The Forest of Souls

by Carla Banks

  ‘Sit.’ Yevanov directed him to a chair. Jake ignored the instruction. He was tall, but so was Yevanov, and he wasn’t going to give the man the advantage of height if they were in for a bit of horn-locking. He stood with his weight evenly balanced, waiting to see what this was about. Yevanov seemed in no hurry. He glanced through a pile of envelopes that were lying on the desk, and tossed them into the waste-paper basket. Then he turned to Jake.

  ‘You have been devoting a lot of time to my mother, Mr Denbigh,’ he said. ‘So I assume that your interest has gone beyond the commission you came about originally.’

  ‘Yes.’ Jake didn’t elaborate. He felt under no obligation to explain himself to Yevanov.

  ‘And your current interest…?’ Yevanov’s manner was courteous, but Jake could detect the chill underlying his words.

  ‘Is a project Miss Yevanova has agreed to help me with,’ Jake said.

  ‘I see.’ Yevanov looked out of the window into the garden. ‘I want you to understand my concerns,’ he said. ‘My mother survived a dreadful war. She did that partly by her own determination and will. She learned lessons that may be useful in wartime, but are perhaps not so useful in other situations. She has learned, for example, that the will to make something so can often, indeed, make it so, simply because others will it less.’

  He paused and looked at Jake to see if he was following. Jake nodded, still uncertain where this was going, and waited for Yevanov to continue.

  ‘She has a great attachment to the son of a family friend. His parents are dead and the young man is in trouble. She told you about this?’

  Nick Garrick. This was all about Garrick. Jake began to see the way the land was lying. He nodded again, this time letting his previous puzzlement show. ‘She told me,’ he said.

  Yevanov’s mouth tightened as if he had heard something he expected but didn’t welcome. ‘Mr Denbigh, my mother does not understand the way the systems work here–why should she? She has had no contact with criminal law in this country. It would be better if she doesn’t attempt to interfere. I am unhappy that she is providing legal support–there is no need. The state will provide what is necessary. I am unhappy that she is prepared to give this young man accommodation. I don’t want her involvement to go any further.’

  Jake nodded, his mind working quickly. He still wasn’t sure where this was going, but he’d done as much as he could in relation to Nick Garrick–if Yevanov’s intention was to warn him off, it was too late.

  Yevanov turned back from the window and looked at him. ‘I am certain she has found, or will find, a way to ask you for help in this matter.’

  Jake met the other man’s gaze. ‘She asked me to use my contacts to find out what was going on,’ he acknowledged. ‘I suspect she’s over-estimated how much I can do.’

  Yevanov’s expression suggested that, in his opinion, over-estimating Jake’s talents would not be difficult. ‘I would be obliged if you would resist any attempts my mother makes to involve you, including this.’

  Jake wondered what was really bugging Yevanov. Jake’s involvement with Garrick had been minimal, and his visits caused no stress to Miss Yevanova as far as he could tell–quite the reverse. The protective Mrs Barker would not have been so accommodating if she had perceived him as inimical to her charge. He kept his response neutral. ‘As I said, there would be very little I could do anyway.’

  ‘So why, exactly, are you here today?’

  ‘To talk to Miss Yevanova about Minsk. I’m working on a book.’ There was no reason not to tell Yevanov that.

  Yevanov’s eyebrows arched with carefully measured incredulity. ‘What kind of book would that be, Mr Denbigh? Some sort of backpackers’ guide?’

  ‘Someone’s already written one,’ Jake said equitably. He wasn’t going to let Yevanov get under his skin. ‘I’m working on the story of its recent past.’

  ‘The story,’ Yevanov said. ‘I see. And this would be about the war?’

  ‘Partly,’ he said. ‘And the pre-war period. I’m interested in the Stalinist massacres.’

  For a moment, Yevanov was distracted. ‘Kurapaty,’ he said. His eyes measured Jake with more interest. ‘Not many people know about that.’

  ‘That’s something I’d like to change.’

  Footsteps moved along the corridor outside, and a door slammed in the distance. Jake’s attention was drawn to the garden beyond the window, where an overalled figure was pushing a wheelbarrow across the lawn.

