LYNNE PEMBERTON
SLEEPING
WITH GHOSTS

Dedication

This book is for my mother.

I love you very much.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Praise

By the Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter One

‘SS Oberführer Klaus Von Trellenberg was your grandfather.’ Stunned into silence, Kathryn felt an impulse to laugh. But Aunt Ingrid’s face was stern.

In the same impartial tone, the revelation was repeated, the words exploding like shards of broken glass that shattered the stillness.

‘SS Oberführer Klaus Von Trellenberg was your grandfather.’

Kathryn felt her jaw drop and couldn’t stop it. The shock induced a faint trembling and she drew in a long breath as her aunt continued.

‘Freda refused to discuss the past. It never happened, she buried it, her childhood in Germany, the war, everything that had gone before 1945 ceased to exist. She reinvented herself, erasing her Prussian past to embrace a new identity here. I think she almost believed she was English.’ A harsh guttural sound tinged her voice with bitterness. ‘I never understood Freda, we were total strangers; how we ever sprang from the same womb is beyond me.’

‘Is this why you wanted to see me, to tell me that my grandfather was a Nazi?’ Kathryn sneered. ‘Is this some kind of joke? My mother’s father an SS officer? It’s ridiculous! Her father was Kurt Hessler, a factory worker killed on active duty in 1943. He was your father too, Ingrid, you should know.’ Kathryn tried to contain the hint of fear entering her voice. ‘And your mother died of tuberculosis before the war.’ The doubt in Kathryn’s words begged to be assuaged. ‘Didn’t she?’

Ingrid was shaking her head, eyes narrowing to thin slits full of derision, and Kathryn felt a strong urge to slap her aunt’s face.

‘Your grandmother was a Prussian aristocrat. She died in Berlin at the close of the war. She killed herself.’ Ingrid’s mind drifted back to a cold January in 1945. The memory of that night, repressed for so long, flooded her mind; so lucid it startled her, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Yet the image had come to life, moving through her head like the jerky silent movies she had watched so avidly as a child. She saw herself sitting on the edge of her bed in the Von Trellenberg house in Berlin. She was shivering not from cold, but from fear, and she knew she must get down to the cellar quickly. With hands clamped to her ears, to shut out the terrible sound of bombs dropping all around, she remembered calling first for Freda, then her mother, as she ran out of her bedroom and down the long hall towards her mother’s room. Up till this moment the memory had always been in black and white, and now for some reason it was a vivid colour.

Her mother was dressed in an emerald green taffeta ball gown; her limp body looked like that of a rag doll hanging from the makeshift gallows erected from a bedpost and library ladders.

The sound of the air raid faded to nothing as Ingrid’s screams, and the hammering of her own heart, filled her ears. Luize Von Trellenberg was wearing matching green silk shoes, one of which hung precariously from her big toe, the other had fallen to the floor. With a shudder, Ingrid remembered tripping over that shoe as she stumbled out of the room. She also remembered banging her head, and thought how strange it was that she should recall this now – after fifty years. She remained lost in thought as Kathryn spoke again.

‘Are you trying to tell me that it was all lies: my mother’s childhood in Cologne; her parents; the house where she was born, and grew up; the house that was bombed to the ground? Answer me, Ingrid, was it all lies?’

Ingrid forced herself to concentrate on the beautiful face of her niece, not beautiful at the moment actually, she noted, but contorted with outrage. Still she did not reply.

‘Do you really expect me to believe that my mother’s entire past life has been a complete fabrication, and that this Von Trellenberg person, this Nazi, was my grandfather?’

Kathryn’s tone reeked of dissent and Ingrid sprang to her defence. ‘Your grandfather was an aristocrat, he was a wonderful man, well respected, much loved; you have Von Trellenberg blood, you should be proud. Your great-grandfather Ernst was a national hero, a highly decorated general in the First World War.’ Her speech slowed down, dropping pitch, and she emphasized each word distinctly as if speaking to a child, or someone who didn’t understand the language. ‘Your mother was born in our country Schloss, near Mühlhausen in East Germany, and Joachim and I were born at 42 Regerstrasse, our house in Berlin. We are aristocrats, born into great wealth and privilege; we had nannies, servants, private tutors, and we lived in grand houses, surrounded by beautiful things. If it hadn’t been for the war, we would have …’ Ingrid stopped abruptly and dropped her head.

When she lifted it again, Kathryn was certain her aunt was going to cry. Yet beyond the thin film of tears, there was something else: a burning resentment. And Kathryn had to resist the urge to remind her aunt that it was Germany who had started the war.

Ingrid stared for several minutes at Kathryn as if she was invisible. Her voice when she continued had returned to an even tone. ‘Your mother chose to deny her past; but now that she is dead, I wanted you to know, to understand. Even your father had no idea, he was told the same as everyone else.’

Shifting uncomfortably in her hard wooden chair, Kathryn tried to make sense of what the old woman opposite had just disclosed. After a few moments she rose, and pulling herself up to her full height of five foot ten, covered the few steps that separated them.

‘I can’t believe what you’re telling me, Aunt Ingrid. It seems so unreal, like something out of a movie, or the sort of story that makes fascinating reading in the Sunday supplements and only ever happens to other people.’

Kathryn loomed above her aunt who sat bolt upright in the centre of a small sofa, tiny hands clasped tightly in her lap, seemingly oblivious to Kathryn’s bewilderment.

‘You look just like your grandfather, Kathryn; in fact you’re the image of his mother, Eva. She was very beautiful, you have the same flawless skin, and honey-coloured hair.’

Silence so loud it was deafening filled the small room. An icy chill ran up Kathryn’s spine, and her blood went cold.

‘Anyway, I shouldn’t worry about your grandfather now; he died in active service, on 10th November 1944. Suddenly distracted, Ingrid looked past Kathryn towards the bay window overlooking the front garden. ‘I must prune the roses this afternoon. I’ve got a beautiful display, don’t you think?’

