A Ghost at the Door Read Free Page A

himself, yet she stirred something inside him that for several days had distracted him, made him
seem distant. He was soaking in his bath, remembering too much, when Jemma walked in. She hadn’t a stitch of clothing on her. He appeared not to notice.
    ‘Seems I need to pay a hell of a lot more than a penny for them,’ she laughed – she always laughed so easily.
    ‘What?’ he said, raising his eyes in confusion.
    ‘Your thoughts.’
    He went back to staring at his water-wrinkled toes. ‘Sorry, Jem. But you got me thinking about my father.’
    ‘I’d like you to tell me more.’
    ‘I don’t even know where to start.’
    She wrapped a towel around herself and perched on the end of the bath. ‘OK, let’s start at the end and work backwards. When did he die?’
    ‘Oh, back in 2001. Early summer,’ he replied reluctantly.
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘I’m not. Left me a fortune.’ The comment was uncharacteristically callous. His father seemed to bring out a dark side in him, yet in Harry’s eyes Jemma could see a rare
sheen of vulnerability.
    ‘Where did he die?’
    ‘On a yacht. Off Missolonghi in Greece. It was where Byron died.’
    ‘Poetic.’
    ‘Not really.’
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
    ‘I do sometimes.’
    Hell, she was persistent but she had a right to know. He sighed. ‘My father was sixty and screwing one of his women. In her twenties, apparently. Didn’t pace himself, never could.
Heart attack.’
    ‘You Joneses, you always rush things. Still, he died in bed.’
    ‘On the sun deck, I’m told.’
    ‘I really am sorry, Harry.’
    ‘No need. He and I, we . . .’ He seemed about to add something, but trailed off. ‘It doesn’t matter any more.’
    It didn’t matter? He had lied to her before, of course, as all couples do, but nothing more than modest white lies, usually to protect her. This was the first time he had lied to protect
himself.
    ‘Where’s he buried?’ she encouraged softly.
    ‘In Greece.’
    ‘Not here?’
    ‘It all got a little complicated. You see, the boat was owned by a Russian and registered in Panama. Flag of convenience, fewer rules, lower taxes, that sort of thing. And it was sailing
off the Corinth Canal in international waters. So when it happened no one wanted the responsibility, not the Greeks, the Panamanians, certainly not the British consul in Patras, and least of all a
man from Moscow who was on the make. Even when he was dead my father proved he could be a very accomplished pain in the arse.’
    ‘But what about you? You were next of kin.’
    ‘Didn’t hear about it for a while. No one could find me. It was the time when I was finishing off my days in the Army, in West Africa and very officially out of contact, doing a
little job that even our own Prime Minister wasn’t supposed to know about.’
    There had been quite a few of those, during his military career. He’d told Jemma about them, even though she wasn’t supposed to know, either; he’d had to find some way of
explaining the collection of scars that decorated his body. Anyway, there were little things like a Military Cross and Distinguished Service Medal that rather gave the game away.
    ‘No one wanted an unclaimed body hanging around,’ he said, hoping to finish with the story, ‘so someone decided to deal with it.’
    ‘But who?’
    ‘I’ve no idea. And frankly I didn’t particularly care. What the hell does it matter, anyway? My father didn’t deserve a state funeral.’ This was said in a tone that
betrayed his discomfort. Harry hauled himself up from the cooling bathwater, suds meandering in sluggish streams down his body. He’d had enough of this conversation, but Jemma wasn’t so
easily put aside.
    ‘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