by David Thorne
‘Oh? Is it something you would like to talk about?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I say.
‘Sit,’ Father Donald says, and takes a seat on a pew, leaves me room to join him. I hesitate, then walk down the aisle, sit next to him. The pew is hard and narrow and smells of furniture polish.
‘You are not a Catholic. I remember that much,’ Father Donald says. He smiles. ‘But sometimes talking helps, regardless of faith.’
‘I helped a young woman,’ I say. ‘But I feel that I have let her down. Through my behaviour. And I also now worry that I have left her in danger.’
I explain to him about CJ, how I intended to provide her with a safe and secure environment but how my problems with Maria eroded that security, caused her to doubt me and my intentions. Father Donald listens in silence, nodding occasionally. When I have finished, he sighs deeply and looks around his church.
‘Mr Connell—’
‘Daniel, please.’
‘Daniel, we Catholics are famous for the guilt that we carry around. Are you sure you’re not one of us?’ He smiles gently, does not wait for an answer. ‘You set out with the best of intentions. And it does not sound to me that you did very much wrong. We can never mitigate entirely for another person’s history. What happened to this young woman in her past was not your fault. How she reacted, that was not your fault either.’
I listen to Father Donald and I want to believe him. ‘And now?’
‘Now? I’m sorry, I cannot help you with that. Perhaps she is in danger, perhaps she is not. All I can tell you is that blaming yourself is pointless and mistaken.’
We sit in silence for some moments. I watch motes of dust drift past the dim light cast by the stained-glass windows and think about Father Donald’s words. He might be right. I might have little to reproach myself for. Still, though, I cannot help but worry. Why did she leave her photo of her mother at my house?
‘How are the Goves?’ Father Donald asks.
‘Strange,’ I say. ‘Maddening.’
He chuckles. ‘That’s the Goves.’
‘They create more questions than answers,’ I say. ‘I can’t get a handle on them. Especially Saskia.’
‘Ah yes. Saskia Gove.’ Father Donald nods. ‘A curious woman.’
‘Anything you can tell me about her?’
Father Donald breathes deeply, nods again, this time to himself, his chin on his chest. He does not speak for some time. Then he says:
‘William Gove worshipped his wife, worshipped her memory. He never accepted that anybody dared to take her away from him. But if he loved his wife beyond reason, I cannot explain what he felt for his daughter.’
‘They were close?’
‘Not especially, no. But there was nothing he would not have done for her. Nothing.’ Father Donald closes his eyes, thinks back through the years. ‘He would look at her with adoration. It is a look I have only ever seen before on the faces of the most fervent believers, standing before the Holy Virgin.’ He sighs. ‘Of course, every father should love their child. But this… I never felt that it was healthy.’
‘She seems used to getting her own way.’
Father Donald laughs. ‘The little girl who had everything.’ But then he stops laughing, looks grave. ‘Of course, in part I cannot blame him. After he nearly lost her.’
‘Nearly lost Saskia?’
‘When she was, must have been twenty? Leukaemia. She nearly died.’
‘Saskia Gove had leukaemia?’
‘Yes. A nasty disease. She wasted away before our eyes and I did believe that we would lose her. But she made it. Just.’
I sit back in the pew, look up at the ceiling. It is vaulted, curved stone beams meeting in the centre. Saskia Gove had leukaemia. A lot of people do. But the fact seems to have a significance, hold some further meaning, though not one I can identify.
‘William Gove told me that he would not let God do it twice. Would not allow him to take away his wife and his daughter. I remember his eyes as he told me this. He was serious. As if he could change the direction of destiny, as if he believed he had that power.’
‘He sounds like a formidable man.’
‘He was a man I am glad is no longer a member of my congregation,’ Father Donald says. ‘As unholy as that might sound.’ He reaches forward and picks up a hymn book from the back of the pew in front, as if for reassurance. ‘And anyway, with the estate in the way it is now, maybe his passing came at the right time.’
This is something I have not heard before. ‘How do you mean, the way it is now?’
