A Ghost at the Door

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘Perhaps too well,’ Harefield said, tucking a thumb into his belt, which seemed to have gained a notch with every election campaign. ‘At times I feel my job is to eat for England – or, at least, the Church of England.’ He chuckled. ‘You look as if you could do with a few extra pounds. Come back, find your feet once more.’

  ‘I don’t feel at home here any longer.’

  ‘We could put you in the Lords.’

  ‘It’s come to that, then, has it?’

  Harefield roared with laughter at his old friend, sending an inquisitive seagull scurrying away along the parapet. ‘Yes, I suppose ambition should be carried on rather more supple thighs.’ In the middle of the channel a pleasure cruiser was turning, its screw beating the river and sending a bow wave slapping against the embankment. They watched its battle with the tide before returning to their conversation. ‘So, you wanted to know about Bishop Randall. What, precisely, did you have in mind?’

  ‘He is, of course, a good man of the cloth.’

  ‘Diligent, godly and sober. Or most of the time, anyway. OK, we’ve got that out of the way, Harry, so what more do you need to know?’

  ‘I think he’s false and entirely two-faced, Cy. You tell me.’

  Harefield mined a bowl of nuts and began throwing them one by one into his mouth as he considered the request. ‘It’s no great secret that Bishop Randy is a man of more than a little controversy. But why do you think he’s a shit? I thought you said he was a friend of your father’s.’

  ‘Being a friend of my father’s doesn’t help.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘There’s too much about the bishop that doesn’t add up – or perhaps adds up to too much. His nails are manicured, his teeth too expensively capped. He wears a tailored suit you couldn’t afford and a watch that is simple and elegant, and also very Swiss.’

  ‘Yes, for a humble man of the cloth he has it cut from a rather splendid fibre.’ More nuts disappeared, fuel for his thoughts. ‘But Randy is controversial in part because he’s so bloody successful. Climbed his way up the greasy pole of clerical preferment, ended up in a bishop’s palace. You don’t do that without stepping on a few bunioned toes. Yet I do so hate this evangelical need to decry success. God knows, the Church could do with a little more of it rather than spitting in its face. And, yet . . .’ Harefield sighed. ‘Envy isn’t very ecclesiastical, Harry, but it’s hellish common. And the man simply refuses to stop.’ He reached for his glass.

  ‘So what’s the other part? You said his success is only one reason for his notoriety.’

  Harefield savoured his wine as if it held many secrets before he returned to his tale. ‘He was a City slicker in his early days. Got himself involved in a lot of controversial takeovers in the eighties. It was a little like the Wild West, plenty of shootouts and shady deals, bodies being dragged away. There were some who thought that Randy should have been one. The Serious Fraud Office had their eye on him for some time; he was arrested more than once but never charged. There are some who believe that it was the heat they put on him that forced him out of the City.’

  ‘Into the hands of God?’

  ‘Where he has used his talents to considerable effect. I only wish I had his wisdom, or his luck. There are those who accept that his talents are God-given and, anyway, don’t give a damn who’s driving the fire engine when the bloody house is on fire. And there are those . . . yes, there are those who think that the support he gives God has a good deal of help.’

  ‘Inside help?’

  ‘Who’s to know? He delivers. Harry, last year more than a hundred churches closed their doors for good. Our pension fund’s hollowed out, there are retired vicars living below the poverty line and you can buy an old church and turn it into a carpet warehouse, theme bar – even a mosque. So for everyone who has their doubts about Randy there are a hundred who fall onto their knees in thanks. And he’s devoted to his duties, there’s no doubt about that. Well, I suppose you can when you’re unmarried.’ Harefield left the words dangling in the night air.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you? Do you, Harry? Because I’m damned if I do. I just refuse to believe those twisted little rumours that float around in dark corners, they sicken me. But . . .’ He blew out his cheeks as if about to climb a very high wall. ‘There were accusations of molestation made against him at one of his early parishes.’

  ‘Molestation?’

