Coming back with a pint of beer, Vladimir held it up to the light to inspect it. ‘More real ale. You know what they call this? Thunderbox. Why? I asked the woman and she just kept laughing and wouldn’t say. Well, looks good. Nice colour.’ He lifted the glass to his nostrils and inhaled noisily. ‘Mmm . . . smells good, too. Lots of hops, a sweetish malt. I like this smell. But let’s see what it tastes like, huh?’
Smiling, Steve watched him sip, his eyes closed.
‘Mmm,’ he breathed, ecstatically. ‘Yes, that hits the spot.’
Steve laughed. ‘Where did you say you learnt your English?’
‘From Americans,’ Vladimir said. ‘At Prague University they had an American tutor when I was young; a Communist who had come to Prague to admire our system. Ha!’
‘Poor sap!’ Steve said, and Vladimir grinned.
‘As someone once said in an American film I saw . . . you said a cotton-picking mouthful, boy!’ He drank some more, wiped the back of his hand across his foam-speckled moustache. ‘The man was an idiot, but he was a good teacher; he was one of the first to leave in 1968 – as the Russians came in, he left. Not quite so keen on Communism as he’d thought, nuh?’
‘Fine to talk about, something else if you have to live under it?’ suggested Steve cynically. ‘1968 was a watershed for a lot of people, one way or the other.’
Vladimir’s massive head nodded vigorously. ‘There are years like that, you know? 1848, now, that was a year of revolutions in Europe – all over Europe, in Hungary, in France, there were uprisings everywhere, all at the same time. Not planned, no. It was . . . what is the word?’
‘Spontaneous?’
‘Spontaneous? I don’t know that word. No, I meant . . . like nature, like seeds blown on the wind, carried by birds, like a forest fire, spreading too fast to stop . . . first a flame here, then a spark jumps over to there. Some years these things just happen. 1968 was one of those years, too; we had our Spring with Dubcek when it looked as if we were going to be free at last, then the Russians invaded, and the students went out on the streets to demonstrate and protest their freedom, in France, too, the students were out on the streets, and in London also, you know, demonstrating, fighting the police. But it all died out. In Czechoslovakia they clamped the lid back on and we had to wait another twenty years for freedom. Most of my life we’ve had to wait and now we’re free I sometimes wonder what freedom actually means, whether it exists at all. Are the Americans free or are they slaves of a different sort, the slaves of the almighty dollar, nuh?’
He was getting melancholy; brooding, Slav-style, over his almost empty glass.
‘Time for bed,’ Steve said, realizing that this was what happened when Vladimir drank beyond a certain point, and that he might turn nasty next. You never knew with drunks. ‘I have to be up early tomorrow for breakfast with Cathy and Sophie.’
‘But I am not invited,’ Vladimir gloomily said. ‘So I shall stay down here, and have another drink.’
‘Well, goodnight, then,’ Steve said, and left him to it, hoping he wouldn’t pick fights with anyone or break anything. It would be a nuisance if they were thrown out of here tonight.
In London Don Gowrie was drinking, and about to go to bed, too. He sat with a double brandy in his hand listening to Jack Beverley, who had laid a set of architectural plans on the table before they began talking.
‘This is the layout of Arbory House. We surveyed the house as a security measure, remember, when your visit down there was first mooted, to check on any weak spots in the defences. Useful to us now. We have a clear idea where there are chinks. Here’s the drive . . .’ His hand followed the line of the drive on the blueprint. ‘Front door. Main reception rooms. Drive curves round to the garages and stables. From back here, among these trees just beyond the park wall, there’s a clear view of anyone standing in the stableyard.’
Don leaned forward to stare at the place where the stabbing finger landed. ‘I remember you warned about that.’
‘Exactly. Anyone who climbed one of the trees close to the wall with a rifle with a telescopic lens could pick off a target with one shot, as easy as shooting toy ducks at a fair.’