  Yevanov’s gaze followed his, and as Jake glanced back at him, he saw the man’s expression set in cold anger. He looked back to the garden, and realized that they were watching Nick Garrick, who was emptying the contents of the barrow on to the flower bed.

  ‘Very well,’ Yevanov said. His voice sounded almost indifferent. ‘My mother is tired this morning. She asked me to tell you that she will be available tomorrow, if you wish.’ He turned away from Jake and stood in the window, watching Garrick as he worked. And everything about him told Jake, as clearly as if he had spoken it out loud, that Yevanov didn’t want Nicholas Garrick in his house, or anywhere near him.

  Faith had a busy weekend ahead, for which she was thankful. Instead of the plans she’d made–helping with Hannah’s party, having a drink with Helen, walking in the hills if the weather was fine–she was going to work. She was glad of the task that Antoni Yevanov had set her. It had the same effect that organizing a funeral must have, the organization and the planning giving the bereaved something to focus on as they came to terms with the loss. Faith was not religious. She didn’t share her mother’s Catholicism. For her, the conference at Bonn would serve as a memorial for Helen.

  She sat at her desk in the dormer window and watched the light creeping across the rooftops and gleaming from the slates. She couldn’t devote the whole weekend to this. There were other things she needed to do. She needed to think of a way of seeing Hannah and Finn, and the problem of Grandpapa nagged away at her mind.

  As she loaded Helen’s disk and began to search through the files, she thought about the evening before. Grandpapa had seemed okay when she’d left, but she could remember the food he’d put in front of her, the draniki blackened on the underside, the grated potato still half raw. He hadn’t seemed to notice. And he’d been distracted and edgy. He hadn’t let her draw the curtains, and his eyes had kept wandering to the darkness of the window that looked out on to the garden. The night had been stormy. She could hear the sound of the trees soughing in the wind, and the branches of the creeper scraping against the window.

  But he’d been cheerful enough, making disparaging comments about the wine and telling her off for worrying about him. I am old, he’d said. And there’s nothing anyone–not even you, little one–can do about it. She’d felt uneasy about leaving him, but he’d seemed almost glad to get her off the premises, refusing to let her clear up, rushing her with concerns about driving back late, and agreeing in a hurried way to another evening the following week.

  Her laptop beeped. It had finished searching. She looked at the list of files and began to check them more closely to see which one contained Helen’s draft. She’d expected it to be clearly marked, but none of the obvious titles had appeared.

  Helen’s files were full of interesting miscellany: interviews, memorials, collections of jokes, rhymes, folk wisdom, old recipes. There were articles and commentaries that clearly related to the paper that she had been working on, but nothing Faith tried could locate the draft that she was looking for. She wondered what was going to happen to all this material Helen had collected. Presumably it would go in the archives at the Centre for future researchers.

  The thought of the archives reminded her of Helen’s visit to the Old Hall. Yevanov said that she’d gone to look at some ledgers from an old mining company, the Ruabon Coal Company. She put ‘Ruabon’ into the search box, and tried a search with wild cards, but it didn’t find anything useful. There was nothing about Ruabon on Helen’s disk either.

  She ea
sed the back of her neck with her hand and stretched, not certain what to do next. She went down to the kitchen and switched on the coffee machine. The cat emerged from some corner where it had been sleeping, stretched, and began twining round her ankles. Faith made herself some coffee and sat on a stool by the window. The cat leapt up on to her knee and curled up, purring. She stroked it absently.

  Her first pet had been Katya’s old dog, Mooch, a threadbare spaniel who had died when she was seven. She’d cried for three nights for Mooch, and then Grandpapa had brought her a kitten from one of the factories he visited. It was a tiny, spitting thing with needle claws. ‘She has a bad foot, see?’ Grandpapa had said. ‘The cats there, they work. She can’t work, so she will die. She needs you to look after her, little one.’

  The phone rang and she picked it up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is that Faith? Faith Lange?’ It was a man’s voice, unfamiliar.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Jake Denbigh. We met at your…’

  ‘I remember.’ she said. ‘How are you?’ She could picture him leaning in the doorway as they talked, looking at her with speculative interest. He’d said that he wanted to talk to Grandpapa again–he’d asked for her number so he could get in touch.