Following her aunt’s eyes to the cluttered foliage, Kathryn tried to pick out the rose bushes in the dense and gaudy profusion of untidy bedding plants virtually covering the tiny front garden. Forcing her voice to respond evenly, and thinking how incongruous it was to be discussing an English garden in the same breath as World War Two, and the Nazis, she said, ‘Magnificent, Aunt Ingrid. Mother always said you had green fingers.’

At this Ingrid reached forward, startling Kathryn as she grabbed her bare forearm. Her hand, callused by years of hard work, bit into the flesh as she forced her niece down on to the sofa next to her, so close their thighs touched. Kathryn recoiled from the smell of stale fish in the old woman’s breath when she spoke.

‘I can’t believe your mother ever said anything good about me. Freda hated me. I was the favourite you see, but she thought she was. Oh yes, Freda deluded herself all her life, always so vain and insolent, even as a child, kissing and cuddling Vater. But I knew it was me he preferred, even though she was prettier. I was musical, I played the piano and the violin; my father adored music, he had ambitions for me to become a concert pianist. Father always told me that I was talented, and that I would go far.’

Kathryn thought ironically that had Von Trellenberg lived, he would have been disappointed to see exactly how far his younger daughter had gone. Married at eighteen to a brutal man who had systematically abused her and her son Stefan, one night Ingrid had retaliated – puncturing Karl Wenzel’s lung with a carving knife. He had survived, but only just, and afraid to face his wrath, Ingrid had fled to join her sister in England. Kathryn would never forget her own childish excitement at the prospect of her aunt and cousin coming to live at Fallowfields. She had anticipated fun and laughter to evict the numbing silence that had taken up residence after her father and mother had divorced.

Instead her hopes had given way to bitter disappointment: Ingrid turned out to be surly and bad-tempered, whilst her son Stefan, who at fourteen was two years older than Kathryn, was sullen and menacing in his quiet cunning.

With a pang of contrition, Kathryn recalled her delight when, eighteen months later, Ingrid and Stefan had moved out. Ingrid, at Freda’s insistence, had found a job as a seamstress at a shop in the small town of Cranleigh. With grudging reluctance, Freda had then bought her a cottage on the outskirts of the town and, having done so, felt no more obligation to the younger sister she had always detested.

Last week, at her mother’s funeral was the first time Kathryn had seen her Aunt Ingrid for fifteen years. She had aged beyond recognition: an old woman standing alone in the church vestibule, leaning heavily on a walking stick, her face framed by a shock of white hair that could have been momentarily mistaken for a hat. It wasn’t until this figure was joined by a tall, good-looking young man that Kathryn knew it was her Aunt Ingrid. She would never forget Cousin Stefan’s penetrating midnight blue eyes; his gaze had terrified her when she was twelve, and it was still chilling twenty-two years later.

Ingrid began to rock to and fro, gazing unblinking into space. With a sense of shock, Kathryn stared into the liquid depths of her vacant eyes thinking about something her father used to say to her mother. ‘Your sister’s not all there.’ As a child, Kathryn had always wondered what piece was missing. With increasing unease, she chose her next words carefully.

‘You and Freda changed your name to “Hessler” – why?’

A hush followed, then Ingrid uttered a soft moan and answered. ‘It was Freda’s idea. She said it was best to assume new identities in order to make a fresh start, because it would be simpler.’ Ingrid could hear her sister’s voice as clearly as if it were yesterday: We must reinvent ourselves; the children of Nazis will be ostracized and made to suffer, like the Jews. It’s for the best, Ingrid, believe me …

‘When the war ended, I was only sixteen. But Freda was eighteen and very strong-willed; all she could think or talk about was how she intended to leave Germany and start afresh. She was very attractive, in a sultry sort of way; everyone told her she looked like Marlene Dietrich, but I could never see it. Before she met Richard, your father, she was sleeping with an American officer. I can’t remember what he was called now, it was one of those ridiculous American names like “Chuck” or “Brad”. He was working in the office for relocation of refugees. It was all such a mess after the war: misplaced people with no homes, nowhere to go. Anyway, this officer issued false papers for Freda and myself. I wanted to tear them up when Freda told me with triumph that she’d used not only her body to bribe the American, but also a necklace belonging to our mother. A beautiful old piece, that had been handed down through several generations. It was set with over a hundred baguettes, and a fifteen-carat flawless pear-shaped diamond. God knows what a necklace like that would be worth today!’

Ingrid was so preoccupied with her story she didn’t hear Kathryn’s sharp intake of breath, nor did she notice her look of profound shock as she tried hard to absorb what her aunt was telling her.

Kathryn had always known her mother was determined, but to prostitute herself ? She found it hard to accept she would stoop so low. There were a million and one questions racing around her head, but she kept quiet and allowed Ingrid to continue without interruption.

‘I will never forget the very first time I saw the necklace. I must have been about four or five. My mother was dressed for a state occasion, and I whispered to my nanny that Mama looked like a princess. My mother leaned forward to kiss me, and I stretched on tiptoe to touch the tip of the diamond drop gleaming against her bare neck. Her perfume filled my nostrils as she whispered in my ear, “This necklace will belong to you one day, my little Ingy.”

‘So you can imagine, the thought of some loud American woman, strutting around in a seventeenth-century Von Trellenberg heirloom, made me feel physically sick. But Freda merely pooh-poohed my protests, insisting that desperate means required desperate measures, and that if we were to go forward we had to forget the past. Then Freda got sick, and as usual got lucky, meeting your father like she did during her stay in hospital.’

Ingrid felt the old familiar stab of jealousy as she recalled her elder sister’s excitement at falling in love with the handsome English doctor, Richard de Moubray, who had asked her to marry him.

‘I begged Freda to take me with her to England, to a new life, but she was so full of herself and so madly in love with your father that the last thing she wanted was a sister to worry about. She thought I would be a burden.’ Pausing for a moment, eyes beginning to dart from side to side as if searching for something she had lost, Ingrid’s voice became ragged and disjointed as she muttered incoherently under her breath in German.