Gowrie looked nervous. ‘You aren’t suggesting . . . not while I’m there, for God’s sake. The British police would be called, would start asking awkward questions, and I don’t know how far I can trust Cathy and her husband, not any more, not after yesterday.’
Jack Beverley’s face was hard with cynicism. ‘No, of course not, sir. That wasn’t in my mind at all. Far too risky. I’ve thought all round the situation – so far, I believe the Narodni girl has only told the Broughams.’
‘Unless she’s told Colbourne.’
‘You said she claimed she hadn’t told him anything.’
‘That’s what she said – but who knows? She could be lying.’
‘Well, we’ll deal with that in a minute. But looking at Brougham himself . . . I think you can be sure of him. He’s ambitious – look at the way he’s climbed to the top in a very short time. He came out of nowhere, nobody knows much about him, but one thing is clear – he isn’t too scrupulous. He built his business by some very dodgy methods. It’s never been quite clear where he got his money from; other people, mostly, I suspect. Borrowed from Peter to pay Paul. Juggled balls in the air. I’ve heard whispers that he’s overcommitted, over-stretched.’
Gowrie was startled. ‘You never told me any of this! I thought he was as solid as Fort Knox.’
‘On paper, sure. But I’ve been digging a little deeper while I was over here. His companies all lock into each other, the money moves around from company to company, keep it moving and you never have to prove it’s real money – get the picture?’
Paling, Gowrie breathed, ‘My God! Are you saying he’s broke?’
‘Not necessarily. With these huge conglomerates it’s always impossible to be sure how much of the money is real, and how much is borrowed or just on paper. We’re trying to get into his main computer to find out, but it’s a tough one – he has some genius on the job, locking out everyone who doesn’t have the right password, and that changes all the time, probably. But it can be done, I have computer wizards on my staff too. They’ll get in, if it’s possible.’
Gowrie chewed on his lower lip. ‘The bastard! He pulled the wool over my eyes. Mind you, I suspected he wasn’t totally kosher when I first met him – I had him checked out and his background sounded OK, there was no evidence it wasn’t – no evidence it was, either. But he had plenty of money, and a lot of powerful friends, so I assumed he was OK. I wonder if Cathy knows?’
‘Doubt it. He’s too smart to tell a woman stuff like that. Wise men don’t. Women never can keep secrets, and he’d be afraid she’d tell you.’
Gowrie thought of Emily; she had learnt too much about him, far more than he had ever meant to tell her. She might well have used what she knew, one day, to blackmail him. Beverley was right – you couldn’t trust women.
‘Having his father-in-law become president of the United States would be manna from heaven for him right now,’ Jack Beverley said. ‘So, when the chips are down, he’ll be on your side.’ Beverley gave a dry little smile. ‘But it will cost you, of course – we’ll have to wait to see what his demands are but you can be sure he has his price.’
Looking at him with grim cynicism, Gowrie wondered what his price was; what would Beverley demand in return for all this? Money, power, position? All three, no doubt. Gowrie had been in politics long enough to know that you got nothing for nothing. There was always a price. He had already had to make a string of promises to the men whose money and influence would be backing him for the nomination – they weren’t backing his campaign out of patriotism or party loyalty. They had more selfish motives. Everyone always did.
Gowrie felt them all there, riding on his back, like fleas on a dog: the men he would have to pay back if he ever got to supreme power. They were vampires, they would bleed him white that day; he felt them at his t
hroat, sucking already, and was sickened by it, but he couldn’t pull out of the race, now. He had to win – when he got into the White House it would all be worth it. There was enough gravy in the gravy boat to go round, and with Emily gone that was one less vampire to feed.
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ he agreed flatly. ‘What about Cathy? She ordered your men to stay out, she wouldn’t talk to me on the phone. What if she’s taking the Czech girl seriously? What if she believes that little bitch, and has turned against me?’
