A Ghost at the Door (3 page)

‘You should care what happened to your father,’ she said, gently but insistent.

‘For God’s sake, why?’

To bring closure, to cut the emotional dependency, to set old ghosts to rest, all those things that counsellors urged on the bereaved, but Jemma knew that a little cod psychotherapy would never
be enough with Harry. So she stared at him, not letting him escape. ‘Because, Harry,’ she whispered in a way that seemed to ring an entire peal of bells, ‘our children will want
to know.’

A manila documents folder. Neglected, blue, scruffy, its corners battered, its second-hand status betrayed by the felt-tipped scrawling across its cover that declared it had
once been used for Harry’s old tax papers. That was it, all he had left to record the death of his father, and it wasn’t even half full. A passport, its corner clipped. A copy of a
death certificate, in Greek. A brief and tautly formal note from the Foreign & Commonwealth Office expressing regret, alongside a handful of notes of condolence, mostly from people Harry had
never met. His father always had peculiar friends – no, not friends, wrong word, but colleagues, associates in business, whatever damned business that was. Not true friends.

And a single photograph, of Harry when he was perhaps thirteen, smiling coyly, in swimming trunks, with his father’s arm around his shoulders. They were on a beach of a distant shore, the
photo probably taken by some unsuitable female friend of his father’s, though Harry couldn’t remember for sure. It was wrapped in a single folded sheet of notepaper from his
father’s lawyer and executor, Robert Tallon, a senior partner in an exclusive London legal firm. The letter was dated August 2001. It summarized previous correspondence and recorded the fact
that, due to the complexity of his father’s estate, it would take considerable time and in all probability several years before matters regarding the estate could be finalized and that, in
the meantime, he was transferring the sum of £8,376,482.04 to Harry’s account as an initial instalment. Tallon was a punctilious ferret of a man, right down to the last four pence.

It was in the riverside offices of the same Robert Tallon that Harry and Jemma were now sitting, the file and its contents spilling uncomfortably onto the glass-topped conference table. Tallon,
elderly, experienced, probably close to retirement, sat peering down a red and slightly damp nose on which were perched his rimless glasses. His hands were clasped in front of him, his silk tie
spilling above the waistcoat of his tailored chalk-stripe suit, his overcombed hair was greying, his complexion pale, but the eyes were sharp.

‘Mr Jones,’ the lawyer began – even after all these years and so many millions, he still clung to the formalities – ‘you ask about your father.’ There was a
hint of Edinburgh in the slow vowels. ‘I’m afraid there’s not much I can give you. I met him only rarely – he spent so little time in this country in his last years. Your
father always told me, with some pride, I should add, that he was a citizen of the world.’

‘No wonder he was never home,’ Harry muttered.

The lawyer dabbed at his nose with a handkerchief he kept tucked up the sleeve of his suit. ‘He was cautious about his affairs. Which were, as you know, complicated.’

Harry’s fingers brushed across the manila folder. ‘This is all I have. A ridiculously simple file for such a complicated man, isn’t it?’ Jemma thought she noticed an edge
of both regret and self-rebuke in his voice. He turned to her. ‘Seems he didn’t own a home anywhere, just postboxes in various dusty places and a financial operation so impenetrable
that it’s kept Mr Tallon here busy ever since.’

‘Well, not busy, not any longer. We wait patiently. For developments.’

Outside the window the Thames wound reluctantly through the piers of Waterloo Bridge. In the distance the towers of the City stood beneath a glowering ozone sky of purples and browns like
skittles waiting for the clout of the next financial onslaught.

‘Developments? I’m sorry, what developments?’ Jemma asked.

Tallon turned towards her with a suggestion of reluctance: he didn’t welcome the presence of amateurs. ‘I think we have to conclude that the senior Mr Jones’s arrangements were
deliberately obscure. He lived in several countries but didn’t have title to a residence, at least not for tax purposes. He had many investments but didn’t own a single
share.’

‘Oh, I see. You mean he was a tax evader.’

