by Joanna Rees
‘Mr Wallace,’ she said, ‘this better be worth it. I’m a busy woman. I won’t appreciate it if you’ve brought me out here on some wild goose chase.’
‘I appreciate you coming, Miss Gold,’ he said.
‘So where is this . . . Gorsky person?’ Peaches asked.
‘I’ve arranged for us to see him in the Governor’s office in a moment.’
‘And he’s still said nothing more to you about why he wants to see me?’
‘No. He insists on speaking to you in person. I should warn you, though. He’s a very religious man. He says this is something he needs to clear off his conscience.’
His conscience? The sick feeling in Peaches’ stomach was only getting worse. What possible reason could Gorsky have to unburden himself to her? Was it forgiveness he was after? But forgiveness for what?
‘The Governor will see you in his office,’ one of the guards interrupted, replacing a small phone on the wall. He gestured to a set of doors on the other side of the waiting room. There was a harsh buzzing sound and the door began to open.
Governor Judd’s office was incongruously lavish, lined with law books and gilt-framed oil paintings of former governors, as well as a bank of TV screens, monitoring activity in the prison. The Governor himself was sitting in a leather swivel chair behind an absurdly large wooden desk. Behind him a window overlooked the barren exercise yard. What seemed like miles of barbed-wire fences and concrete bunkers stretched into the distance. Backlit as he was, Peaches had a chance to survey the worst hair implants she’d ever seen in her life.
‘Please,’ the Governor said in a twangy Southern drawl. ‘Take a seat.’
Ron Wallace quickly sat on one of the two chairs in front of the desk. Peaches followed suit, but slowly, letting both men know that she hadn’t come here to take orders from anyone.
‘It is highly unusual for one of our more notorious prisoners to get a visit from such a beautiful and clearly sophisticated young woman,’ the Governor said. ‘Most of the boys in here know only whores.’
Peaches could feel Ron Wallace blushing at her side. She ignored him. He may think he knew what she did for a living, after he’d no doubt paid some two-bit private detective to track her down, but he damn well better keep his mouth shut.
‘They certainly never get to see distinguished ladies such as yourself,’ the Governor continued.
‘It’s nice to find a man who appreciates class, Governor,’ Peaches said.
Governor Judd smiled, stroking the stubble on his chin, as if he wished he’d shaved. He tipped back in his chair and made a spire out of his fingers in front of his lips.
Apart from the gay guys Peaches knew, most men responded to her in one of three ways: like tongue-tied slack-jawed puppies; or like chest-beating orangutans; or, the worst kind, like leering horny teenagers who thought they stood a chance. Governor Judd was taking the latter course.
‘If I may ask, Miss Gold . . . What is your connection to the prisoner?’
‘I really don’t know, Governor,’ Peaches said, smiling, even though his slimy face made her skin crawl. ‘That’s what I’m here to find out.’ She turned and looked down at Wallace. He was sitting next to her with his leather briefcase perched on his lap, like a little boy.
‘Very well,’ the Governor said. ‘I was just curious, that was all.’ He nodded towards a side door, which one of the guards opened.
Two further prison guards escorted in a prisoner. He was in his mid-fifties, with his prematurely white hair closely cropped and silver spectacles on his scarred face. He was wearing an orange boiler suit and his hands were cuffed in front of him. His ankles were cuffed too, with a short length of chain, forcing him to shuffle each undignified step.
So here he was at last. The mysterious Mikhail Gorsky. But any hope Peaches had entertained that she might have met him before immediately died. His face meant nothing to her. She didn’t even feel a faint glimmer of recognition.
But his eyes were familiar enough. Gorsky was a thug. An ageing hood, his muscles turned to fat. She’d seen plenty of men like Gorsky standing guard outside a thousand bars and clubs. Every one of them was as ruthless and mean as a snake.
The guards pushed Gorsky down on to a shiny steel chair by the wall, which Peaches could see had been bolted to the floor.
‘Cuff him to it,’ Governor Judd told one of the guards. ‘Mr Gorsky is a dangerous man, Miss Gold,’ he went on, once the guards had done as they were told. ‘I recommend that you keep well back. I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.’