Kathryn watched the old woman in morbid fascination as she resumed her account. ‘I was wretched after the war, a helpless young girl, barely sixteen, a child. I had lost my family, and everything I held dear. For a while I hated my mother for committing suicide, I was very angry and I blamed her for leaving me. Only later, after I had found and read her letters, did I realize how desperate and how very sick she was in the last months of her life. Her adored son Joachim had died of gunshot wounds in a French field hospital in 1944, two weeks before his twenty-first birthday. Four months later her beloved Klaus suddenly stopped writing, and in the ensuing weeks all contact between them ceased. She tried without success to locate him. She was certain that he had deserted Germany, and his family, for ever – afraid of recriminations because of his Nazi connections. The vast country estate was requisitioned by the government, a fortune in antiques and art were looted by the Russians, I believe she even sold her priceless Fabergé egg collection. We lost everything.’

Ingrid’s lids fluttered then closed as if to shut out the memory. She began to pick manically at the tattered remains of a fringed cushion near her lap, a dark blue tangle of veins clearly visible under her papery skin. ‘Freda left not long after that and I was left stranded in that huge empty house. I hid most of the time, afraid to go out; the Russians were everywhere. I had no money or food, I was alone, except for the ghosts. At one point, I thought I was going insane, and if I hadn’t met Karl Lang when I did, I might have done so. Or joined my poor mother. I must admit, in the long, dark nights, I thought about ending it many times, anything would have been preferable to that terrible fear.’

A lump formed in the back of Kathryn’s throat and she swallowed with difficulty. The face next to her, loose and dulled with age, had suddenly reverted to that of a frightened young girl, alone in Berlin amidst the chaos of defeat. It filled her with an unexpected sympathy for this desolate old woman, who had lost her entire family in the space of a few months. It also confirmed what she had always suspected about her own mother. Freda had been a cold, callous creature, unable to love, or even show compassion to her own sister.

‘I’m sorry.’ Kathryn said kindly. She knew it sounded lame, but could think of nothing else to offer. Gently she placed a hand on Ingrid’s lap, but the old woman pulled back from her touch.

‘It’s over now, thank God; all over a long, long time ago, so long I sometimes imagine that none of it ever really happened or that I dreamt it all.’

A snuffling, followed by a scratching noise, momentarily distracted them both; they looked towards the sound, made by a West Highland Terrier, pushing his wet nose around the door.

‘Come, Sasha!’ Ingrid called affectionately. The dog’s ears pricked up instantly and he trotted towards her, leaping on to the sofa to settle in her lap. Ingrid patted the dog’s head, brightening a little. ‘Well, I have a new life now,’ waving a hand around the shabby room. ‘My pretty cottage, and my garden.’

‘Are you sure my father never knew the truth?’ Kathryn asked.

Ingrid shook her head. ‘As far as I know, Freda told him the same as she told you, and everyone else: that she was Freda Hessler, born in Cologne, you know the rest.’

Kathryn took a deep breath, knowing how important the next question was. ‘OK, now about my grandfather …’ She was surprised her voice sounded so calm. ‘Was Klaus Von Trellenberg one of those despicable Nazi monsters?’ Kathryn felt her mouth dry up, as she watched a muscle in Ingrid’s jaw twitch uncontrollably.

The old woman began to shake and Sasha growled softly. ‘My father was an officer, an SS Oberführer. He was an aristocrat, a highly respected man and a good German, who served his leader and his country with loyalty and integrity.’

Kathryn persisted, her sense of outrage and shock spurring her to confront the question uppermost in her mind. ‘You haven’t answered my question, Aunt Ingrid. Was he guilty of war crimes? I need to know.’ Kathryn was almost shouting. She was also tempted to grab her aunt by the scruff of her slack neck, and wring the truth out of her. Shit, the old witch is so controlled, she thought, and in that instant was reminded of her own mother Freda, always calm in crisis, so damn cool, when all around were reeling.

‘Ingrid, look at me please.’ Kathryn ordered.

Her aunt obliged, but her eyes were dead.

‘I accept that this man, this Nazi, Von Trellenberg, was my maternal grandfather. If he was a war criminal, I have to come to terms with that.’ She spat the words out as if eager to be free of them. ‘For God’s sake, Ingrid, I deserve to know; because if he was, it would help explain a lot of things I never understood about my mother.’

Ingrid stood up. She was a few inches shorter than Kathryn, but her back was ram-rod straight, and her thick hair rising from the top of her head like a white busby brought her almost level with her niece. She faced Kathryn, her eyes openly hostile. ‘I want you to go now, please, I’ve got a lot to do.’

Kathryn was furious. ‘That’s great, Ingrid, thanks a lot! I don’t see you for countless years, then my mother dies, and you drag me down here to tell me all about her secret past. Well, I’ve listened to your revelations patiently, and I don’t mind admitting I’m deeply shocked. Who wouldn’t be? It’s a lot to take in all at once.’ Bright spots danced at the corner of Kathryn’s eyes, and she was vaguely aware of a dull ache in her left temple.

When her aunt did not answer, Kathryn added, ‘Listen, I can easily find out the truth by researching the archives in Washington or Germany, so don’t lie to me, Ingrid.’

Screwing her eyes tightly shut, Ingrid dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘I refuse to discuss my father further. Klaus Von Trellenberg is dead; let him rest in peace.’

The hot sun streaming through the car window was very warm, heating her bare arms, but it couldn’t penetrate the cold numbing horror inside. The letters ‘SS’ and all the horror they conveyed kept leaping into her head, accompanied by a multitude of images from films: jackbooted Nazis, with merciless eyes and arrogant poise, wretched hordes of men, women and children herded on to trains for their journey to genocide.

Holding the wheel very tight, her knuckles bone white, she forced herself to erase the picture of a Jewish child in a red coat. It was a scene from Schindler’s List; the child’s face had remained with her for weeks after she had seen the film, and now it returned to haunt her once more.

