Sophie’s voice made her start. ‘What will happen to him?’ Sophie was feeling guilty. She had set out on this quest with a driven instinct to find her sister, to rebuild the family shattered even before she herself was born, and above all to bring Anya home to their mother before she died. She had not meant to ruin Don Gowrie’s chances of becoming president, she hadn’t meant to tear Cathy’s whole world apart. She should have stopped to think all round the situation before she made a single move, but she hadn’t, and now it was too late to say, Sorry, I didn’t mean this to happen, this wasn’t what I meant.
She looked at Steve miserably. ‘They won’t send him to prison, will they?’
Cathy broke out in a shaken voice, ‘What charge could they bring? I mean . . . he’s done nothing illegal.’
‘Only committed fraud,’ said Steve in that cool, contemptuous voice she hated. ‘He passed you off as the heir to the Ramsey fortune, remember? He passed you off as his child, used his real, dead child’s passport to smuggle a Czech girl into America as an American. That’s two very serious counts, to start with, and I can’t see him getting out of either of them.’
Cathy put a trembling hand to her mouth. If all this was true . . . she wasn’t even an American. She was Czech. The implications of Sophie’s story were only just beginning to dawn on her.
‘If it’s true!’ she threw back at Steve. ‘I don’t believe it, any of it!’
12
Up in his bedroom, Paul Brougham was just dressing when he heard the chopper engines, the whirr of the blades. He crossed softly to the window, pulled the curtains back and looked up into the sky, watched the machine slowly descending, the down-draft blowing the grass back and forth.
Gowrie had arrived. Paul’s eyes burnt with hatred. He had never quite trusted the man, but he had liked him well enough once, perhaps because he wanted to like him. Cathy’s family had become his family; he had been careful to weave himself into them and some of them he liked a hell of a lot. Old Ramsey, for instance, he was quite a guy; tough, yes, as old shoe-leather, but a man you respected all the same. He had principles, he believed in something; you knew that once his word was given you could trust him.
Paul had never really respected Gowrie. The man was a typical diplomat, all surface and no depth. He was smooth, far too agreeable to be true; an oily, deceptive, devious man, and Paul had always suspected he had no heart. Now he was sure of it.
But Cathy loved her father. She had been close to him all her life; he had taken care to keep her close, and Paul had taken that to prove the man loved her, but now he could see how she had been used, manipulated. Gowrie had used her to buy himself golden opinions – as a good father, a good family man, a man you could rely on. Now it would reap him dividends. How could she turn against the man she had loved all her life? However angry she might be, however disillusioned, hurt, bewildered . . . he was still the man she thought of as her father, wasn’t he? You couldn’t just discard the feelings of years like a shed snake-skin.
He heard the muted voices below him as they also stood by the window on the floor below, watching the helicopter descending. Paul recognized Cathy’s husky tones, picked up the familiar notes of Steve Colbourne’s voice, jealously resenting his presence here at Arbory.
Colbourne had never been here before, had not been welcome in Paul’s home. He wasn’t welcome now. Paul wished he could go down and throw him out, but he had too many other things to worry about. He couldn’t waste his time on minor irritations.
The third voice was Sophie’s, but sounded as at ease with the others as if they had known each other all their lives. The intimacy between them hurt him, made him feel excluded.
Gowrie had ruined all their lives with his self-seeking ambition, his total lack of scruples, and now he had been found out the bastard was trying to wriggle out of the consequences, ready to kill to save himself. It was pure luck that he hadn’t already killed Sophie.
Gowrie had to be stopped before he did more harm. He had done Cathy a terrible injury; she didn’t know yet just how much harm Gowrie had done her, done both of them. Paul closed his eyes, shuddering at the thought of how she would feel if she ever found out the truth. He couldn’t tell her. He would do anything to make sure she never found out.
He walked soft-footed down the stairs to his study without anyone hearing him, opened a drawer in his desk, pushed aside a false bottom and got out the hidden contents: a handgun and some ammunition in a box.