‘From what I understand, it’s a miracle they haven’t sold up already,’ says Father Donald. ‘They’ve not turned a profit in a decade.’
I think of the acres and acres of fruit orchards, the workers, the infrastructure of the estate. ‘How can it not be making money?’
‘Couple of bad harvests. William Gove resisted modernizing, was suspicious of the new fertilisers, GM. Set them back. Competition from Europe, France, it’s pushed them to the wall.’
‘You sure?’
‘No. But it’s what I hear. People around here can’t work out how they’re still solvent.’
By making deals with stolen car gangs, I think. Finding other income streams. But I do not say anything. There does not seem to be much that makes sense when it comes to the Goves. I think of Luke Gove flying in, his helicopter, his Aston Martin. I wonder how much of a difference the money William Gove left to strangers could have made to his children’s lives. I am sure that they worship money like Father Donald worships the Virgin Mary.
I thank Father Donald, stand up. He stands too, tells me that he hopes things work out, and that guilt is a corrosive emotion that only ever destroys. I walk out of the church and by the time I am out the sun is sinking and the path between the yew trees is so dark that I can barely see my feet.
When I get home to my empty house I call CJ but once more she does not answer her phone. I call Maria and she answers, speaks to me but is evasive about her movements and intentions, when or if she will be back. It is an awkward conversation full of unsaid thoughts and buried feelings, and when I hang up I feel depressed and full of remorse that I did not say more, did not push harder. Finally I call Gabe.
‘Daniel.’
‘Where are you?’
Gabe laughs. ‘Waiting on a beach in Portugal for your friend Harry to show up.’
‘Oh.’ The answer is unexpected and I can think of no reply.
‘Says he’ll moor offshore, I’ll have to swim out.’
‘What’ll he do, flash you a signal?’
Gabe laughs again. ‘No. Said he’ll text me. Must be how smuggling works nowadays.’
Gabe sounds relaxed, happy; this is the kind of situation he relishes, what he joined the army for, what he volunteered for recon for. I cannot help but smile, imagining him on a beach, sand beneath the toes he still has and a bright moon above, looking out over the black sea and waiting for a bootlegger from Essex to pick him up and take him home.
I wish him luck, tell him I’ll see him soon. After I have spoken to him I have nothing more to do and I sit in the darkness of my living room thinking about CJ and about Saskia Gove and the fact that, years ago, she almost died of leukaemia. I think of the mausoleum William Gove built in his grounds, the shrine to his wife. Of what Father Donald told me: how William Gove believed that he could change the direction of destiny. The last thing I think of before I fall asleep on my sofa is Sabina Antonescu, hoeing at her miserable land, wondering where in the world her daughter Anica can have disappeared to. She, more than anybody I can think of, deserves an answer.
37
DUNCAN GOVE IS due in court today. He will receive a custodial sentence for shooting up the power company’s Land Rover, will not be back. As I drive through the gates of the Goves’ estate, he is at least one thing less to worry about. This morning began misty and all day it has been hazy, the sun lazy and warm behind diffuse clouds which seem as ephem
eral as white smoke. On the passenger seat are two heavy sacks which have taken me all day to fill. The breeze through my open windows is tugging at the black plastic and I can smell the chemicals of the plastic and beneath that the scent of paper. I can hear the crunch of the gravel of the Goves’ drive as I head towards the house. Today I will park at the front. Today Luke and Saskia Gove will not know what has hit them.
I called them in the morning and told them I needed to see them, told them there had been developments in their father’s will they needed to know about. Luke Gove answered the phone and he asked me what kind of developments, but I told him it wasn’t anything I could possibly discuss over the phone, that I had to see them in person. He gave me a time, five o’clock, and hung up. Now he is waiting for me outside his house, a small figure in front of the vast main building, between the two pillars either side of the front door. I pull up, get out and walk around my car, open the passenger side. I drag out the two sacks, pick them up. They are heavy and I can feel my arms trembling with the effort of carrying them. Luke Gove watches me in silence. As I walk towards him he says:
‘What’ve you got there?’