The lawyer arched an eyebrow in displeasure. ‘Not an evader as such, but he was undoubtedly efficient. He broke no laws, otherwise I would never have acted for him.’

Jemma offered a smile of understanding, wondering if a diet of prunes might help the lawyer relax.

‘It seems my father buried his money so deep that taxmen would need a degree in deep-shaft mining in order to get anywhere near it,’ Harry said.

‘I’m sure your father had nothing but your best interests at heart, Mr Jones,’ the lawyer said in a tone that suggested he cared little for Harry’s description.

‘You’ll forgive me but I’m sure that was the last thing on his mind.’

‘You were the sole beneficiary,’ Tallon said, staring over the rim of his glasses in rebuke. ‘To this point his estate has been able to remit to you a total of fifteen million,
three hundred and eighty-eight thousand, five hundred and twelve pounds. And eighteen pence,’ he added, peering at a neat file in front of him. ‘In time, I hope we shall disentangle
more. Your father’s share in the landholding in Brazil could prove particularly beneficial once the authorities understand the rather complex nature of his investment trust and lift their
embargo on its sale.’

‘It’s been more than ten years.’

‘Matters move somewhat slowly through the rainforest.’

‘Let’s hope it’s still there in another ten.’

Jemma gazed at the thin blue file with its curled edges and scrawlings on the cover. Recycled crap. It was all Harry seemed to think his father was worth, despite the millions. She began to
understand how angry Harry was, and had always been.

Tallon’s lips moved slowly as he searched for the right words. ‘Mr Jones, I understand, I sympathize. I know how
challenging
this past year has been for you.’ He
paused for some expression, some indication of what Harry felt, but got none. ‘I assure you I shall continue to do my very best to release whatever money is left in the estate.’

‘But it’s not really the money, you see, Mr Tallon,’ Jemma said. ‘That’s not why we’re here. We simply want to know more about Harry’s father. You
seemed the obvious place to start.’

‘I can’t help you.’

‘How he died, what happened,’ she continued.

‘You have all I know.’

‘There must be something.’

‘You said . . .’ Harry interrupted them both. ‘When you and I first met, Mr Tallon, you spoke of a young woman. The cause of his heart attack.’

The lawyer took off his glasses and began polishing them with his handkerchief while he blinked rapidly in evident discomfort. ‘It was no more than a rumour.’

‘Whose rumour? Where did you hear it?’ Inside, Harry felt a flicker of shame that it was the first time he’d even bothered to ask. There was so much about his father he
hadn’t wanted to know, at least until now.

The lawyer said nothing. He got up from his chair and moved to the window, gazing down to the dark cupola of St Paul’s. ‘I apologize, Mr Jones, I should never have mentioned the
matter. Unprofessional of me. It was only to explain any reticence you might have detected in my handling of your father’s affairs. I haven’t mentioned it to another soul. I thought it
right that I should try to protect not just his estate but also his reputation.’

‘So how did you come across this exquisite piece of gossip?’ Harry persisted.

Tallon turned to face him. ‘It was a phone call. I can’t remember from whom – the ship’s captain, the local consul, perhaps. It was a long time ago.’

‘You made no note?’

‘It’s not my habit to record gossip.’

‘Just to pass it on.’ The accusation sat between them before Harry apologized. ‘Sorry.’

‘My fault entirely. As I said, with hindsight it was unprofessional. But I saw no point in pursuing the matter: sometimes it doesn’t pay to stir up the mud at the bottom of the pond.
In any event, it made no material difference to your father’s estate.’ From the pocket of his waistcoat he pulled an ancient gold-cased watch that hung from a fob chain. He had already
given them an hour. ‘Forgive me, is there any other way I can be of assistance?’

Harry stared out through the window at the sulking sky. It had been a waste of time. ‘No, thank you. Just send me your bill.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing. Not for the son of Johnnie Maltravers-Jones.’ He stood up and extended a hand. For the first time the lawyer’s smile seemed
comfortable. ‘I shall continue to do everything I can for you, as always.’

