A Ghost at the Door

by Michael Dobbs

  Harry nodded.

  ‘Ah, well done, Smith,’ he said in mock self-congratulation. ‘Perhaps I wasn’t meant to be a diplomat after all.’ He chewed his bottom lip. ‘A good friend of yours, is he, this Madrigan?’

  Harry smiled and shook his head. ‘You’re spot on about him – although the description of pompous little prick scarcely does him justice. In private he’s much worse.’

  ‘It’s folk like him that’s given me an aversion to people knocking on my door.’ It was as close as the other man would get to an apology.

  ‘So what happened to my father? I don’t even know that.’

  ‘It’s another reason why I remember the case. I got a right bollocking for it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The Foreign Office gave us nothing, no pay, no facilities, but they made up for it in grief when they thought their backsides were exposed. Your father was a British citizen, to be sure, but he died on a foreign-registered ship—’

  ‘Panamanian.’

  ‘That’s right. Owned by some scummy Russian and sailing off Greece. Frankly, it was a job for the United Nations to sort, not some part-time dosser stuck on his bar stool. So I did what I was supposed to do, informed the embassy in Athens, and they were supposed to find the next of kin. You.’

  ‘I was out of contact.’

  ‘And your father, well . . . there’s no better way of explaining it. Your father slipped between the gaps. By the time the embassy got back to me his body had already been taken care of. The ship’s captain made the arrangements, I think. Nice man, rather distressed by it all. You really should get in touch with him.’

  ‘I’ve tried.’

  ‘Look, there was nothing illegal about what happened. It just wasn’t due process, as you called it. Hell, when has there ever been due process in a place like Greece? But the goat chasers at the Athens embassy started slurping in their soup, claiming I hadn’t paid sufficient attention, wasn’t being sufficiently servile, some such crap. Bastards never forgave me. Blocked my MBE. Then encouraged your Mr Madrigan to screw me.’ His tone was acid and he drowned the memory in the last of his drink.

  Without being asked, Jemma got up to fetch another round. A group of young people burst noisily into the pub sheltering from the rain, shaking damp hair and clothing. ‘Hi there, Euripides,’ one of them called from the scrum at the bar. ‘Haven’t seen you around in a while. You keeping well?’

  ‘I’m keeping.’

  ‘Missed you at the last darts match.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. I couldn’t hit the board, let alone the bull.’

  ‘Yeah, you were rubbish. But you’re still the only one who can keep score without a calculator.’

  The young man laughed and made a gentle shaking sign with his hand to enquire if he wanted a drink, but Smith shook his head as Jemma turned from the bar, her hands filled with new glasses. Harry noticed that the young man’s appreciative eyes stuck to her every step of the way until she’d sat down. Harry didn’t know whether to feel flattered or furious before he realized he simply felt old – old enough to be challenged by a young stranger at the bar. In his Army days he’d seen chairs smashed and bars wrecked for much less, but this wasn’t the time, and perhaps those times were past. He returned his attentions to the diplomat. ‘So, Mr Smith, when you went to the yacht, did the captain tell you anything – about what had happened to my father?’

  ‘No, not much.’ Smith reached for his fresh beer, as though anxious to find something else to deal with.

  ‘My father’s lawyer says he died having sex with a young woman. Did you tell him that?’

  Smith replaced his untouched beer carefully on the table. ‘That’s what the captain told me, yes.’ He sighed, as though in an act of confession. ‘It’s why I didn’t feel the need to go poking too deeply into the matter. A dead man should be left with his dignity. I think perhaps the captain thought so, too.’

  ‘Which was why – how should I put this? – he took care of things.’

  Smith nodded and, confession extracted, reached for his drink once again.

  ‘And did you meet the young woman, too?’

  ‘No. I didn’t get to the yacht until a couple of days after the boat had docked. I think most of those on board had left. Didn’t meet anyone, apart from the captain and one of the passengers. Female, but not the woman in question.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Too old. About the same age as your father would have been.’

  ‘So you never met the woman. And you never saw my father’s body . . .’