‘You’ll want to see it.’
‘What is it?’
‘Let’s go inside.’
Luke Gove hesitates, then nods, turns and walks briskly to the house. He pushes open the door, waits for me impatiently. I pass him and without asking head for the dining room where I first broke the news of their father’s will to them. At the end of the long table is a fireplace, wood stacked to the side even though it is high summer. I drop the sacks next to the fireplace. Luke Gove catches me up, stops in the door of the room.
‘Where’s Saskia?’ I say.
‘Around.’
‘Want to go and find her?’ I say. My tone is peremptory. Luke Gove is not accustomed to being spoken to like this, not in his own home. But I do not care. ‘Now?’
Luke Gove is still off balance, thrown by my manner and the sacks which I have brought into his home but not explained. He pauses, nods and leaves, goes to look for his sister.
The fireplace is ready for a blaze, kindling and paper laid in the grate. I light the paper and watch the corners curl, red edges chasing inwards until it catches and flames. I pull a chair out from the dining room table and bring it next to the fire. I take two more chairs, place them the other side of the fireplace. I sit down in the first chair. The fire has caught, the kindling blackening and burning orange. I can feel its heat even though the room is already warm. I put two logs on the fire, careful not to suffocate the flames. I am calm although my pulse is slightly raised and my heart feels light in my chest. There is a chandelier in the centre of the room, suspended from an ornate ceiling rose. I sit back and watch the cut glass catch and reflect the light from the fire, try to stay relaxed, concentrate on breathing regularly.
‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you?’ Saskia Gove is in the doorway. She looks sick, pale and thin and her eyes are dull, lack the vitality and spark which made her presence hard to resist.
‘Sit down,’ I say. I nod at the chairs opposite me.
Luke Gove appears behind her, frowns when he sees the fire. But before he can say anything I tell him, too, to sit down. ‘And shut up,’ I add.
They both walk across to the fireplace and Luke Gove has to help his sister into her chair, an arm around her back, steadying her as she lowers herself. She is sick, that is clear. Looking at her I have a feeling of dread, a coldness in my stomach, beneath my ribcage.
‘What is this?’ says Luke Gove.
‘This?’ I reach into one of the sacks and take out a wad of money. It is held together by a band of white paper. I throw it across to Luke Gove, who catches it, looks at it. ‘Money,’ I say.
‘I can see that,’ he says. ‘I’ve got plenty of my own.’
‘Not as much as you’d like though, right?’
‘What?’ he says, exasperated now, the petulance of the privileged.
‘Heard the estate wasn’t doing so well,’ I say. ‘Heard you were going to the wall.’
Saskia laughs softly. ‘Anybody ever tell you that you have ideas above your station?’
I ignore her. ‘The rumour is that you won’t be operating in a year’s time.’
‘It’s none of your business,’ Luke Gove says quietly.
‘Losing your father’s millions must have hurt,’ I say. ‘No wonder you were trying to bribe me.’
‘We can live without it,’ Luke Gove says.
‘So you don’t need it?’
‘No.’
‘Good,’ I say, though I do not believe him. I reach into the sack next to me, take out another brick of money. I throw it on to the fire.
‘What are you doing?’ says Saskia Gove. She sounds like a schoolmistress challenging a child caught in the act of scribbling on the walls.
‘This is your father’s money,’ I say. ‘I withdrew it from my account earlier. Two point seven million. Heavier than I thought.’
‘You did what?’ Luke Gove says.
‘I think you want this money. I think you need it.’
Neither Saskia nor Luke Gove responds to this. They look at the money on the fire. It is glowing at the edges but has not yet caught. Getting through the millions in the sacks is going to take all night. Luke Gove takes a note from the wad I threw him, examines it, holds it up to the light. It is genuine.
‘What do you want?’ he says.