Turning left off the main road, she drove up a narrow dirt track stopping at Northfields Farm. Kathryn read the name on the gate several times in an attempt to calm her nerves; then, letting her head drop on to the back of the driver’s seat, she began to shake, an uncontrollable quaking that terrified her. She stumbled out of her car, walked up to the gate and, leaning against it, gazed across a deep meadow where cows were grazing. From a clump of trees to the left she could hear the faint gurgle of a stream, the grass smelt fresh from a shower earlier and the sun was sparkling on new puddles. A large cow, the biggest of the herd, ambled slowly towards the gate, stopping a few feet from where Kathryn stood. Out of eyes the colour of dark chocolate, the animal surveyed her with mild curiosity. The intense pounding in her head started to abate, and with it the panic she had experienced earlier gradually subsided.

Kathryn stood very still for several minutes. The dull drone of insects in the hedgerows and the muted rumble of a tractor in the far distance were the only sounds breaking the stillness of the hot afternoon. She lifted her eyes to a cloudless blue sky and watched a lone wood pigeon swoop low to peck in the long grass behind the cow, who flicked her long tail angrily several times until the bird took flight.

Kathryn felt a comforting return to normality. She had no idea how long she had been there, and was surprised when she returned to her car, to see that it was ten past two. She had been standing by the gate for over half an hour and was going to be late for a two-thirty appointment in Westerham.

As she turned the key in the ignition and drove off, she thought about Ingrid’s insistence at her mother’s funeral, and during three subsequent telephone calls, that it was of the utmost importance they should meet. Kathryn wished she had listened to her first impulse, which was to refuse. She had never liked her Aunt Ingrid, and knew that the feeling was mutual. Ingrid is probably content, thought Kathryn with a smile, now that she’s off-loaded fifty years of repressed emotions on to me.

Kathryn imagined her aunt standing in the same place she had left her, next to the shabby sofa, surrounded by tired furniture, and faded fabric. Alone, except for Sasha, in her dark cottage; alone with her memories, and echoes from the past.

‘Von Trellenberg,’ Kathryn muttered the name under her breath, then elaborated, ‘Klaus Von Trellenberg, aristocrat, Nazi SS officer. Shit,’ she swore, then again louder, ‘Shit! This is like something out of a bad movie.’ She swerved to overtake a lorry, slamming on her brakes to avoid colliding with an oncoming car. With the sound of its horn blaring in her ears, she slowed down, forcing herself to concentrate on her driving.

Over and over, Kathryn told herself that her grandfather was dead, or so Ingrid had said. It all happened long before she was born, she reminded herself, and there was no evidence that Klaus Von Trellenberg had committed any crime, well none that she knew of; yet the grim reality that he had been a high-ranking SS officer remained, and with it an isolated fragment of fear.

Why had Ingrid wanted to put her in the picture, Kathryn wondered. Was there some good reason apart from the fact that she was a bitter old woman with a twisted sense of duty, who simply thought her niece should know the truth? Or was it a final act of revenge on the sister Ingrid had always detested? Kathryn toyed with the hope that Ingrid had lost her mind and that the entire revelation suggested the ramblings of senility.

She clung so hard to this hope that she almost missed the turning to Fallowfields, the house where she had been born, and had lived for the first eighteen years of her life. Her thoughts drifted back down the winding pathway to her childhood, cosseted in rural English country life with Freda, the mother who had baked cakes for church fêtes, taken her to the pony club, and watched her compete in local gymkhanas. Freda, who had grown prize-winning flowers, and had been a pillar of Kent society. With a short laugh Kathryn imagined the face of Mrs June Burrows, her late mother’s closest friend and chairman of the local townswomen’s guild, if she told her at the next committee meeting that Freda de Moubray’s father had been an SS officer.

When Kathryn pulled up in front of the house, she saw a young man poised in the act of ringing the doorbell. Stepping out of her car, she walked towards him, fixing a bright, determined smile on her face, recalling something her ex-husband Tony had said to her the first night they’d met. ‘If you’re smiling, the whole world will think you’re winning.’ The thought made her smile widen, as she held out her hand in greeting.

‘You must be Mr Grant, the estate agent?’ Kathryn stood in front of him. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

The man nodded, coal-black eyes peering from behind the half-moon spectacles decorating his thin, white face.

It hadn’t been a particularly good morning for Oliver Grant. In fact it had not started well, and had got progressively worse. His car had broken down, the train had been late, he had lost an important sale an hour earlier, and now he had been standing in the hot sun for the last fifteen minutes positive the next client was not at home. His voice, when he eventually found it, was deliberately clipped.

‘Are you—’

‘Kathryn de Moubray,’ she supplied, walking smartly past him. ‘Please come in.’

Oliver rejoined her in the hall, where he held out a long thin hand, the parchment colour of its skin broken by a clump of densely black hair. ‘Oliver Grant of Brinkforth and Sons.’

Kathryn smiled politely again, her unusual dark, almost charcoal-grey, eyes shining.

Bloody attractive girl, Oliver thought, and about to come into some money. He decided to be nice, Turn on the charm, old boy, he told himself, you never know your luck. ‘OK, Miss de Moubray, to work. First I need the dimensions of all the rooms.’

‘Follow me,’ Kathryn invited, leading the way down the gloomy hall.

Their feet made little sound on the carpeted floor, dark brown and threadbare in several places. The walls were decorated in a sombre beige-and-tan striped wallpaper, with a faded floral border at the skirting and a dado. Grant scribbled notes, muttering encouraging comments under his breath, as they entered the dining room.

‘We always ate in here before my father left,’ Kathryn explained. ‘Of course after that, my mother ate less and less.’

She stopped speaking abruptly, her attention diverted to a watercolour on the wall behind the estate agent. It depicted a fishing village in Provence. Her father had bought it from a street vendor on their first family holiday in France.

‘I really have no idea why my mother kept that horrible painting.’ The comment held a hint of apology.

Glancing at the watercolour, the estate agent was forced to agree. It was dreadful, but he thought better than to pursue the subject so he changed it.