  ‘Young boys. In Penrith.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What all too often happened in those days. They weighed a frightened child’s word against that of a man of God and transferred Randy to a living in the West Country.’ His hand scrabbled in the bowl of nuts but they were gone.

  ‘Sermons and secrets.’

  ‘Not an exclusive preserve of Catholics.’ Harefield reached for the bottle. ‘Ah, the Sauvignon’s finished. Dare we try another? I have this terrible taste in my mouth that I’m desperate to wash away.’

  ‘No, thanks, Cy.’

  ‘You’re probably right. Been too indiscreet as it is. And I don’t have a shred of evidence against him, perhaps nothing but prejudice. Still, as an old friend, my advice is to steer well clear of him.’

  ‘Can’t do that,’ Harry replied. ‘Seems I need him more than ever.’ And already he was tapping his iPhone asking for another meeting.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Harry didn’t hear back from the bishop. Wickham was another one who seemed to have vanished. In spite of repeated requests directed both to his e-mail and through the Church Commissioners, Harry heard nothing, but after his chat with Cy Harefield it came as no great surprise. So once again he followed his father’s footsteps back to Christ Church, where it had all started.

  He didn’t make an appointment, preferred the element of surprise, but he took the precaution of arriving with a box of chocolates wrapped in a bow. The green stretches of Tom Quad had a different air from the last time Harry had been here: the academic year had come to its glorious end and the undergraduates were gone, leaving the hallowed cloisters in the possession of fee-paying tourists who arrived by the busload, yet Helen was still in her place of command in the Steward’s Office. He knocked on the door and walked in.

  She looked up from her computer. ‘Oh, hello, Mr Jones,’ she said. ‘What brings you here again?’

  ‘I was passing, brought you these. A token.’

  ‘Why, thank you, that’s so kind. And I’m sorry about the bishop’s details but—’

  ‘Actually, I wasn’t just passing. I need to ask you another favour.’

  ‘And these chocolates are . . .’

  ‘A bribe.’

  She smiled at his audacity. ‘I’m an old-fashioned girl, Mr Jones. A walnut whip could never be considered a bribe, more an offering.’

  ‘Then may I offer you these?’ Harry said, handing the box across. He felt he could do business with this young woman.

  She was in her late twenties and wise for her years, used to dealing with all sorts from pompous Privy Councillors to confused Japanese tourists. She appreciated Harry asking for a favour rather than simply making demands, although the gentle bribe suggested the possibility of choppy waters. From outside the thick walls of her office came the sound of Old Tom striking the half-hour. ‘Look, I’m just about to have my morning coffee break and it’s far too nice a day to spend it inside a stuffy office. Would you like to join me for a walk around the Master’s Garden?’ she asked, rising from her chair.

  They walked through the ancient cloisters with their worn stones and soon were in a walled garden. The day was gentle, the birdsong brisk, the breeze dancing through the army of lilies, sunflowers and roses that crowded the borders. A gardener was mowing the wide expanse of lawn that backed onto the cathedral, pulling out the croquet rings that barred his way. The sweetness of freshly crushed grass filled Harry’s nostrils.

  ‘My father,’ he began as the gravel scrunched beneath their feet, ‘was a rather untidy man in many ways. H
e left behind him quite a lot of loose ends, unfinished business, some of which involves his old university friends.’

  ‘Like Bishop Randall. I did forward your letter. Have you not heard?’

  ‘Yes, I did, thanks.’ She seemed relieved. ‘There were others, too. A man called Findlay Francis. I know he was up here at Christ Church, it was mentioned in his Wiki entry.’

  ‘I’m sure I remember the name.’

  They were at the halfway point on their stretch around the garden and sat on an old teak bench in the shade of a towering sycamore. ‘Can I ask you how long you’ve been working here, Helen?’

  ‘It’s around five years now.’

  ‘You see, until the time my father died in 2001, no matter where he was in the world, whatever he was up to, he came back to this country for a week or so. Always in the middle weeks of October. Religiously. Almost like a pilgrimage. And I think while he was here he met up with other Oxford friends, so I was wondering . . .’