  Harry sat staring silently into the past. Too many unanswered questions. Jemma picked up the death certificate and began studying it. She knew where Harry’s mind was leading him and didn’t care for it. ‘But your father’s death was certified by a doctor,’ she said, holding out the piece of paper, pointing to the doctor’s details.

  ‘And somehow, Mr Smith, I feel certain you never met the doctor, either,’ Harry added drily.

  ‘There was absolutely no need. I was a messenger, not a mortuary attendant.’

  ‘Just humour me on this. You’re a man of the world, you with your bar in the middle of Patras and the whole world coming to your door. Tell me, if I had a little money in such a place, cash in hand, how far would it go? Would it go as far as . . . well, let’s say finding a dodgy doctor? Even persuading a port official or policeman to look the other way?’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But I think I know places like Patras. So, hypothetically, could such a thing happen?’

  Harry was hoping the other man would dismiss the idea out of hand: he didn’t want to charge through all those doors that were opening in his mind. But, instead, and for the first time, Smith held Harry’s gaze. ‘I’m not a young man any more, Mr Jones. Not gullible. Gave up believing in most things long ago. The tranquillity of old age. The transience of income tax. The gratitude of children. But what you say, what you suggest . . . As I told you, Patras is a crossroads. There’s Europe in one direction, the vast stretches of Asia and Africa and the Middle East in the others. Every kind of cargo passes through that place and much of that cargo is human. Patras is one of the main centres in Greece for drug dealers, illegal immigrants, smugglers, every type of human sewage. Does Patras have the best police force in the world? No. Can you buy your way in and out? For sure. Could I find you a dodgy doctor there? Well, if you were able to give me ten minutes it wouldn’t be too much of a problem so long as it wasn’t Easter Sunday. And I suspect you could even find a dodgy diplomat there, too, if that’s what you’re implying.’

  ‘No, that’s not what we’re implying at all,’ Jemma interrupted, casting a dark look of rebuke at Harry. ‘This is difficult territory. We’re not finding this easy.’

  ‘The tide flows in, then it flows out again. There’s no telling what it leaves behind. That’s why we have our little consulate there. So many other outposts have been closed down but there, in Patras, it’s still needed. Take care of Patras for us, Euripides, old boy, they said, those Foreign Office shirtlifters, it’s one of the most wicked places in Europe. So I did. And still I wasn’t good enough for them.’

  He banged his empty glass down on the table.

  ‘I’ll get you another,’ Jemma said immediately.

  ‘Young lady,’ he snapped, ‘I know what you think of me. You look at me and see alcohol. An old soak. And, yes, I ran a bar, and it’s true I enjoy a drink – two, indeed. That’s the limit my doctors allow me. The drugs they’re giving me to treat my cancer don’t mix with alcohol, they tell me, but as it’s going to kill me anyway they reckon a couple shouldn’t do too much harm.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Jemma whispered, aghast. Instinctively she reached out and placed her hand on his. It was as though it were the first form of human intimacy the man had had in months. He stared at Jemma’s hand, so freely offered, and something inside him melted. He didn’t want to fight any longer. He fashioned a w
eak smile. ‘It’s why the roses don’t get pruned or the windows repainted. There’s not much point, you see.’

  Suddenly, both Jemma and Harry saw different things in his aching eyes.

  ‘I’m the one who should be apologizing, young lady,’ Smith continued. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help to you. Or Mr Jones’s father.’

  Some years before, Harry had lost an ear, carved off while he was strapped to a chair by a central Asian security official who’d intended it as an appetizer to the pleasure of slitting Harry’s throat, yet who had tarried too long and found himself just another body Harry had left somewhere along the way. The ear had been replaced by a first-class surgeon but it had left scars, which was why Harry grew his blond hair a little longer these days and why, when his peculiar inner sense for trouble was engaged, his ear gave him warning, began to throb. Right now it felt as though the Devil were dancing on it, cloven hooves clattering. He heard none of the gentle words that Jemma and the other man exchanged as they drove back to the cottage, only managed to blurt out perfunctory thanks as they parted. Jemma was already at the car, preparing to leave, when he turned at the squeaking gate. ‘One last thing, Mr Smith. Silly question after all this time, but the woman you met with the captain. I don’t suppose you can remember.’