Beverley stared into the other man’s eyes, looking for pain or grief, and saw only fear and anger. Had he ever loved the girl the world thought was his daughter? Had she ever mattered to him? Or had she always been just a means to an end? Just the key that opened the door of the Ramsey family bank for Don Gowrie? The thought didn’t bother Beverley, who had served too many political masters to be shocked by anything any one of them did.
He knew the men who clawed their way to top jobs. They were ruthless, amoral, self-centred, hard as nails – but they recognized fact when they saw it, which meant that Don Gowrie would pay up when Beverley put in his bill. That was all that mattered to Beverley.
‘She can’t be stupid enough to chuck away her whole life for some girl she only met today. After all, you’re the only father she’s ever known, and you’ve given her a wonderful life so far – she’s grown up in luxury.’ Beverley would have described himself as a realist; he believed only in what he could see and touch, he did not like or trust human beings. Every man had his price, in Beverley’s view of life. And every woman, too. ‘She’ll play ball once she realizes what she’ll lose if she doesn’t. She’s been brought up as an American, with all the good things of life on tap. Nobody would willingly throw that away just because they discovered they had another family somewhere. People are rational, deep down; they know which side their bread is buttered, you can always count on self-interest as a motive.’ He believed this implicitly.
‘I hope to God you’re right,’ Gowrie said heavily, getting up.
‘I am.’ Beverley had no doubts about his reading of human nature, human motivation. It never entered his head to suggest that Cathy Brougham might love the man she had called Father all her life. Love did not figure in his calculations. ‘Just do as I say and we’ll be OK. The important thing is to isolate the Czech girl. Get your daughter and her husband alone, talk to them, then leave it to us to deal with the Narodni girl. Once you have everyone else squared then we can take her out.’
Sophie woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, trembling. As she sat up, someone came crashing through the door and the light was switched on, blinding her.
She put both hands over her eyes with a cry of shock and fear, disorientated, not knowing where she was or what was happening.
‘What’s wrong? I heard you scream – was someone in here?’ a voice asked, deep and cultured, very English. Anya’s husband, she thought, it must be Anya’s husband. She had seen him last night, but she had been so scared she hadn’t really taken in much about him.
‘No, it wasn’t that, I’m sorry,’ she whispered, still covering her eyes. ‘A bad dream, that’s all, I had a bad dream.’
It had been the usual dream; she had been running through the churchyard, hearing breathing behind her although whenever she looked over her shoulder there was nobody there. Reaching the grave, she knelt down and saw the names on the stone, Pavel and Anya Narodni. Suddenly the earth had bubbled up, its crust breaking, and the child’s hand shot out and grabbed her.
Why did she still keep dreaming that when she knew Anya was alive?
‘I thought someone must have attacked you,’ said the deep voice. ‘That’s a relief, anyway. You’re perfectly safe, don’t worry, no need for bad dreams, no need to be frightened at all.’ He had come over to the bed and bent over her. ‘I’m very sorry to hear about . . . about your mother. But maybe something can be done to save her. Don’t stay awake fretting about it, try to get some sleep.’ He put a hand lightly on her shoulder, pushing her backwards, and she went obediently, lowering her hands and looking up at him.
He was wearing a heavy dark red quilted satin dressing-gown. Under the hem of it she saw matching dark red pyjama-trousers, his feet pushed into red leather slippers. He was a tall man, distinguished, still very handsome, with silvered hair and a strong face. He’s much older than Anya, she thought, old enough to be her father! Why did she choose him instead of Steve? She must be crazy. I know which I would have chosen.
‘Can I get you anything? A glass of warm milk? Some hot chocolate?’
She shook her head, but quiveringly smiled, liking the gentleness in his voice. You wouldn’t expect it, with that tough face.
He looked startled for a second, as if her smile changed things, and smiles did, didn’t they? A smile could be defensive, an attempt to placate, as well as happy.
‘Sure?’ he smiled back.
She nodded, recognizing then how much charm he had – maybe Anya was not so crazy, after all? He was certainly not a wallpaper person, he made quite an impact, didn’t he? She could see why Anya had fallen for him.