  ‘If they met up here?’

  She was sharp as well as attractive.

  ‘That’s right. Look, October’s the start of the academic year, Michaelmas term, and it would be a natural place to hold any reunion.’

  ‘We encourage our alumni to visit. Bring their goodwill with them. And hopefully their money, too.’

  ‘Old habits.’

  The gardener had finished trimming the lawn and was knocking the croquet hoops into place with a wooden mallet. The sound of wood on iron echoed from the warm sandstone walls.

  ‘So if they came back to Christ Church,’ Harry continued, ‘they’d probably have dinner at High Table. Maybe run up a bar bill in the SCR, stay overnight in the guest room, just as I did.’

  Helen nodded.

  ‘So I wondered if there might be any records.’

  ‘Ah,’ she sighed. She wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Helen, I can’t emphasize enough how important this is. All I need to know is if my father came back and, if he did, who he was with. That can’t be covered by any privacy code, can it?’

  ‘Frankly, I’m not sure. It’s an odd one.’

  ‘We’re talking twenty, thirty, maybe forty years ago. Not even Cabinet papers are kept secret that long.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘There’s a problem?’

  ‘Even if it were OK to release that information – and I’m not saying that it is, you understand – I’ve no idea what sort of records there would be. It’s pre-digital, nothing but scraps of old paper.’

  ‘We could say I was undertaking research for my thesis.’

  ‘Are you writing one?’

  It was his turn to frown. ‘Let me take a look. Please.’

  ‘You want all of that for a walnut whip?’

  ‘I swear I saw some champagne truffles in the box, too.’

  She shook her head once more. ‘Oh, Mr Jones, you’re really rather wicked.’

  ‘You see right through me.’

  She sat staring at him while the breeze rattled the ancient branches above their heads. ‘Mr Jones—’

  ‘Harry, please, since we’re almost partners in crime.’

  ‘I’ve no idea whether this information should be regarded as confidential, and I doubt if anyone else does, either. They’d have to convene a committee, dust off the precedents, submit proposals to the proctors. And the proctors would only suck their thumbs for a while, then cover their backs by seeking the view of the Vice-Chancellor. Harry, this could get very messy, take months.’ She paused for a final moment of reflection. ‘So I’d better not ask.’

  ‘Helen, I don’t want to get you into any difficulties.’

  ‘You won’t. What you will do, Harry, is come to my office at three thirty. That’s the time for my afternoon tea break. But you may find that I’ll be out taking a walk along the river. Eating chocolates.’

  Old Tom was ringing the half-hour as Harry rapped on Helen’s door. There was no answer. He stepped inside and closed the door carefully behind him. The office was much as he had remembered it that morning, except the box of chocolates on her desk had been opened and both the walnut whip and the champagne truffle were gone. And, in the corner, an old filing cabinet stood with one of its drawers gaping open. In the rack of files there was one set apart from its neighbours. It was marked ‘High Table: Guests’. The papers inside were old, chaotic, far from complete. Many of them consisted of no more than flimsy carbon copies.

  But they were enough.

  Waterloo train station. The place on the concourse level that had never quite decided whether it was a wine bar or a coffee shop. Overstuffed armchairs and tiny tables. It was the first occasion Jemma and Harry had come face to face since their time-out. She hadn’t wanted to be there, to be any part of this, but Abby had insisted and Jemma had found it impossible to deny her.

  ‘I’m not comfortable,’ she’d explained to Harry. ‘I’m not ready yet.’

  ‘Have you stopped loving me, Jem?’

  ‘No, but we both know that simply loving you was never going to be enough. It’s working out how I might ever be able to live with you that I can’t get my head around.’

  She wasn’t the first to have said something like that. Harry knew that if he tried to push things he would reopen wounds, perhaps do lasting damage. He’d have to make do with a double espresso.