  I’m fine. Listen, I’m sorry to disturb you at home, but I was just going through my notes from the other day and I found

  She thought about the cut-down rose stems scattered on the grass. ‘I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to talk to my grandfather again, not just now,’ she said quickly, surprising herself.

  ‘No, it’s something else.’ There was a moment’s silence. ‘Is Mr Lange ill?’

  ‘He’s okay. He’s just a bit tired.’

  He read her meaning in her tone rather than her words. ‘I’m sorry if he isn’t well,’ he said. ‘Look, I found something of your grandfather’s in among my things. I must have picked it up by mistake. I don’t want to trust it to the post. I could take it round, but…Oh hell. To be honest, that woman who looks after him scares the life out of me.’

  Faith laughed, but she could understand what he meant. Doreen’s unmoveable grimness could be unnerving. ‘I thought journalists were–I don’t know–intrepid, or something.’

  ‘The word you’re looking for is chicken,’ he said. ‘I’m going away, so it’ll have to wait until I get back, but can I drop them off with you? Next weekend sometime?’

  He hadn’t told her what it was, this something he didn’t want to trust to the post. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Didn’t I say? Sorry. It’s just a couple of photos. Old ones–that’s why I don’t want to post them.’

  ‘Old photos?’ She thought about the ashes on the bonfire, and then she remembered Grandpapa going through the photos once, twice, then sitting there looking lost and puzzled. He couldn’t find what he was looking for, so he had burned the lot.

  ‘I think it’s his family,’ Denbigh was saying. ‘We were looking at them when you got there the other day. I’m sorry I…’

  ‘His family? You mean me, my mother?’

  ‘No.’ His voice had changed slightly. ‘His family, you know, from…Poland. I could send them back by courier, I suppose.’ He sounded doubtful.

  Old photographs. She could see the flames licking round the paper, the paper curling up and blackening, the pictures darkening into nothing. ‘No. Don’t do that,’ she said, a bit too quickly. ‘He’s bad about answering the door,’ she improvised. ‘It’s best if you give them to me.’

  ‘I can do that,’ he said. ‘Let me buy you a drink to make amends. I’ll be back on Friday. Why don’t I…’

  ‘I’d really like them before then.’ She wanted to see the pictures. ‘When are you leaving?

  ‘It’s tricky. I’m going up to London tomorrow evening. I’m flying from Heathrow first thing on Monday. And I’m…’ There was a pause, then he said, ‘Are you doing anything tonight?’

  Tonight. Today was the day when Hannah should have been having her party. Faith had promised Helen that she’d help out. Tonight, the two of them should be sitting down with a bottle of wine to recover from the impact of fifteen five-and six-year-olds. She could hear Helen’s voice, speaking in her head. We’ll collapse with a bottle and talk about the joys of children…

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not doing anything.’

  ‘Okay–look, I’m pretty much booked up until about eight, but I could meet you somewhere after that.’

  She thought quickly. She didn’t want to go into Manchester on a Saturday night, but she didn’t want to leave the photos with him. She had a sudden vision of him making the short detour to Grandpapa’s on his way to the motorway and pushing the photos through the letter box. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Where should we meet?’

  ‘Do you know central Manchester? There’s a club in Barton Arcade, near the TV Centre that’s quieter than most. It’ll get busy later, but we should be okay early on.’

  ‘I know it.’ It would mean driving, but she wanted those photos. They agreed to meet later.

  She drank the rest of her coffee, and went back to work.

  * * *

  Jake hung up. That had been interesting. He’d wanted an opportunity to talk to Faith Lange, to try and get more information about her grandfather’s background. She might plead ignorance, but she’d lived with Lange right through her childhood. There was probably no one who knew the old man better. She would have picked up the random bits of information that people let drop over the years, and those random bits were the ones that Jake could use to build a larger picture.

  He’d expected some problem explaining why he couldn’t just return the photos directly to Lange, but to his surprise, she had jumped at the idea that Jake should give them to her. His antennae were twitching in earnest now.