The prisoner stared straight ahead as the Governor left the same way he’d come in, taking the guards with him.
There was a moment of silence after the door clicked shut.
‘Mr Wallace said that you wanted to see me,’ Peaches said, making sure she sounded braver than she felt. Inside, her heart was racing.
‘My name is Mikhail Gorsky,’ the man said, his clipped English heavily accented. He sounded as if he’d rehearsed what he wanted to say. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to be extradited back to Russia.’
Peaches noticed that his fingers were fiddling with a small brown rosary.
‘What did you do?’ she asked.
Gorsky let out a bitter laugh and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Enough to know that I’ll never reach the Kremlin alive.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Peaches said, looking between Gorsky and Wallace. ‘I’m still not sure what any of this has to do with me?’
Gorsky stared at her for the first time and what she saw in his eyes made her heart pound even harder. Not anger or fear over his captivity, or even amusement or triumph over whatever information he had on her. No, what she saw was shame. Shame and guilt and self-loathing. And all of it, she now knew for certain, was because of something he’d done to her. She was looking into the eyes of a man who believed himself damned in the eyes of God. Damned because of her . . .
Then he looked down at his rough hands. ‘Thirty-two years ago, I worked for a bad man.’ Again he worked the rosary. ‘Who wanted very bad things doing.’
‘Bad things?’ Peaches said. She felt as if the floor was shifting away from her.
His eyes locked on Peaches’. ‘Miss Gold, I was the one who took you from Russia.’
Took her from Russia? Peaches felt the sickle-shaped scar on her back twitch.
‘You mean . . . You mean I’m Russian?’
Gorsky nodded. ‘Yes. You are from Moscow.’
Peaches was stunned. She was connected to Russia. She was Russian by birth. The scar was almost burning now. That certainly explained why the memory that kept coming back to her felt so strange. It had happened in Russia. The incomprehensible voices shouting . . . all of them had been speaking Russian. Albert Rockbine had had nothing to do with it, she realized. Some other bastard had got to her first. Maybe even this bastard who was confronting her now.
She felt her fists clench. Gorsky was clearly anxious to get whatever he had to say off his chest as he was already talking again, drawing a deep breath as he hurried on with his confession.
‘I was the one who took you – stole you – from your mother when you were three. And then I smuggled you into America. I sold you to Albert Rockbine in Louisiana. I supplied him with what he wanted . . . a young girl.’
His words spilt into the room and seemed to charge it with electricity.
Peaches couldn’t move. There was a loud ringing in her ears. She was desperate to hear more, or to be able to say something, but she was pinioned by shock. She stared back at him, hardly able to comprehend the magnitude of what he’d told her.
Took . . . stole . . . smuggled . . . the words raced around her head.
She forced herself to focus.
Stolen from her mother. Not given up. Not abandoned. Stolen and sold.
There was another word for that: kidnapped.
Kidnapped and deliberately sold to a paedophile.
Peaches felt revulsion so strong, she thought she might be
sick. ‘Monster,’ she whispered.
Gorsky stared at Peaches hard, his brown eyes boring into her. ‘I’ll pay for my sins, in this world and the next, Miss Gold,’ he said.
Peaches was shaking. Fury coursed through her blood. ‘But why? Why would someone want you to do something so terrible? Why me?’
‘I don’t know. I was just doing my job. Following orders.’
‘And . . . what about my mother?’ Peaches’ voice cracked.
‘I know where she is. Wallace will give you her address. Now that I’ve seen you, I’m truly sorry . . . for what I did to you,’ he said. ‘And . . . and for the terrible things I did to her. Tell your mother that when you find her.’
Before she knew what she was doing, Peaches found herself standing right in front of him. She struck Gorsky as hard as she could across his face.
‘Go to hell,’ she told him, before turning her back on him and walking away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In London in the grand hall of the Dorchester, at Cancer Cure’s annual Gala Lunch, Emma was expecting to hear her name, but her hand still flew to the diamond and platinum necklace Julian had given her when Arabella Constantine, the secretary, announced that Emma had been selected as the new chairwoman of the UK’s leading cancer charity.