  Abby had suggested the meeting place and Jemma pointed her out to Harry as she stepped onto the escalator. Abby hid a good figure beneath shapeless clothes, wore a battered straw hat with an oversized brim and had a canvas bag slung over her shoulder that was large enough to carry essential supplies that would outlast the Apocalypse. As she drew nearer they saw she had an intricate henna tattoo covering her wrist and the back of her hand. Jemma waved, got a kiss for her troubles, while Harry got a guarded greeting and a handshake that made the army of bangles on her wrist jangle. She held his hand for several moments, as though trying to read his chakras, then seemed to find something of which she approved. ‘Peace and love, Mr Jones.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be nice?’ he replied before disappearing to arrange an order of herbal tea and espressos.

  Abby watched him go, studying the muscular body beneath the loose summer shirt and tightness of the trousers around his butt. ‘Him – and the other?’ she said to Jemma, in awe. ‘As I said, I used to be young once, but never that young.’

  ‘OK, Abby, these are the rules of engagement. You and Harry tell each other your secrets, you keep mine.’

  ‘Do either of them have brothers?’

  But already Harry was returning from negotiating with the waitress behind the bar and soon they were sipping their hot drinks. Harry produced his photo. ‘Your father. My father,’ he declared, pointing.

  She whispered something inaudible and then sat silently, running her fingertip with its violently painted varnish across her father’s face. It was clearly a moment of emotion and there was mistiness in her voice when she spoke again. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that before. Old photos. When he was young.’ When she looked up from the photo her eyes were filled with gratitude, and also with trust. ‘I didn’t really know my dad terribly well, you see. He split up with my mum when I was young, about ten, and after that he was little more than a visitor in my life. He wrote – you know that, of course – and that kept him travelling around the world. I can’t say we ever had a proper relationship.’ It was clearly a source of pain. ‘But he did keep in contact. You know, it doesn’t sound much, a postcard, but he sent me one every month from wherever he was. And he always sent me a dedicated copy of his books, nearly twenty of them, all told, about oil sheiks, film stars, disgraced politicians, royalty. Not my sort of stuff, really, but in every one he wrote a special message for me. He tried, I know that. He just wasn’t very good at it.’

  ‘Do you recognize the other faces?’ Harry asked, indicating the photo.

  Abby shook her head. ‘I don’t think I ever met any of his friends.’

  ‘Where did he live wh
en he was in this country?’

  ‘He had a flat in Brighton for many years, overlooking the sea. Always loved the sea, said it helped him concentrate. But he had a problem – oh, it must have been about ten years ago, maybe a bit more. He was walking back home late one evening from his favourite drinking place, cutting through The Lanes, one of the alleyways a little back from the seafront, when he was attacked.’

  ‘Mugged, you mean?’ Harry asked as Abby took a sip of her tea.

  ‘No, very badly beaten. Spent a couple of weeks in hospital. Could have been far worse but a couple of policemen heard the shouts and when they appeared the attackers ran off.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘Never found out. The police decided it was probably a bit of gay bashing that got out of hand – but Dad wasn’t like that; my mum used to say he wasn’t very much inclined either way. The beating affected him, very much so. He told me it was to do with the book he was writing, someone trying to put him off. And it worked. He never finished it, started on something else.’

  ‘Do you know who the book was about?’

  ‘No. He wouldn’t even discuss it. He didn’t mind suffering for his art but no way was he going to die for it; he said no book was that important. Became very secretive, sold up in Brighton, moved.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. He became paranoid, hid himself away. Stopped using credit cards, it was always cash, didn’t have a regular phone number. He spent much more time out of the country, said he was afraid they were still after him. But I never found out who “they” were. And I’m not even sure where he stayed when he was in Britain – somewhere in the West Country, that’s all I know. He would come to see me in London and this is where we’d meet, Waterloo station. He got very cloak-and-dagger.’

  ‘You said he travelled a lot for his work.’

  ‘Seemed to spend half his life on planes and in hotels.’

  ‘Did he come back to Britain regularly?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. Every year. He’d research his subject, then come back here to write it all up. But only for a couple of months or so. He said he could write three thousand words a day so long as he was left alone.’