  Faith Lange hadn’t known anything about those photos–she apparently had no idea they existed. And Lange had buried them away, pushed them in among some pictures he surely wouldn’t have looked at again–almost as if he couldn’t bear to acknowledge their existence. Minsk, he had said. It was in Minsk…And Sophia Yevanova had confirmed it: Oh yes, this was taken in Minsk. He wanted to see Faith’s reaction when she looked at them.

  Unfortunately, he was now double-booked for the evening. He picked the phone up again and called Cass’s number. He got her answering service, which was a relief. He didn’t want to get involved in any arguments. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘It’s Jake. Something’s come up to do with work–I’ll have to cancel tonight. Sorry for the short notice. I’ll call you when I get back.’

  Faith went back to her search of Helen’s files, but she found it hard to concentrate. Photos. Jake Denbigh had found photos of Grandpapa’s family, on the day of the interview. If it hadn’t been for the fact he had taken them away–and she wasn’t sure she was convinced by his explanation that they had got mixed up with his notes–they would have burned with the rest. She looked at her watch impatiently, but it wasn’t quite midday.

  She set up a keyword search designed to flush out the elusive paper, but after half an hour she had run out of key words to try. She hadn’t found anything that looked remotely like a draft. Okay, she was going to have to do this the hard way. She started opening individual documents and skimming them. After a further hour, her head was aching. It wasn’t there.

  That was ridiculous. Helen had talked about a draft. She had promised to give Faith a copy at the meeting that they’d never had. Where would it be if it wasn’t on her computer? Her head was aching and her shoulders felt stiff from the time she’d spent over the keyboard. She stared out of the window as she thought. In the distance, she could see the line of the high moorland. The horizon looked blurred as though it was raining on the hills. It was up there where Helen had gone, chasing her obsession with old papers, looking for…Many thousands…

  Faith tapped her fingers on her desk in frustration. The only other place to look was among Helen’s papers at home, which at least gave Faith the perfect excu
se to contact Daniel.

  She tried the number of the house in Longsight, but there was no reply. Daniel must have taken the children back home–he’d said he wanted to do that as soon as possible. She tried the Shawbridge number, and got him straight away. ‘Kovacs.’ His voice sounded wary and distant.

  There was a pause on the other end of the line when he realized who it was. ‘Faith,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m a bit busy…’

  ‘I know you must be,’ she said. ‘I won’t keep you. How are you? How’s Finn, and Hannah?’

  ‘They’re coping,’ he said. ‘Look, I’ve got to…’

  ‘I’ll be quick,’ she said. She explained about Yevanov’s plan for Bonn. Recalling Daniel’s hostility the last time they’d spoken, she avoided using Yevanov’s name and just talked about the Centre. ‘I want to do this. But I need her notes–I think she’ll have kept those at home.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ he said. ‘Now?’

  ‘It mattered to Helen.’

  ‘Yeah.’ His voice was heavy. There was silence on the other end of the line and she waited tensely until he spoke again. ‘There’s a whole room full of stuff,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t know what to do with it.’ He seemed to have forgotten about being in a hurry. ‘Books, papers. I dunno. It’d take you a week to go through that lot.’

  ‘I know what I’m looking for,’ she said. ‘It won’t take me long. I could help you sort it all out if you want.’

  ‘Maybe.’ There was silence again. ‘Look, come across tomorrow. Come about eleven, okay? I’ll be around then.’

  ‘Eleven. Fine. If you want to go out, I could keep an eye on Hannah and Finn for a while.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘They’re out for the day tomorrow. They’re going to my mum’s.’

  She was committed to the visit now. And she suspected that if she tried to change it, he’d just say he wasn’t available. ‘I’d like to see them,’ she said.

  ‘Another time. Look, I’ve got to go.’ He hung up.

  Faith sat back in her chair after she’d put the phone down. It looked as though Daniel planned to cut her out of the children’s lives. She had been Helen’s friend, and she was probably now the target of all the anger he’d felt towards his wife. She wondered what to do. She could just go across tomorrow, check through Helen’s papers and try and arrange another visit–but she felt a nagging anxiety about Finn. His silence and his strange hostility didn’t look like something as healthy as grief. There was something wrong, and she wanted to find out what it was.