He loaded the gun with deft competence; he had learnt years ago how to do it quickly although he had never yet used the gun against a human being. Slipping it into his inside jacket pocket, he felt it, heavy and cold, against his heart, but that was nothing new – his heart had been cold and heavy all night.
He had felt like this before, he knew the bitter chill of grief and loss, the ache of the inevitable, the pain of unbearable choice. He had had to leave them behind once before, those he loved, his family, wife and children – leave them not knowing if he would ever return. It had been one of those life-or-death choices; well, he hadn’t really had much choice at all, unless he was ready to die, and he hadn’t been.
He had been young then, though, a man at the very beginning of his life with hope and possibility inside him.
God! He wished he were that age now; could still run and start again somewhere else, but last night something had broken inside him, some vital spring without which he could not move.
They met Gowrie as he arrived at the front door, surrounded by security men who fanned out with watchful, skimming eyes, their jackets unbuttoned and their fingers splayed across their waistcoats, ready to draw at the first hint of danger.
Cathy was white, drawn. ‘I don’t want those men in my house! They pushed me around enough last night – in my own home! They aren’t doing that again.’
Jack Beverley coolly answered before Gowrie could open his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Brougham, but I’ve had to advise the senator not to enter your house until we’ve had an opportunity to check it out for listening devices.’
‘You aren’t checking my house for anything!’ Cathy snapped at him. ‘You and your men can stay out!’
Gowrie said, ‘We have to talk though, Cathy. Look, why don’t we go for a walk around the grounds? Get your coat on, it’s cold out here.’
‘Not until these men have all been withdrawn. And I mean all, Mr Beverley. You included. Get yourselves back in that chopper and get out of here.’
Beverley gave one of his cold sneers. ‘I’m here to protect the senator! And I’m going to do my job. Your husband no doubt has his security men here! How do we know we can trust them?’
It was stalemate. They stood there staring angrily at each other. Steve said curtly, ‘You either trust us or you don’t, Senator. Cathy wouldn’t bug her own house, for God’s sake.’
Gowrie quietly said, ‘Look, why don’t we take a walk, Cathy? I’d like to see your stables. I can have a look at Mr Tiffany.’ He glanced at Beverley. ‘The stables are a safe, enclosed spot, Jack. No hidden surveillance out there. Your men can withdraw to the helicopter while we have our chat, OK?’
Steve frowned. ‘She isn’t going anywhere alone with you.’
‘Watch yourself, Colbourne! Who the hell do you think you are, talking to the senator like that?’ Beverley snapped, but Gowrie intervened in his best diplomatic tone, smooth as cream.
‘You come too, Colbourne, if you’re worried, but for heaven’s sakes . . . d’you really think I’d hurt my own daughter?’
Tears stung Cathy’s eyes. She swallowed, her face averted. All the years of growing up rushed into her head in a swarm of memories.
‘I love Cathy,’ Gowrie said in a deep, moved voice, and it was impossible to believe he was lying.
Sophie moved closer to Steve, and he looked down at her. ‘Sophie comes too,’ he said, seeing the anxiety in her face. ‘We’re not going with you and leaving Sophie alone with your thugs. They’d have her in that chopper and aw
ay before we knew what was happening.’
‘Oh, very well, all three of you, then,’ Gowrie said, as if he was reluctant – but he had meant to talk to them all together. His apparent surrender was purely tactical, part of his negotiating strategy. If you had ‘given in’ on one point, your opponents could be made to feel obliged to give in to you later over something more important.
In the house, Paul had come down the stairs and noticed the open front door. He was walking slowly towards it when the phone in the hall began to ring just as he was passing it. On a reflex instinct he picked it up. His voice was curt. ‘Yes? What? Mr Colbourne’s colleague is here to join him?’ For a second his eyes flashed with rage. So Colbourne had started inviting people to the house now, had he? Could they expect a camera crew next, complete with soundmen and electricians? Oh, yes, they would come – and the rest of the media. They would all come, crowding in on the scene like some Greek chorus, to stare and be amused, to make their comments and pass judgement on people whose lives they had envied until now, and, above all, to talk pityingly yet with hidden glee, glad that, after all, they were not them, but led quiet, safe, unremembered lives out of the sight of the gods.