‘Fallowfields is typical of most houses built in this area during the twenties. Red brick, and timber façade, three to four beds, a couple of acres. Three reception rooms, substantial kitchen, inglenook fireplace. A good solid family house.’

This was delivered in estate-agent speak. If he had been completely honest, which he wasn’t because it didn’t come with the job, he would’ve said that he found the mock Tudor architecture extremely ugly, the rooms dark and pokey, and decorated with morgue-like taste. The owner had obviously hated colour; one shade of dull brown was mixed with another shade of duller brown.

As if reading his mind, Kathryn announced with emotion, ‘I hate this house.’

This statement appeared to surprise the estate agent. ‘I must admit it’s not exactly to my taste either; I’m more of a period sort of chap myself, if you know what I mean.’

Kathryn was scanning the room, gazing on the Spartan effects, and shabby decor, with obvious distaste. ‘I’ve taken a few personal items, the rest of the furniture you can sell.’

She saw that his eyes had followed hers and settled on a photograph of her mother taken when Freda had first come to England, a distinct look of uncertainty on her unsmiling face. ‘My mother was German you know,’ Kathryn provided.

‘Uh huh,’ Oliver nodded slowly, his face adopting a ‘Well, that answers everything’ sort of look. His glasses slipped an inch down his nose, he pushed them firmly back into place before saying, ‘I heard about your mother’s tragic car crash. Nasty business. I’m sorry.’

Her eyes did not waver from Freda’s photograph when she said, matter-of-fact, ‘My mother died a long time ago, so don’t be.’

A short nervous cough covered the estate agent’s embarrassment. He averted his gaze.

‘Come along, Mr Grant, we’re not finished yet,’ she said in a brighter voice.

Following her out of the living room, he trudged up a narrow staircase. He fixed his eyes on the smooth orb of her left buttock; it was the closest one to him, the panty line clearly visible beneath her tight denim jeans. He wondered if she wore lacy, see-through panties – the type he ogled in magazines. By the time they had reached the top of the stairs he was contemplating asking Kathryn if she was busy next Saturday. It was the annual dinner dance at his cricket club. Oliver was certain she would enjoy it, he always did.

Kathryn inclined her head towards an open door directly in front of them. ‘That’s the master bedroom, not very apt in this case, since there hasn’t been a master in there for a very long time.’ Having said this, she left him to measure up, before stepping alone into the room next door.

This bedroom looked exactly the same as the day she had left home. There was a crack in the face of the old Dohrmann alarm clock, one of the few remaining possessions her mother had brought with her from Germany. And the rosebud-pink patterned wallpaper which Kathryn had always hated had started to peel around a damp patch above the bed. But otherwise nothing had changed, and she was reminded of another time, long ago, but not forgotten.

Kathryn squeezed her eyes tightly shut as the demons, for ever hovering on the edge of her consciousness, began to invade. A shutter in her memory clicked, and Richard de Moubray’s face appeared. Not for the first time Kathryn thought how strange it was that every time she visualized her father, she saw only his face, never his body; he always looked sad, and the image was always in black and white. Even after almost twenty-five years, however much she tried to imagine him looking happy and at ease, he always wore the same expression he had worn the day he had left home.

‘I love you very much, Kathryn, but I won’t be living with you any longer. I’m leaving to live with someone else; you will be staying with Mummy, but we’ll see each other often, and I promise you will still be my little princess.’

It was the last time he ever called her his ‘little princess’, and after that day she had not seen him for exactly eight months, five days, six hours and twenty-four minutes. She knew; she had ticked the days off her calendar when she was nine years old.

Kathryn had lost count of the times she had stood in exactly the same spot, running and rerunning the little scene in her head, certain that it must have been something she had said, or done, that had made her daddy leave.

Slowly her eyes opened and she blinked to clear the thin film of moisture blurring her vision. Each season viewed from this bedroom window had brought with it vivid memories, painful in their clarity. With tinkling childish laughter pealing in her ears, she recalled her seventh birthday.

Her father walking towards her, carrying something … He is smiling, the special smile, the one he has for her, and her alone. She is running across the lawn, long blonde hair streaming from her upturned face, rapt in childish wonderment; her screams of delight mingle with the playful yelps of her birthday present – a golden Labrador puppy.

Shaking her head to disperse the memory, Kathryn stepped back from the window to sit on the edge of her old bed. With the flat of her hand, she stroked the quilted counterpane, her fingers lovingly resting on a small scatter cushion propped up against the pine headboard. She traced the border of an embroidered primrose; it was lopsided and the bright yellow petals had faded to a dull cream. A hint of a smile flickered across her face as she cast her mind back to the kindly Mrs Crowther, her needlework teacher, who had helped her with the embroidery. A painstaking task for a twelve-year-old who was neither patient nor a natural needlewoman.

Brimming with pride, she had brought the finished article home from school to sit on her bed next to Rumple, the one-eyed teddy she’d had for as long as she could remember. The smile slipped from her face as, with a pang, Kathryn recalled her shock on finding Rumple gone, and her stinging indignation towards her mother for having thrown her beloved companion away. It was as if her childhood had departed with Rumple, he who had shared her dreams, been party to her innermost secrets, and comforted her when her heart ached.

Oliver Grant’s voice cut sharply through her reverie.

‘I’ll send a photographer over tomorrow, so by early next week, we’ll have all the details ready to send out.’

Standing up, Kathryn said, ‘The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.’ She was suddenly seized with the familiar urge to get out of Fallowfields. The house had always been oppressive, but for some reason without her mother it was worse.

Following Kathryn downstairs, after taking the dimensions of her old bedroom, Oliver’s gaze roamed up and down the back of her legs, coming to rest once more on her backside. He fantasized about her bending over his bed wearing nothing but a black G-string. He blushed a little as he felt his erection rise and with his briefcase in front of his groin, he stopped at the front door.