Triumph coursed through Emma as she stood up, listening to the applause around her. As she made her way through the tables to the podium, she wished someone close could be here to see her. If only Victoria McCorquodale had been able to get away from Scotland, but Emma knew how busy she was. And there hadn’t been any point in asking Susie as she was tied up with the lambing at Lechley Park.
‘Emma’s poise and charm made her a perfect candidate to be the international spokesperson for our charity work,’ Arabella continued as Emma took to the stage. ‘Her network of contacts is second to none. And she’s worked tirelessly for our cause.’
Emma looked out at the sea of familiar faces. The Gala Lunch was a big event on the London social scene, but this year there were more attendees than ever. Emma took a deep breath before starting on the short speech she’d memorized, graciously thanking Lady Whiteley for all her hard work over the years, before initiating another round of polite applause for her.
Lady Whiteley was putting on a brave face, but it was no secret that she was furious she’d been ousted as chairwoman in favour of Emma. Everyone knew how much prestige the post carried, both at home and abroad. And in these circles, at least, it meant a free pass to every event on the social calendar, from Royal Ascot to Wimbledon. Now Emma and not Lady Whiteley would be at them all: something that Mabel Whiteley would miss more than Emma would appreciate.
Because Emma wasn’t here just to be seen. She was here to make a difference. To get rid of the old-school thinking and really shake up this organization. She was going to grow the charity and put its research programme on the international map. She knew damn well that these days it was not good enough just to be rich. You had to be seen to be doing something worthwhile with your money. And these women had a hell of a lot of money to be worthwhile with.
And now that she’d got the post, Emma was already brimming with fundraising ideas. She’d really get to grips with breaking down the pecking order in the old hierarchy and get the staff motivated. Perhaps a fashion show to start with would be a good idea – she’d get a supermodel ambassador on board, for sure – she already had a couple in mind. And a more ‘street’ image was definitely required to draw in younger fundraisers and contributors. She might initiate a new symbol too. Ribbons were so last year. Not to mention a new range of Christmas cards and gift ideas. Emma’s head was buzzing.
But first things first. Emma knew that the charity survived because of the people sitting in the audience. So after the speech, whilst the desserts and coffee were being served, Emma went round personally to each table to introduce herself. She headed for the front of the ballroom where the tickets for tables were most expensive.
‘Ah, Emma,’ her old acquaintance Yolanda De Vere Burrows said, standing up and air-kissing her on both cheeks. Emma pulled up a chair, glad that she was starting with a familiar face. Yolanda was a well-known hostess on the embassy officials’ circuit and her father and Emma’s had been at Harrow together. Emma was fond of her, even though several of her friends, including Victoria, found Yolanda’s forthright manner too blunt, a problem that was exacerbated by Yolanda’s famously excessive drinking.
Unfortunately Yolanda had been away, otherwise she’d certainly have been at the Platinum Ball. But she’d obviously heard all about it, from the way she now complimented Emma on the restoration of Wrentham and the fabled success of the party. Emma felt a frisson of satisfaction over being gossiped about in such favourable terms. She had no doubt that it was people like Yolanda that had secured Emma’s position as chairwoman. It was all about image. And the recent press about Julian’s imminent success in the FT would probably have helped, too. The Platinum Holdings shares were going through the roof.
Emma demurely batted away Yolanda’s overblown compliments, but was pleased that Yolanda had done the decent thing and had left her table of guests in absolutely no doubt as to Emma’s taste and social credentials. Yolanda then expertly segued into the necessary introductions.
‘Emma, I’d like you to meet Natalya Khordinsky.’
Emma shook hands with the woman to Yolanda’s right. She smiled at Emma. There was something fragile-looking about her, in her fine bone structure and wary grey eyes, yet she seemed hard, too, like the diamond cluster earrings in her ears and the pearl and diamond choker around her slim neck. And now Emma noticed a similarly chunky diamond cuff bracelet, Cartier watch, and whopping set of matching engagement and wedding bands adorning her slim finger.
