain that we’re
coming, don’t discuss anything about Miss Narodni’s story, just tell her to let us deal with Miss Narodni. Say it is a security matter you can’t discuss over the phone. Then you go off to your dinner, sir, and leave this to us. You should have talked to us earlier. We are the professionals. It was unwise to let an amateur deal with the problem.’
Don Gowrie picked up the phone on a nearby table and dialled. A polite English voice answered; he asked for his daughter.
‘I’m sorry, sir, she is not available.’
‘What do you mean, not available? This is her father – I need to speak with her urgently.’
‘Mrs Brougham is out, sir. Can I get her to ring you when she gets back?’
‘Hold the line a second.’ Gowrie looked at Jack Beverley. ‘She’s out.’
Beverley frowned. ‘My men said she had gone back to her house with the Narodni girl. Maybe she went out again?’
‘Shall I ask my daughter to ring me?’
‘Hang on while I think.’ Beverley bit on his index finger, his brows heavy. ‘No, she might not ring until after you had left for this dinner. OK, leave a message for her, saying that there is a security problem. Your security people will be coming to collect Miss Narodni.’
Don lifted the phone to his mouth again and repeated this message. ‘Have you got that?’
The English voice was calm. ‘Yes, sir. Security people will be coming here tonight for Miss Narodni.’
‘She is there, isn’t she?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir. But I’ll give Mrs Brougham that message.’
Don hung up. ‘I don’t like it. I didn’t like that woman’s tone. I’ll swear Cathy was there – why wouldn’t they put me through to her?’
Without replying, Beverley moved towards the door. ‘Must get on, sir.’ He added, with no visible sign of sarcasm, ‘Enjoy your dinner.’
Gowrie stared after him. He didn’t know how he was going to get through this meal. If he could have done so safely he would have pulled out of the dinner, but the Anglo-American Friendship Society was too important to be offended. Many very famous people on both sides of the Atlantic were members. Being asked to speak to them was a significant honour. He had first met his future son-in-law at one of these occasions, in Washington, around seven years ago.
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