‘Well, I think that just about wraps it up for now,’ he said. ‘I have a meeting with the surveyor tomorrow, and I also intend to do a full inventory of the contents. It’s amazing what turns up hidden away in attics and cellars; sometimes old people die and leave a fortune in antiques – actually only a couple of weeks ago …’

The estate agent looked animated for the first time, and Kathryn suspected he was about to embark on a long boring monologue of his occupational experiences. She interrupted his flow.

‘I’m sure you’ve got lots of fascinating anecdotes to relate, Mr Grant, but I’ve got to get back to London for an important meeting, and to be honest I’m late now.’

Her clipped tone, followed by a curt glance at her watch, were not lost on the estate agent, who, looking a little miffed, clamped his mouth shut and hovered on the doorstep.

Kathryn held out her hand. ‘I want a quick sale, Mr Grant, and I don’t mind dropping the price, if that’s what it takes.’

Taking her hand, he responded, ‘You can rest assured, Miss de Moubray, I’m sure I’ll get you the asking price and a quick sale. Trust me.’

There wasn’t an estate agent on the face of the earth she would have trusted, but her face softened and she could not resist a wry smile as Oliver Grant accelerated into his full sales pitch.

‘You are in good hands with Brinkforth and Sons; we have a few potential clients who spring immediately to mind for this highly desirable residence. I know that houses like Fallowfields do not stay on the market long.’

Kathryn nodded, and watched him walk to his car. She then stepped back into the house, closing the door quietly behind her. She leaned against it, letting out a long sigh, thinking how relieved she would be when Fallowfields was sold. She gazed around the dreary hall, and as usual she was conscious of the all-prevailing sadness that seemed to seep out of the very walls. Whispering echoes caressed her ears: her mother’s heels clicking on the wooden floor, as they had done at exactly the same time every weekday morning; her voice urging Kathryn to hurry or she would be late. Yes, she would be very happy to be done with Fallowfields.

Kathryn picked up the mail from the hall table. She stuffed it into her shoulder bag before running up the stairs two at a time to close an open window which she had spotted on her arrival. She was panting as she reached the landing. Hesitating on the threshold of her mother’s bedroom she tried to recall the last time she had been in there. Five, six years, maybe longer, she couldn’t remember exactly, all she did know was that she dreaded going inside, and had to force herself to open the door. She spotted the open window, and kept her eyes fixed on it as she crossed the room. She willed herself not to think of the night she had run in here as a terrified five-year-old in need of a cuddle and soothing voice after a disturbing nightmare. Instead she had been greeted by her father, naked and gleaming with sweat, frantically moving up and down and grunting like some crazed animal. It was only after she moved to the side of the bed that she realized her mother was under him, her face buried deep in the pillow.

As Kathryn had watched in silence, hardly daring to breathe, Freda had lifted her head slightly, turning to face her daughter. Their eyes had met, and in that split second Kathryn thought her mother was going to die.

Now, standing very still in the middle of the room, she was transported back to that time; she could still feel the rising panic, and the fur tickling the roof of her mouth as she had bitten down hard on top of her teddy’s head, before screaming at her father to stop hurting Mummy.

Kathryn stretched forward to close the window. Having done so, she turned to leave, swearing as she stubbed her big toe on the bedside chair. She stooped to rub it, her eyes drawn to a loose floorboard under the bed. It was sticking up at an angle, a couple of inches from where she knelt. The wood was rotting, pitted with tiny holes. Fixed with a single nail, it moved easily and her heart missed a beat when she saw something glinting in the small cavity below. When she slid her hand down to pull out a box, she thought of all the stories she’d heard about hiding money under the bed. The box was about ten inches in length, and six inches high; it was made of silver and tortoiseshell, and very beautiful.

Kathryn stood the fine object on the dressing table, thinking how incongruous it looked amidst the functional hairbrush, comb, and assorted plain wooden boxes her mother had used. She dusted the lid with the flat of her hand, her index finger tracing the intricately carved flowers and leaves decorating the lid. It was locked, but she was gripped by the most weird sensation. It was as if the inanimate object was speaking to her. Open me, please, the box seemed to beg. Kathryn looked around the room for something to break the lock.

In the dressing-table drawer she found a pair of nail scissors. After several attempts the tiny silver lock opened with a sharp crack. Panting slightly from a mixture of exertion and anticipation, she lifted the lid at last. It was, as she expected, a jewel case, and in perfect condition. There were three different-sized compartments, all intact, and the dark purple lining looked as good as new. It contained no jewellery apart from a silver crucifix Kathryn had worn for her confirmation. The chain was tied around a bundle of photographs and letters, and the cross, blackened with age, hung from a ragged blue ribbon. Carefully she untied the bundle, and sorting through the photographs found to her surprise that most were of herself, in different stages of development from birth up to university graduation. There were a few of her parents; one on their wedding day, and another taken on a holiday in Wales a few years later. Her father looked detached, in stark contrast to his wife’s serene expression. There was a sealed brown envelope, the padded sort used for sending fragile mail. It contained a wad of money. Kathryn quickly counted three thousand pounds in used fifty- and twenty-pound notes.

She was about to replace the memorabilia, when she noticed another tiny hinge on the inside of the lid. Running her index finger around the edge, she could feel a thin ridge and a moment later her finger encountered a spring catch. She pressed it, jumping as a panel dropped open and a photograph frame fell out, landing face down with a dull clang.

Squinting to read the faded writing scrawled across the back, she lifted the frame closer to her eyes. It read, ‘Von Trellenberg family, Schloss Bischofstell Mühlhausen, 30th July 1936.’

It was a group shot, the family bunched together in a wide doorway under a coat of arms set in stone. Her eyes rested on the face of a little girl, about nine years old; her heart missing a beat at the angelic features framed by a mass of platinum curls. Kathryn was certain that if the photograph was in colour, the child’s eyes would be a bright periwinkle blue. She knew because they were her mother’s eyes. There was another younger child in the photograph, smaller and very plain. Kathryn assumed by the shape of the high domed forehead and long nose that it was Ingrid. This child was squirming shyly behind the left leg of her mother, who appeared to be trying in vain to push her daughter forward and smile herself at the same time. A young boy of about ten Kathryn guessed to be her Uncle Joachim. He was standing tall and very upright, sunlight glinting off the top of his golden crown. His small upturned face was radiant in admiration as he looked at his father dressed in the uniform of a German SS officer.