He stared into the ornate gilt-framed eighteenth-century Venetian mirror hanging on the wall in front of him. His white face looked back at him, haggard with pain, convulsed with anger. Fate played strange games. Why was Colbourne involved in this? Another of fate’s little jokes? If he, personally, had not been so closely involved, Paul might even have found the irony amusing – but it hurt too much for him to summon a smile.
Colbourne, of all people. Paul had always been jealous of Colbourne. Cathy had once been close to marrying him, whatever she said now. She had sworn that she had never been in love with Colbourne, but they had been lovers, she admitted that, and Paul hated to know it; couldn’t stop his imagination picturing them together.
And now it was Colbourne who was the instrument of fate; Colbourne who had brought this calamity down on their heads.
‘Ask him to wait,’ he said bleakly into the phone and hung up. He would like to have said: tell him to get lost! But there was no point in taking such a position. He might as well face facts.
Once before he had been faced with disaster and had refused to accept his fate, had escaped – but he knew now with all the fatalism of his race, the melancholy acceptance which had always been there in his blood, behind his confidence and drive, that this time he was finished.
He had thought himself in the very middle of his life with much still to do; he had dreamt of all sorts of futures for himself and Cathy, not least a dream of having children. Thank God – at least they had been spared that.
He walked into the breakfast-room and found it empty, the table already cleared of their breakfast remains. As he hesitated he heard voices outside in the stable yard, recognized Gowrie’s voice, then Cathy’s. She sounded distraught. His forehead tightened in anxiety and pain.
He wasn’t hungry but he needed some hot, strong coffee before he went out to face her. He rang for the housekeeper.
Gowrie said nothing as they walked slowly along the gravelled terrace running round the house past the small, formal box trees in square white-painted pots which gave the house such a French air, reminiscent of Paris parks where nurserymaids walked their charges and lovers met under the blue summer shadow of plane trees. All this had been designed by Paul himself; he had deliberately brought memories of his homeland into this very English setting, and it gave the old house a very different personality, a foreign look which was nevertheless graceful and charming, and suited the eighteenth-century formality of the building.
Sophie murmured something about it to Cathy. ‘Very French, like the dècor in your house. Did you choose it? It’s lovely.’
Cathy smiled. ‘We love it,’ then her breath caught, and she huskily corrected herself, ‘Loved it.’
Steve shot her a quick, sharp look, noting the past tense, as they entered the beautifully kept stable yard. She might deny that she believed Sophie, but obviously she did. A groom was curry-combing Mr Tiffany, who immediately on seeing Cathy showed his yellow piano-teeth in that grin of mingled pleasure and mischief, tossing his head, his long chestnut mane gleaming in the sunlight.
The groom said, ‘Morning, Mrs Brougham.’ Taking in the fact that she was not wearing jodhpurs or boots, he asked politely, ‘Shall I get Mr Tiffany saddled, or would you like me to bring out any of the other horses?’
‘No, just leave that for now. Go and have a cup of tea, would you?’
He nodded and led the chestnut back into his stall, closed the half-door on him and walked away towards the house.
As he vanished indoors, Cathy turned to look directly at Gowrie, seeing the long-loved familiarity of his face and hurting because she had never really known him after all, he had lied to her all her life. Behind that familiar face lived a stranger. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’
‘Cathy –’
Angrily she stopped the words rising to his tongue. ‘Don’t lie, not this time.’
‘Cathy, darling,’ he quickly said, moving to put an arm round her, but she immediately stepped back, shaking her head.
‘It will be easy to prove the truth, you know. I only have to have a blood test. There’s no arguing with DNA.’
He had never thought of that before. No, there was no arguing with DNA. Blood didn’t lie.
‘But I don’t even need to wait for the test results to know the truth,’ Cathy said, pain in her eyes because she had loved him all her remembered life and been cheated by him. Bleakly, she said, ‘I’m not your daughter, I’m Sophie’s sister, and you smuggled me out of Czechoslovakia and into the States on the passport of your own child who was dead, was buried as me. That is the truth, isn’t it?’