‘I hope you’ll forgive my testiness, Mr Tallon,’ Harry said. ‘My father and I never had a comfortable relationship. It doesn’t seem to get any easier, even though
he’s dead.’

‘I understand, of course I do. I only wish there was more I could do to help.’

The lawyer sat quietly once his visitors had left, staring after them. Then he grew agitated, rose and returned to his spot at the window, moving stiffly, his limbs suddenly feeling their age.
He stood there for many minutes, gazing out but not seeing, struggling with his thoughts. It took those thoughts some time to batter him into submission, but when they had done so he turned and
reached for the phone on his desk, only to recoil, cursing. ‘No, you fool!’ he snapped at himself. Every call made from that phone was recorded, its trace left on some log. So he
reached for his personal mobile, buried in an inner pocket of his suit. Then he made his call.

It was always said of him that Harry Jones was single-minded, far more than most; at times it made him appear almost obsessive. It was both a strength and character flaw,
inspiration and potential entanglement. Ruthless, some said, and not unfairly, while others saw it as arrogance and disrespect, to a degree that it had cost him the Sword of Honour at Sandhurst and
always managed to get the nostrils of commanding officers twitching in dismay. Yet that same trait made him a scarily effective soldier, which was why they’d given Harry so many of the dirty
jobs: Iraq, Colombia, Armagh of course, and that one in West Africa. ‘His exceptional leadership in extracting his patrol and its casualties from the chaos behind the Iraqi lines merits a
high gallantry decoration,’ trilled one report after he’d dragged back the body of one of his buddies across desert and through several nights, ‘but his intemperate criticism of
the personalities involved in the operation makes it unlikely that Capt. Jones will be asked to return to Special Forces.’ There were plenty more appraisals along those lines. They did,
however, ask him back because Harry was the sort of bloody-minded bastard even
they
couldn’t ignore.

Always rushing ahead of others, that was Harry. One day it would kill him. But not today, thanks to Jemma.

‘Harry!’ she screamed, lunging after him, dragging him back just in time from the path of the taxi bearing down on him as he tried to cross Temple Avenue not far from Tallon’s
office. He was somewhere else in his head. The wing mirror brushed Harry’s shirtsleeve, leaving a graze of dirt. The taxi driver waved a fist of rebuke through the open
window.‘Arsehole!’ Harry barked, but not so much at the cab driver as at himself. Damn it, this wouldn’t have happened ten years ago. Just that morning he’d noticed that the
strand of summer-bleached hair on his head had been joined by others. The conclusion was inevitable: it wasn’t so much sun-scorch as middle age. No denying it, no matter how stubborn he got.
Tempus fugit
, waits for no man, all that shit. Perhaps that was why he was in so much of a screaming hurry. He brushed at his bruised arm and pushed ahead.

The heat of the day was rising, the crawl of traffic thickening the air. Harry headed into the cobbled alleyways and cloisters of the Inner Temple that made up the heart of legal London.
Barristers occupied shady corners, stripped to their white shirts, sweltering in their starched collars, mobile phones clamped to their ears, while around them tourists wandered and motorcycle
couriers weaved. Harry ignored it all, his heels smacking into the old paving stones as he strode on.

Jemma struggled to keep pace. She was beginning to wonder what she had unleashed. She’d been the one to push him into this chase, yet she was no longer sure it was sensible: she’d
watched him tossing in his sleep, his lips moving but making no sound as he tussled with his dreams. The previous night they’d made love – except, unusually, there had been little sign
of affection about it. Harry was an experienced lover, a man of many previous berths, but that side of his past didn’t bother her – use it, enjoy it, she’d always told herself
– and they’d developed an especially intense physical relationship that sometimes didn’t make it to the bedroom but instead upturned tables and flooded the bathroom floor. Yet
last night wasn’t Harry. It was as though someone else had thrown himself on her, demanding, impatient, intensely inconsiderate. Punishing her. Bruising her, too. When he’d finished
he’d rolled over on his side, hadn’t said a word. A stranger.