Kathryn shivered in spite of the heat, there was something obscene in the young boy’s look. She felt a sudden tightness in her chest, and drawing in a shaky breath, her hands tightened their grip on the photograph. She would have dropped it if the urge to keep staring were not so great. Klaus Von Trellenberg’s face was almost a mirror image of her own. Beads of cold sweat popped out across her brow, and the back of her neck felt suddenly very icy. She threw the frame down, breaking the glass, breathing deeply, willing herself to stay calm. For God’s sake, why did she have to look like him? Was it not bad enough that she had a Nazi for a grandfather? But to be the spitting image! Then out loud she yelled, ‘Why, Mother, why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to find out now, when you’re not around to explain it? There’s so much I need to know.’

Fighting back angry tears, Kathryn stuffed everything back into the box, and carrying it close to her chest she strode out of the room and downstairs, not stopping until she reached the front door. Stepping outside, she slammed the door shut for what she hoped would be the last time. As she turned the key in the lock, she glanced up at the wooden sign hanging above her head. It had a crack running through the centre and age had worn away some of the gold lettering. It now read,’ al ow i lds’.

With slow precise movements Kathryn walked back towards her car, past a scarlet blanket of poppies, and herbaceous borders thickly stocked with a glorious summer display. Stooping to pick a stephanotis, she held the flower close to her nose, inhaling the fragrant scent. A picture of her mother in vivid Technicolor popped into her mind. Freda in a battered straw hat, bent double, her gloved hand working furiously in the soil; then a fond memory of her mother’s excitement after winning her first prize at a local flower show.

A cloud covered the sun, and with it the image darkened. Freda’s expression had changed, devoid of emotion, clearly indifferent to the news of Kathryn’s First in English from Edinburgh University. Blinking back tears of profound regret, Kathryn wished, as she had so many times in the past, that she had been able to reach her mother. They had been like strangers, uncomfortable in each other’s company. Freda had never been able to acknowledge her daughter’s considerable achievements. Resentment had taken the place of pride and Kathryn knew her own successes had burnt inside Freda like a white hot coal. For a long time she had searched for something, anything, to bind them as mother and daughter; but she was sure, with the certainty of feminine intuition, that her mother had firmly locked the door to her soul the day her father had left, if not before.

Had Klaus Von Trellenberg been guilty of hideous crimes during the war, perhaps genocide? Kathryn wondered if that was why her mother had been so distant; had she been burdened with a terrible secret? They were both dead now, and Kathryn doubted she would ever know the truth, yet she found it impossible not to care.

The flower slipped from her hand, she watched it flutter gently to the ground before slipping inside her car. Putting her foot down hard on the accelerator, she roared forward, tyres churning up the gravel drive.

Before turning out on to the road, Kathryn allowed herself one last fleeting glance in her rear-view mirror, but the house was obscured in a cloud of dust.

Chapter Two

‘This time I really believe we’ve got him.’

Mark Grossman studied the sensitive face of the man seated on the opposite side of his desk. The deep-set eyes lit with an expectant gleam had taken on a golden hue and looked lighter than their usual amber. His mouth opened as if to speak, but closed as Mark continued.

‘Our sources tell us that he’s been spotted in the West Indies. An eye-witness account which, as you know, can be totally unreliable, but we’ve checked this one out thoroughly. It seems, if you’ll excuse the expression, kosher.’

Mark blinked several times, his head ached, and there was a gritty sensation behind his eyes.

‘You look tired, Mark,’ Adam commented

‘Yeah, I feel lousy. I’m wrecked. My schedule has been, to put it mildly, a little tight. Argentina two days ago, back in Manhattan for a meeting, then five hours later, I jumped on a flight to Israel. I arrived in town at six a.m. this morning on the red eye from Tel Aviv. I don’t know if I need a crap or a haircut.’

Adam grinned, ‘Both probably.’ Then lowering his voice said, ‘So our little Nazi friend is holed up in the West Indies. It’s a hell of a long way from his last known address.’

‘Not as far as you might think. Boats ply from South America through the Indies constantly, there are lots of small craft skippered by dubious captains who would not be adverse to taking on an unusual fare. Come on, Adam, think about it. Who would question a retired European living in the West Indies when there are literally thousands of them? The ex-pat brigade: the English with their gin and tonics, and the Yanks with their ridiculous cocktails.’

‘You’re right, anyway who cares how he got there; more important, we know he’s there. And he’s still alive.’

Mark nodded. ‘If our sources are correct, he has a rare form of bone cancer. Two weeks ago he went to the local hospital in St Lucia for a scan. Unfortunately for our suspect, an American doctor Ben Weitzman happened to be on a lecturing tour in the West Indies. Dr Weitzman, who is a bone cancer specialist, was asked to take a look at him. Ben Weitzman’s mother is a Holocaust survivor, you may have met her brother – Nathan Drey?’

Adam shook his head. ‘His name doesn’t ring a bell.’

Mark went on, ‘Nathan died a couple of years ago. He worked for the Centre when I joined in 1979.’

Mark blinked. Seventeen years. It seemed like yesterday. He had been twenty-six, a child of Holocaust survivors, and an ardent recruit to an organization he felt needed young blood, and new ideas. He had desperately wanted to rid the Horowitz Centre of its old image. An image he knew many people shared: that of embittered Jews, tormented by their time spent in the camps, obsessed with psychopathic cat-and-mouse games of hunting down anyone who had even a slight connection with the Nazis.

Mark Grossman, now Head of Intelligence, felt he had achieved his objective in some small measure, and hoped that the Centre was now recognized throughout the world for spreading an important message. Man’s inhumanity to man could not be ignored, and racial bigotry had to be addressed and punished, to ensure that what happened in Germany before, and during, World War Two never happened again.