‘You put it very harshly. It wasn’t quite like that, Cathy – at least give me a chance to explain.’ He looked down at her, his eyes pleading. They had been so close, closer than most fathers and daughters. How often had Cathy shared his campaign trail, sitting up with him in smoky rooms discussing tactics, knocking on doors, shaking hands in crowded campaign halls, beside him all the way. She had always been Daddy’s girl. He couldn’t believe he had lost that hold on her. ‘For heaven’s sake, Cathy, how can you doubt I’ve always loved you? Whatever they’ve said to you, you’ve always been my little girl, and I’ve done my best to make you happy, haven’t I?’
He saw the hesitation in her eyes, the struggling feelings. She might be fighting it, but she still loved him.
In a gentle voice, he said, ‘I won’t lie to you, Cathy. But you have to understand why I did it! You’ve listened to them – aren’t you going to listen to me? Don’t you think you owe me that much?’
She sighed, nodded. ‘OK, I’m listening.’
‘Thank you, darling,’ he said in a soft, humble voice.
Steve picked up that note and gritted his teeth. God, he’d like to smack the lying, manipulative bastard in the teeth. Why couldn’t Cathy see through him? But then Gowrie had had her on his team all her life. She was bound to him by old affection and loyalty. It must be very hard for her to turn against him now.
‘Despite what Colbourne says, it wasn’t for the money,’ Gowrie said, his voice ringing with conviction.
Oh no? thought Steve, acid in his smile.
Gowrie looked away, into the distance of the park beyond the stable yard, the wintry trees, skeletal and dark against the sky, but his face had an even more remote look, as if he was seeing another place, another time. ‘You’d have to have been there to understand how it happened. I had got out of Prague on a back road, into the hills. The Russians were across the border and advancing fast. Their collaborators in the Czech army and government had already shut the airport and the border posts but we thought they wouldn’t dare stop us leaving – even the Russians respect diplomatic immunity. But I had to move fast. I wanted to pick up my wife and child and get the hell out of there. But when I arrived . . .’ He
broke off, swallowing as if there was a lump in his throat.
Cathy was moved by the huskiness in his voice. He couldn’t be pretending; nobody could sound like that if they didn’t mean it.
‘That was when I heard . . . found . . . that . . . that our baby had died,’ he said in a husky, stammering rush. ‘She had been so special, little Cathy, I couldn’t take it in at first, I guess I was out of my mind with grief, so was your mother . . .’ He met Cathy’s eyes and said angrily, ‘Well, I’m too used to calling her that to change now! She has been your mother, most of your life . . . just as I’ve been your father!’
‘I didn’t say anything,’ she said in a placating voice. She had heard this story from Sophie; hearing it from him made it seem somehow different, gave her a new idea of how it had been. Sophie had left out his feelings, hadn’t seemed to realize he had had any, but of course he must have been shattered. It had been his child that died, after all. He was only flesh and blood. She found it hard, that was all, to realize that he had been the father of another child. His image kept shifting in her head, spinning like a kaleidoscope into new patterns. She was so confused. Her own image was fragmenting, too: who was she? The person she thought she was had never existed, then – so who was she? She couldn’t relate to this Czech girl, Anya – that girl had ceased to exist in 1968, she had died.
I am not that girl. I am not Czech. I am not Anya. I do not have a sister or a family in a foreign country.
But who am I, then?
‘I didn’t know what the hell to do,’ Gowrie was saying, and she looked at him, blankly – who was he? Not her father, not her father.
He said, ‘Your mother . . .’ then stopped, meeting her wounded eyes and looking away quickly, frowning. ‘My wife,’ he substituted, as if she had spoken. ‘My wife . . . was in a bad way; she had always been highly strung, and this had pushed her right over the edge. She was so desperate I thought she might kill herself. Then you toddled in.’ Again he stopped and looked at her then away again. ‘The Czech maid’s little girl,’ he added, and the pain inside her grew worse. That was what she was to him had always secretly been. The Czech maid’s child.
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