He had gone on the run, fleeing first to St Petersburg, then to Volgograd. But Fyodor’s tentacles stretched everywhere. He needed a new place to start again, somewhere he had no history and where Fyodor would never think to look for him. But where?
And then his friend Valery told him about an opportunity that existed on a different continent, in a country thousands of miles to the south. A place where a wealth of precious stones was buried beneath shifting sands.
He remembered the two of them sitting in Valery’s tiny apartment on Gorky Street. It was already dark and there was a steady drizzle. Even so, it was possible for him to see clearly into the apartment on the opposite side of the rubbish-strewn back alley that separated the buildings. He was so close he could make out the gold and crimson flocked wallpaper, the peeling paint on the steel bed frame. Even with the windows closed, he thought he could smell cabbage and potato coming from the pot on the stove, which was being stirred by a scrawny man with a bald pate. Over the shoulder of the man, on the far side of the apartment, was another narrow window and, through that window, Grachikov could see into yet another apartment. And no doubt, at the back of that apartment was a window looking straight into another living room. Tiny box upon tiny box. And here was Valery talking about a vast land with hardly any people. A place where the sun always shone. Sitting in that mean, cramped little room, the rain outside the window turning to snow, it had seemed like the perfect escape. He could start afresh in such a place and maybe, after he had built up his fortune again, he could bring Susanna and little Valka to live with him. His future beckoned. It would be a dream come true.
What he found was no dream. Namibia was situated on tropical latitudes, but this was no paradise with balmy palm-strewn beaches and shimmering oases. Of course, he knew even before he arrived that Namibia was a desert country, but this knowledge had in no way prepared him for the desolation, the dreadful horror—of endless dunes of sand and a wind that blew without mercy.
He detested this country. He had come to hate the sun. The air was so dry, he never found himself sweating, but his skin blistered easily and even now the flesh around his watch strap was raw and pink. Often, when he went to bed, he would step into a recurring nightmare in which he was being sucked into an ocean of sand, the particles filling his mouth, clinging to his palate and the soft tissue at the back of his throat, creeping up his nose, coating the inside of his eyelids. No, this was no place for Susanna. How could he ever expect her or her child to follow him here?
Only one thing made it bearable—and essential—for him to live in this country. Diamonds. He had always loved diamonds—their fire and brilliance—and the two rings with their enormous marquise diamonds that adorned his pinky and middle fingers had been bought in Russia, when he was still one of the princes of Moscow. Grachikov knew his appreciation of the stones was almost feminine. Diamonds did not just represent financial gain. They satisfied inside him something deeply sensual.
But it wasn’t easy to get a foothold in the smuggling business. The diamonds mined in this country were not conflict diamonds, but mined by legal and tremendously powerful diamond companies. Security was stupendously tight and, if you were caught, they threw away the key. Almost half of Namibia’s budget came from the 65 per cent tax on the diamond industry and it was in the government’s best interest to have tough legislation in place. Still, there is always a way. It only takes planning and perseverance. Besides which, he had found this to be the perfect base from which to handle traffic of blood diamonds coming in from Angola.
He had proceeded slowly, working his way up in the diamond-smuggling ring operating from Kepler’s Bay with caution. But he was smart and resourceful. He still had friends abroad. He was now the driving force within the ring and under his leadership their network of contacts had expanded, stretching all the way into South Africa and even as far as the Congo and Liberia. His job at the canning factory provided him with a good cover and he had also branched out into other legal but lucrative activities such as sealing.
But for a while now he had been hankering after something else. It embarrassed him to acknowledge it, but what he yearned for, was—of all things—a memorial. He wanted to build something of value. Something durable. The hotel he envisaged for Pennington’s Island would be the culmination of this desire. He did not plan on living in Namibia for the rest of his life, but he would like to know that when he did leave, the hotel would still stand as a beautiful, lasting testament to the drive and energy of one Yuri Konstantin Grachikov.
He was surprised by how passionate he felt about his project; how much pride he experienced whenever he studied the architect’s drawings. In his mind’s eye he would wander through the cool, tiled entrance hall with its vaulted roof, past the wood-panelled registration area and into the cocktail lounge with its picture windows and view of the ocean. The decor would be tasteful and minimalist. Each hotel suite would have its own tiny plunge pool. Perfect.
Or it would be, if it weren’t for Dr Mark Botha. He still couldn’t believe his plans were in imminent danger of collapse because of the efforts of a mild-mannered, soft-spoken but intensely obstinate man with an irritating obsession for birds. Who gave a damn? This backward place was barely clinging to life. His hotel would serve as a lifeline to the people living in Kepler’s Bay. They should be grateful for his ideas to rejuvenate the place. But instead of thanks, what did he get? Nothing but grief and suspicion.
The truly worrying thing was that he had overextended himself, borrowing heavily not only from legitimate financial institutions, but also from some rather unsympathetic characters who would show little understanding if he went belly-up. And the longer it took for him to start work on the hotel, the more that prospect seemed likely.