He glanced round the room, as if he didn’t know it very well, or perhaps just checking that everything was OK, then he drew her bedclothes up over her shoulders. The bed was covered with an antique American quilt; an early Homestead pattern, abstract geometric shapes in pastel pinks and greens.
‘Are you quite comfortable in here?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ She had been too dazed last night to notice much about the room, but it was elegantly furnished, with Georgian furniture, highly polished, flowers on the dressing table, pretty pale green lamps trimmed with silk fringes. A delightful room.
He watched her intently; she was very aware of his stare although she was looking at the room – what was he thinking? That she was nothing like his wife?
‘How old are you?’
She was taken aback, eyes widening. ‘Twenty-eight. Why?’
‘Twenty-eight?’ He was frowning. ‘What month were you born?’
‘September. 1968.’
He sighed, met her puzzled eyes and grimaced. ‘You look much younger. Well, good night, no more bad dreams.’
‘I’m sorry I woke you up,’ she said shyly. ‘Goodnight.’
She watched him walk back to the door; he clicked off the light and closed the door behind him.
Sophie lay, frowning, in the dark, thinking that it was strange that it had been him who came when she called out. Why not Anya? Hadn’t she woken up? Maybe she had taken a sleeping pill and was sleeping too heavily to be disturbed by anything short of an earthquake. Anya was unhappy and desperately worried. And it was all Sophie’s fault.
She shouldn’t have come here, should never have told Anya the truth, should have kept her mouth shut.
Oh, but she had promised Mamma to find Anya and talk her into going to see her before it was too late.
Her mind went round and round in circles, trying to work out what else she could have done and finding no answer.
In her bedroom, feeling cold and small and lonely in her vast kingsized bed, Cathy Brougham listened to the voices and movements, hoping Paul would come to her when he left Sophie, but silence fell and he did not come.
She had heard the scream, been on the point of getting out of bed to run to comfort Sophie, when she heard Paul’s tread on the landing and a pencil-beam of yellow shone under her door as he switched on Sophie’s light.
Cathy’s eyes were red-rimmed with weeping, her hair tousled from tossing and turning. She did not want Paul to see her looking like that. She stayed in bed, listening, half afraid he would shout at Sophie, or bully her, yet why did she care? Sophie had ruined her life. She wished she had never even heard her name.
She heard their voices but too low to make out words until Paul’s voice came again from near the door.
‘Good night, no more bad dreams,’ she heard him say, and then Sophie’s softer, foreign-accented vo
ice murmuring.
‘Sorry I woke you . . .’
The yellow beam of light vanished; there was a click as the door shut, and she tensed, waiting to see if he would come to bed now, but his footsteps softly moved away. She tracked him like a bat tracking prey, her ears sharp as radar, identifying where he was going and understanding with a pain of the heart what it meant.
He was sleeping in the room at the end of the corridor, the room kept for unimportant visitors, a little cell of a room, barely furnished and remote.
He would not come to bed tonight. It was the first time they had slept apart since they were married, except when Paul had to go abroad and couldn’t take her. She knew it was a dangerous corner in their lives. Would he ever come to her bed again?
From Sophie’s room there was silence. I hate her, thought Cathy, her teeth meeting. I wish she was dead. I should have let those men take her tonight; why did I stop them? I could kill her myself. If I killed her and we never said a word about all this, we could go back to the way it was . . . we could be happy again.
Her heart ached. She shut her eyes, wishing. We were so happy before she came. Oh, I wish . . . I wish I could have that time back, is it too much to ask?
Yet inside her head a cold, still voice asked remorselessly . . . could they? Would she ever be happy again now that she knew how much her family money meant to Paul? Had he ever loved her? Had it always been her fortune alone that attracted him? A man who was deeply in love did not change so much so fast. All this time he must have been pretending . . . lying to her, acting.
Walking in Darkness Page 27