  ‘Remember what?’

  ‘Anything. Absolutely anything.’

  ‘You’re right, very silly indeed,’ the other man said, closing his door.

  She nestled up to him as he lay in bed, breathing on his neck, but he seemed not to notice. Harry lay on his back, naked, his body tense, his hands clenched instead of reaching out to her. He was staring, and Jemma followed his line of sight through the open door of the bedroom to the sitting room beyond, where on the bookshelf in the light of the street lamps he had propped the photograph of his father with him on the beach.

  ‘Harry?’ Jemma’s voice was plaintive, edged with concern.

  Eventually he stirred. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Being a prick. Last night. Then today with Smith.’

  ‘He was only trying to help.’

  ‘I know but . . .’ He paused, she could feel the tension in his muscles suddenly disappear, as though he was no longer fighting. ‘I’m finding this difficult to deal with.’

  ‘What, exactly?’

  ‘I’m angry about not knowing my father; even more angry when I find out more about him.’

  ‘It’s my fault, I should never—’

  ‘No, Jem, it’s him. And my bloody ear.’

  ‘What about your ear?’

  ‘Hasn’t stopped burning, not since we met with that horse’s arse of a lawyer.’

  ‘What’s it saying?’

  ‘Not saying anything, nothing I can make any sense of, anyway. Just stirring. Stirring up all the old . . .’ And his fists had clenched tight once more.

  Her fingers slid slowly down through the hair on his chest. ‘Come on, let’s try Plan B.’

  But he shook his head and turned away.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was a couple of days later that two envelopes dropped on the mat for Harry. One was crisp and cream, the weight of the vellum paper almost making it creak, and sent first class. It had taken no more than three days to arrive. The other was recycled manila, clumsily resealed in brown tape, with Harry’s name scrawled across the fresh address label in uncertain biro. Every corner curled like the ear of an old dog; it gave the impression of having fought many battles and lost more than a few. The letters arrived hidden among the usual avalanche of mail and magazines but found their way to the top of the pile. Harry made himself a mug of coffee before settling down on Jemma’s sofa to open them.

  He no longer had his own sofa. After his old friend and financial adviser ‘Sloppy’ Sopwith-Dane had flushed out his brains with alcohol and prescription painkillers and succeeded in bringing Harry to the verge of bankruptcy, many things had changed in Harry’s life. The ready money was gone, along with the parliamentary seat and his political career, the Audi S5, the best of the paintings, the collection of rare first editions, the holidays and almost everything else he’d lived with for so long. Somehow he’d managed to keep hold of the house in Mayfair but it, and the sofas, were now rented out. He’d been told by many that it would be far simpler to declare himself bankrupt, simpler still to shop his old friend, but ‘Sloppy’ had killed himself in remorse and dancing on his grave would have destroyed Sloppy’s widow and two young daughters. Harry didn’t do stuff like that. Anyway, he’d survived, not been declared bankrupt. Just. Now he spent his time with Jemma, living off a modest parliamentary pension and his rental income while he searched for new meaning in his life. And something more reliable to live on.

  He sipped at his overheated coffee and opened the first envelope, using the spoon handle as a letter opener. For all the intensity of the paper on which it was printed, the corporate letterhead itself was almost nouvelle cuisine, minimalist, leaving much to the imagination. ‘My dear Mr Jones,’ the letter began, written with a fountain pen, as was the signature at the bottom of the single page, although the rest was printed.

  You may remember that our paths have crossed on a couple of occasions [Harry didn’t] and I trust you will forgive this intrusion. As CEO of this company, I have it in mind to expand our board of directors and am therefore engaged in a search for suitable non-executive candidates with the appropriate formidable talents and qualifications. I would be honoured if you would be willing to consider such a position.