But he must not even allow himself to think such defeatist thoughts. Ultimately, he would prevail. He had underestimated Mark Botha, but he could still change the good doctor’s mind. Offering him money didn’t work, so maybe the time had come to take off the gloves.
The face of Adam Williams suddenly came into his mind again and he frowned. This was a dangerous man. But even dangerous men had their weaknesses. Grachikov smiled grimly. He would make it his business to find out what Adam Williams’ might be.
FOURTEEN
THE ANIMAL TROTTED through the open gate and continued down the long avenue of trees, the play of moonlight and shadow drawing fugitive patterns on its broad chest and thick pelted back. He was a large male. His tongue was lolling. Once he stopped and lifted his nose as though to scent the air, but then he continued his journey, moving effortlessly.
He had reached the house. Trotting through the wide-open front door, he started up the shallow steps of the curved staircase. And now he was moving on silent paws down the moonlit hallway. His paws barely brushed against the slippery floor and he threw no shadow against the moon-washed walls. On and on he went, down that long passage with its row of smooth closed doors. On and on he went, toward that one room at the end of the passage with its door open.
He was at the threshold. He crouched down till his belly touched the ground; his senses locked on the soft breathing of the sleeping figure in the bed beneath the window. The window was open. A breeze pushed against the white net curtains like a ghostly hand and gently lifted a few tendrils of hair at the soft, veined temples of the woman sleeping in the bed. She stirred and sighed.
The animal delicately stretched out one paw and moved stealthily forward. The muscles in his massive shoulders bunched. His eyes were phosphorescent blue and glowed like coals inside his head.
And then he entered the room.
Justine jerked awake. In a terrified daze she bolted upright and groped, panic-stricken, for the bedside lamp. Heart hammering erratically inside her throat, she pulled the bedclothes up to her chin like a frightened child and sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, eyes blinking in the sudden light.
What was happening to her? This was the fourth night in a row that she had woken up in ter
ror. Every night she went to bed and a phantom shape glided silently through her dreams. And every night he got closer. During the previous night visits, the wolf had stopped at the threshold, had hovered just outside her door. But tonight he had entered the room.
Still clutching the sheets with one hand, she leaned sideways and opened the drawer of the bedside table. She desperately needed a cigarette. Her fingers found the packet of Dunhills and her lighter. The feel of a cigarette between her lips and the familiar rasping sound of the lighter was comforting and she leaned back against the bedpost and sensed her heart slowly calming itself.
It was dead quiet. For a while she sat quietly smoking. The light from the bedside table was soft and the corners of the room were in shadow, but as she let her eyes wander through the room, there was more than enough light for her to see. The green corduroy jacket hanging from the back of the chair. A cup and saucer with coffee stains. A dead tulip in a glass of water.
And pictures. Many, many pictures. Dozens of black-and-white prints—not only contact sheets, but also enlargements. Pictures taped against the walls, spread out on the bare floorboards and stacked in glossy piles on every available surface. Pictures of rooms and passages, of twilit gardens and quiet walkways. And hidden in their depths a ghostly shape lurking behind doorways, or staring at her with glowing eyes. A wolf. A wolf, which was now invading her dreams as well.
And there was something else. She couldn’t shake the sense that there was a connection between the elusive animal who haunted Paradine Park and the man who had left the house a fugitive almost a decade before. They were linked. How, she didn’t know, but the feeling was too strong to ignore.
Drawing deeply on the cigarette, her eyes settled on the grainy photocopy of Adam Buchanan’s face. The strong jaw, the hard mouth and uncompromising stare. He was not easy company to have in the room. His eyes were so unflinching. More than once she had considered removing him from her wall, but each time she held back. There was a connection between this man and the wolf. If she looked hard enough, surely she would find it…
To hell with it. This was insane. Clearly, she needed help. She glanced at the alarm clock; the hands stood at ten to three. Stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray, she picked up the phone and, without hesitation, dialled Barry’s number.
The phone kept on ringing in her ear. Was he away? She hadn’t seen or spoken to him since Jonathan’s funeral more than three months ago when she had taken off, hiding out in a friend’s house in Greece. But then there was a click and his voice, hoarse and groggy with sleep, answered.
‘Hello?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I need your help.’
There was a long silence. Then he said, ‘I was wondering if you were ever going to call.’
‘I’m driving to London tomorrow. Can I see you?’
His answer was immediate. ‘I’ll be here.’
• • •
BARRY WINTHROP. A good man, her mother had called him and she certainly could not fault this description. He was a man who would go the distance. He had stuck by her through it all. Drugs. Anorexia. Her suicide attempt. He was the one who had discovered her after she had sawed away at her wrists; who had scooped her out of the bath, placed her in the back seat of his car where she had sagged against the door, sick and confused. She had only the vaguest recollection of what happened next as he drove the car to its limits. All she remembered was the squeal of tyres, traffic lights throwing nightmarish smears on the gleaming tarmac, white tiled walls and bright lights inside the hospital. His face was the first face she saw when she came out of surgery. And afterward he had sat with her hour after hour, he and Jonathan taking turns, the two men who had taken it upon themselves to look out for her.