‘Answers,’ I say. ‘See, this money can’t talk. But I can use it to make you talk.’ The £10,000 on the fire catches and burns brightly. I reach into the sack, take out another brick of money. ‘So here’s the deal. I keep burning the money until I get the answers I want. Anything that’s left, you get to keep.’
Luke Gove smiles. ‘You’re crazy.’ He stands up, takes a poker from a stand by the fire. ‘Get the fuck out of my house.’
I drop the money, stand up too. ‘Not going to happen.’
‘You can leave the cash.’
‘Luke, you don’t want to do this.’
On court, across a net with a racket in his hand, Luke Gove is almost a match for me. But here, now, he might as well be a child, poker or no poker. He looks at me for some time and I can almost hear his internal debate. You can do it. You can take him. You’re armed. Do it.
He takes a step forward, brings the poker through in a long arc but I step close, take hold of his arm as it comes around. His forearm is muscular but slim and it comes to a stop in my hand as if it has met a wall. It is not fair, but the knuckle on my other hand is still broken and I do not want to hit him with it, so I headbutt him. I do not put everything into it and he does not fall, though I am still holding his arm so even if he wanted to he could not. Instead he staggers on his feet. I let go of his arm and push him backwards, into his chair. He looks dazed. I take the poker from him. Saskia begins to stand but I put up a hand. ‘No.’
‘Did I ever tell you you’re an animal?’ she says. ‘A big brute. You disgust me.’
I sit down, pick the money I dropped back up, throw it on to the fire. I am breathing heavily. Luke and Saskia Gove watch me, wait for what’s coming next.
‘Ever hear of somebody called Jessica Farrell?’ I say.
‘Who?’ says Luke Gove. He leans forward in his chair, shakes his head to clear it.
‘Jessica Farrell. We’re going back fourteen years. You’d have been, what, twenty-two?’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘Your father left money to her mother. I went to visit her, tell her the good news. Her home was full of photographs of Jessica. Everywhere. See, Jessica disappeared fourteen years ago. Her mother never got over it.’
Luke Gove shrugs. ‘And?’
I shrug back, reach into the sack and throw more money on to the fire. Saskia almost says something, some kind of protest, but pride makes the words catch in her throat and she just watches the money burn.
‘How about Stacey Millar?’
‘No idea
,’ says Luke Gove. ‘Means nothing to me.’
‘Your father left money to her father. She disappeared fourteen years ago too.’
Saskia Gove sighs. ‘Do you know that you’re ridiculous?’
‘Two girls, both disappeared at the same time. Your father left money to their parents. You know he was scared of going to hell?’
Saskia laughs.
‘Seemed to think he could buy his way in,’ I say. ‘Grease some palms. What was he atoning for?’
‘He was disturbed,’ Saskia says. ‘Loopy. His mind went years ago.’
‘Was that after your mother died?’
But I have lost Saskia’s attention and she just shakes her head vaguely, goes back to looking at the fire where thirty grand is up in flames. I reach into the sack and throw on another ten.
‘Christ’s sake,’ says Luke Gove. ‘What do you want?’
‘How about Anica Antonescu?’
‘Jesus,’ says Luke Gove. ‘No. No no no. Never heard of her.’
‘I think you have,’ I say. ‘I know how you are with women. You abuse them and then pay them off. You bought a girl called Claire a car. Why did you do that?’
Luke Gove does not answer this, watches me with hatred.
‘She told me about Unit Five.’
This gets Saskia’s attention; she turns, says, ‘What about it?’
‘Said your brother took her there.’
‘Oh.’ Saskia laughs. ‘Naughty Luke.’
‘I think you know about the disappearances of these girls,’ I say to Luke Gove. ‘I think they all worked on this estate. Casual workers, picking fruit. I think you abused them, went too far with them, and killed them.’
‘And you thought of that all on your own?’ says Saskia. In the thrown light of the fire her skin looks healthy, but when she turns to me it is white and chalky as if rubbed with flour.
‘Your father knew about it, had to live with it. But when the end came, he could not live with it any more, had to make amends. Had to find a way to redeem himself, atone for what he had done.’