  Harry put his mug of coffee cautiously to one side.

  As you are probably aware, we are a non-quoted company and have always taken the quality of our governance very seriously. I need hardly mention that your experience in international affairs, your level of personal contacts and your reputation for integrity are assets that my company would value very highly.

  Level of contacts? Once, for sure, but since he’d lost his seat he’d found that doors had a habit of closing quietly on him. And, as for his reputation, it was true he hadn’t been charged after his arrest on suspicion of murder, but the smell hung around him like an old kipper.

  We have ambitious expansion plans for the future, and we expect our board members to share in that success. Your commitment would consist of attending between six and eight board meetings a year, three or four of which would be abroad as a result of the global nature of our operations. The remuneration would reflect your exceptional background and what we believe would be your ability to make a unique contribution, and I would expect it to be towards the top end of the usual scale for non-executives, plus share options and other benefits.

  Top end of the usual scale meant the best part of a hundred thou. He read on: ‘I am anxious to move forward quickly on this matter, and must ask for an early indication of your interest . . .’

  Harry fell back into the soft cushions, clutching the letter. He stared into space, into his past, into what this might mean for his future. The plight of many former MPs is extreme: they wake up one cold, colourless morning to a world in which they have neither place nor profession. Sure, the system provides a comfort blanket in the form of a winding-up allowance and a limited pension, but it’s rather like a guy’s manhood after he’s spent the night in a cold ditch: it’s never quite what it once seemed. How do you compensate for the loss of self-confidence and the sense of humiliation that can gnaw away like a cancer? Some discarded politicians find it all unbearable. Harry knew of broken marriages, of former colleagues who were drowning in a sea of alcohol or drugs or depression, one colleague who’d been driven to suicide, parked his car in the middle of his former constituency with a bottle of whisky in one hand, a hosepipe from his exhaust in the other and a pathetic note on the dashboard that simply said ‘Sorry. Forgive’. Not much of an epitaph to cover twenty-eight years. Yesterday’s man.

  My direct line and mobile numbers are at the top of this page. Since this is a matter of considerable urgency to us, please feel fre
e to contact me at any time to discuss.

  There are turning points in lives when a switch is thrown, the tracks changed, a new direction found. This could be one of them. A chance to crush the doubts. Get things back together. Give Jemma what she deserved.

  The front door slammed and she was standing in the doorway, a bag of groceries in her hand, staring at him collapsed into the sofa. ‘You look as if someone’s just given you a damned good shagging. I hope you’re not cheating on me already, Jones.’

  In feeble response he waved the letter at her. She dropped the shopping and sat down beside him. He could feel her excitement rising as she read.

  ‘Who are these people?’ she asked.

  ‘Good question. I’m not entirely sure.’

  ‘The address looks like one of those holding companies in Mayfair, all front and not much furniture. Just round the corner from your old place.’

  ‘Has links with the aircraft and defence industries, I think.’

  ‘We’ll have to find out.’ And already she was interrogating her laptop. Typical. She was a research queen. Perhaps it was because of the endless questions she was asked by the children in the primary school where she taught that she was always driven to unearth the answers; she was relentless.

  As Jemma tapped away at the keyboard, throwing out frequent exclamations of surprise along with nuggets of information, Harry remembered the other letter. It had almost got lost down the side of a cushion and peered at him like a cat in the dark. He retrieved it, inserted the spoon handle once more and struck. The flimsy envelope burst apart, tipping its contents into his lap.

  It was a handwritten letter from Euripides Smith. ‘Sorry if I seemed a bit off-colour,’ he apologized,

  but I don’t get many visitors nowadays. Truth is, I got shafted by the FCO, don’t care to be reminded of those days, but that wasn’t your fault and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you and your lovely friend. Anyway, after you left I thought more about the incident of your father and went into the loft to look through my old papers. Eventually I found a couple of boxes from my time as consul. Not much, I’m afraid, nothing that I haven’t already told you, but I did discover this photograph. One of my hobbies at the time. I see I scribbled some details on the back. I enclose it, in case it helps.