Barry was kind and wise and he had a wry sense of humour. He cared for her deeply and the truth of it was that she treated him abominably. They were lovers, but she was not faithful to him. Whenever she was in England, they would spend their time together quite happily for a few weeks, even months. But then she’d get restless and accept an assignment that would take her away to cover some or other bloody conflict at the edge of the world. And during these periods of absence she would share her bed with other men—journalists, fellow photographers; like herself, members of a motley band drawn to turmoil and death like maggots to meat.
Barry was aware of her infidelities and they caused him pain, but whenever she turned up on his doorstep, he always accepted her back. He had asked her several times to marry him and each time she had said no. But she had also made sure to keep the possibility alive; allowing him to think there was hope. She knew she was being selfish. She knew she was being cruel. But she did not want to lose him, even though she refused to share her life with him. The idea of giving him up was unthinkable. He was a rock. He was her safe harbour in a mad world.
He opened the door almost at once after she had rung the bell and when she saw his face it felt as if she had never been away. She walked into the apartment and here, too, everything was just as she remembered it; cramped and cosy with a shabby velvet sofa, fringed lamps and the walls covered with gilt-framed oils and watercolours.
But a lot had happened in the time they’d spent apart and for a moment, as they stood in the middle of the room, there was an awkward silence.
But then he leaned forward and rested his hands on her shoulders. ‘Justine. I’ve missed you.’
Placing her arms around his waist, she drew closer and rested her head on his chest. The jersey underneath her cheek was scratchy and she could smell his aftershave. Feeling his warmth, hearing the thud of his heart underneath her ear reminded her how very fond she was of him. The tension brought about by the previous night’s dream was starting to disappear.
‘Tea?’ He pushed her gently away.
‘Coffee.’
‘Of course. I won’t be a minute.’ He smiled and disappeared into the tiny kitchen. She heard a cupboard open, then the clink of spoons and cups.
As she waited she thought back to when she had first met him seven years ago when his magazine had bought some of her pictures. She had sent him some photographs of a Somalian warlord and his soldiers and he had called her back.
She had been very proud of those photographs. There was something brutally beautiful in the elongated oval faces, in the khat-hazed eyes. The thin elegant limbs, the long fingers cradling the AK-47s so casually, were splendid images. They radiated a kind of evil allure which repulsed, but also attracted.
Barry had studied the photographs without saying a word, scrutinising the images intently. She stood by, slightly alarmed at his silence and the intensity with which he was examining the prints.
Finally he straightened. ‘These are good.’
‘But?’
‘But I find them offensive.’
She flushed. ‘The business of death is always offensive.’
‘No. That’s not what I mean. The way you treat the subject matter. The style you’ve given them. You’re glamorising evil.’
She was outraged, but afterward in the solitude of her bedroom, she had found the courage to admit to herself that he may be right. And despite the criticism, he had accepted the pictures. This, in turn, had brought her new work. Barry was her most demanding critic, but also her biggest supporter. Over the years he had acted not only as an editor, but also as a kind of agent, constantly on the lookout for new opportunities that might further her career.
‘I’m sorry,’ Barry was emerging from the kitchen, a tray in his hands. ‘I’ve had to use instant—as you haven’t been around, I didn’t think to stock up on the good stuff.’
‘Instant’s fine.’
For a while they were quiet as they sat opposite each other at the dining table. Then he placed his cup carefully on his saucer and looked her full in the face. ‘So what’s wrong?’
She leaned forward and opened her camera bag, extracting the folder with pictures.
He opened the folder and took out the pictures one by one.
She watched his face; the way his expression changed from casual interest to frowning concentration.
He looked up. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘I wish I knew.’
‘I take it these images have not been manipulated.’
She shook her head. ‘Absolutely not. And I can tell you now that when I shot these, I was alone. But when I did the developing, there it was. A wolf in my house.’
He picked up the photograph, which showed the animal poised on the staircase. ‘Damn odd-looking wolf, this.’ He squinted. ‘If it is a wolf.’
‘Well, whatever it is, it damn well wasn’t there when I took the picture. You believe me, right?’
‘I do, of course.’ He lowered the photograph in his hand and leaned back in his chair. ‘Suppose you tell me exactly what happened. First of all, where is this place exactly? Paradine Park? Tell me about it.’
He kept his eyes on her face while she talked, pressing his thumb against his lower lip the way she had seen him do a hundred times before. It was always a sign that he was troubled.
When she stopped talking, feeling suddenly spent, he said quietly, ‘It sounds like a bad place, Justine.’
‘It’s an unhappy house, yes.’
‘Maybe you should think about moving out.’
‘Why?’ Her voice was sharp. ‘Afraid I’m losing my mind?’
‘Of course not. But why would you want to go on living there? Putting these pictures aside for the moment, it still sounds like a desperately creepy place. You should leave.’
She shook her head vehemently. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s just… I don’t know. I just can’t. And besides, my flat’s on a long let. I won’t be able to go back for another six months. Plus I can’t face London yet. I need more time.’
Writ in Water Page 74