At events like this, in a room full of wealthy women, there were always several million pounds’ worth of jewellery on display, but Emma had never seen jewels like Natalya’s before. And whilst they may be impressive, personally Emma thought that having so much on show was not only ostentatious, but vulgar too. Or maybe Emma was just jealous that her own diamond necklace from Julian seemed so insubstantial in comparison.
‘Natalya has moved to London recently and we’re keen to get her established on the social scene,’ Yolanda continued. ‘Of course you will have heard of Yuri Khordinsky, Natalya’s husband.’
Ah, that was it, Emma thought. Yuri Khordinsky. That was why Natalya’s name seemed familiar. And that certainly explained the diamonds. Emma had read a profile about Khordinsky in the Telegraph a few weeks ago, but it was news to Emma that the Khordinskys were in London. She’d read that they’d settled in Dubai.
Emma’s mind started to race at the implications of them being in town. Yuri Khordinsky was worth an almighty fortune, which was clearly why Natalya was Yolanda’s guest of honour. As soon as it was common knowledge that Natalya was in London, everyone who was anyone would pounce, wanting her to be on this committee and that committee. Before long, she’d be completely socially booked.
Emma smiled. ‘How delightful to meet you, Natalya. And welcome to London. I hope you’re settling in?’
‘I find it a little daunting,’ Natalya said, carefully measuring her words. Her accent was Russian, but it was clear that she had a lot of class.
‘I hear that you have been in Dubai?’ Emma said.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘We have friends there. It’s so wonderful for shopping,’ Emma continued, trying to make polite chit-chat.
‘Especially when you’re buying the Palm Jumeirah,’ Yolanda chipped in, but Natalya didn’t seem to find it very funny.
‘Yes, I heard. That was . . . very impressive,’ Emma said, making sure she didn’t offend Natalya.
‘Even more so when it wasn’t for sale,’ Yolanda added with a raucous guffaw, unaware of the quick dart-like frosty glance Natalya shot her way.
The profile Emma had read had mentioned something about dubious strong-arm tactics being used in the sale of the P
alm, but now certainly wasn’t the time to get into all that.
Natalya obviously agreed that this was not a suitable topic of conversation, as, for a second time, she stonewalled Yolanda’s attempts at humour, choosing to stay loyal to her husband instead.
‘Well, Yuri always says everything has a price,’ Natalya said. ‘Everything can be . . . obtained.’
Emma smiled tolerantly at this tacit declaration of omnipotence. Natalya had a lot to learn. Maybe where she came from, money could buy everything, but not here in England. That was the difference between old money and new money. Between West and East.
But Emma kept these thoughts to herself, deciding to give Natalya Khordinsky the benefit of the doubt instead. She didn’t look crass, or seem the bragging type, so perhaps her financial forthrightness was due to the language barrier, or simply that she hadn’t yet learnt the art of rebuffing Yolanda De Vere Burrows’s snipes subtly.
Yes, Emma thought, perhaps it would be a good idea to take Natalya under her wing, until she found her feet. She looked as if she might be quite charming, if not a little reserved. And in addition to the money and kudos she might bring to the charity, they had a lot in common – with both their husbands heavily invested in Russia . . .
For now, though, Emma had to move on. She excused herself, making a note to get Yolanda to host a lunch so that she could meet Natalya again. But despite her best efforts to get back to Yolanda’s table as the afternoon progressed, Emma found herself dragged into so many other conversations that she barely caught another glimpse of the Russian beauty before the guests began to leave.
Natalya was walking towards the door of the Dorchester, looking in her snakeskin handbag. Emma extricated herself from the conversation she was having and tried to catch up with her.
She wondered whether Natalya would consider it impertinent if she were to ask her about Dimitry Sergeyokov, or his wife. The aloof look of amusement which Dimitry had shot at her at the Platinum Ball was still preying on her mind. If Emma could just get one endorsement from Natalya, then her mind would be put at ease.
