A Ghost at the Door (5 page)

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

He blinked in gratitude, was elsewhere for a moment before he returned to his tale. ‘Anyway, I got a call from the chief of the port police. About your father, Mr Jones. Courtesy call,
nothing for me to do, but I wandered down nonetheless.’

‘Why?’

‘Dunno. No need, not as a consul. But my wife . . . Anyway, it was a fine day. I needed the exercise.’

‘The consulate is near the port?’

‘The consulate? What sort of operation do you think Her Majesty still runs? The consulate didn’t exist, not beyond me and my mobile phone. I’m half Greek, Mr Jones, named
Euripides after my grandfather. We’d been living in Patras for a few years, my wife and I, living off a bit of business here and a bit more there – you know what it’s like in the
Med. One of those bits was a restaurant; I ran the consulate from one of its back rooms. Suited me, you see. Brought in the punters. Did some of the consulate stuff up at the bar, encouraged them
to buy a round of drinks for my pains; often they’d hang on for a meal, too. Yes, suited me well, right up to the time some pompous little prick of a politician turned up and started throwing
his weight around. Don’t you just hate politicians?’

‘What was his name, this politician?’ Harry asked, ducking the question.

‘Madrigan. Peter Madrigan.’ He spat out the name, but as quickly as his anger burst forth it was overtaken by bewilderment and a fresh row of furrows erupted across his brow as
fragments began to coalesce. He picked up the letter once again, studied it. ‘Henry Jones,’ he read out, then looked up. ‘Are you the . . .?’

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 weak 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.

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.