Adam was speaking, intruding on his thoughts. ‘You were telling me about Nathan?’

‘Sorry, yes, I was miles away, thinking about when I first met Nathan. He was a good man, if a little fanatical, I suppose if you’ve lived through four years of Auschwitz, it kinda makes you that way. He helped to capture Eichmann, and for years he worked night and day on Von Trellenberg. Nathan was like a dog with a bone, he left no stone unturned. I would often come into the office in the early morning, to find him slumped over his desk sleeping. He’d been there all night. He was the one who tracked down Von Trellenberg in Bolivia in 1958. Nathan thought he had him then, but he was double-crossed by some local Argentine creep. Anyway both Klaus and the Argentine guy disappeared without trace. But Nathan had managed to get a couple of photographs of the man he thought was Klaus, and Nathan’s sister Anna positively identified him as Von Trellenberg. Anna and Nathan Drey were both born in Berlin. She was a celebrated concert pianist and composer before the war. Von Trellenberg knew her. Apparently he and his father had attended several of her concerts. She was interned in Bergen Belsen in 1943, and claims to have seen Von Trellenberg visiting the camp at least three times.

‘Anyway, to get back to the current situation, the man with bone cancer claims to be Dutch. Says his name is Van Beukering, from Rotterdam. Yet when questioned about Holland, he became very agitated and eager to leave. Then when Dr Ben Weitzman asked him where he was born, he reeled off a street name in Amsterdam, instead of Rotterdam. Weitzman then made an appointment to see him a few days later. First he called me here, and I arranged for his mother and one of my colleagues to fly to St Lucia. This Van Beukering didn’t turn up for the appointment. Ben’s tried to contact Van Beukering’s own doctor, but he’s on vacation overseas and we’ve been unable to locate him. The man gave a false address to the hospital, and so far we’ve hit a brick wall with all our enquiries.’ Mark sighed. ‘Nobody on St Lucia seems to have seen or heard of this guy. Meanwhile he’s disappeared into thin—’

‘Did Dr Weitzman see his hand?’ Adam interrupted.

Mark nodded, unable to contain the rising excitement in his voice. ‘Yes. Apparently that was the first thing he noticed; the third finger on his left hand was severed at the knuckle.’

Adam banged the top of the desk with his clenched fist. ‘That’s him! You’ve got him, Mark.’

‘Well, it isn’t absolutely positive yet, but I feel we’ve got enough to continue investigating. This is the closest we’ve come since Argentina.’

Adam, his fist still clenched in a tight ball, stood up and began to pace the small office. He was wearing what he always wore: jeans. Today they were black, teamed with a white shirt made by Bernie Katz in the finest lawn cotton, the same shirt-maker his father had used before him. And a pair of tan hide cowboy boots, custom-made from a firm in Houston. Mark could not recall ever having seen him in anything else and was, as always, struck by the image of an ageing rock star, rather than the reality of a successful international art dealer.

When Adam finally stopped pacing, he stood in front of Mark and said, ‘Argentina was close, I really thought you had the bastard then.’

A nerve began to tremor uncontrollably in Mark’s left temple. He massaged it with his forefinger, also thinking of the last time they had come this close to the man he had been hunting all these years. It had been in 1987, in a remote hill village close to the town of Santa Rosa, in Argentina.

Mark would never forget that night.

The sky was bigger than he could ever have imagined, and blacker, although rashed with stars. The frenzied animal screams breaking the stillness had caused his heart to race, and then came the wild tangerine glow – so bright it had hurt his eyes, lighting up the sky like a huge glowing torch that he thought would burn for ever. The stench of charred flesh in the burnt-out remains of the ranch would remain with him for the rest of his life. As would the despair he’d felt when he’d learnt that the bodies had all been local farm hands.

Mark stood up. He had pale eyes and pale skin, and an unruly thatch of thick, black hair. He ran his hands down the front of his crumpled navy blue suit and, straightening his tie, he listened intently to Adam’s next words.

‘I want to be there when you get him, Mark.’

‘If we get him. The bird has probably flown by now.’

‘He’s ill, he’s dying; he’s unlikely to be making any long journeys. No, I think he’s there in St Lucia. Hiding out somewhere. I’d love to go down there myself, I’m sure I could hunt him out of his fucking rat-hole.’

Mark Grossman shook his head, like a father to an errant son. He had a deep affection for Adam Krantz, and for his late father Benjamin who had been a patron of the Centre for many years. But Adam’s ambition was just not professional and it was more than his job was worth to allow it.

‘You know I can’t have that, Adam. Just supposing it is him – you know the procedure: we’ve got no official authority in the West Indies; we have to make an application to the St Lucian government for a warrant for his arrest and extradition. The local police resent intruders and can be very uncooperative. You’re too emotionally involved in all this; that could impair your judgement; you might take the law into your own hands. I don’t want to risk that liability. Von Trellenberg is a big fish, we can’t afford to screw up.’

‘Look, I promise to be a good boy, do exactly what I’m told, no screw-ups. I’ve always wanted to go to the West Indies and I’m due for a vacation. Come on, Mark,’ he pushed. ‘You owe me.’

Mark sighed and, turning away, he scanned the floor-to-ceiling wall of books in front of him, without seeing one title. Adam was right: he did owe him. Adam had helped a lot in the past, and not only with money. He had invested time and commitment.

Neither man spoke for several seconds.

Mark finally broke the silence. ‘You’re right, the Centre owes you and your father a lot. So now you’re calling in your dues; is that how it is? You’re putting me on the spot, man. I thought we were friends.’

‘We are, Mark, that’s why I feel I can ask. You know how important this is to me. I understand your position, but I’m begging you as a patron and a good friend to bend the rules for me just a little.’

The two men faced each other. Adam, although not unusually tall at five foot ten, towered above the diminutive Mark – who now relented. ‘If it is him, and we make a formal arrest, I’ll see what I can do.’

Adam smiled, then quickly composed himself, but not before the other man had seen a hint of triumph in his face. Mark rubbed the tip of his long nose saying cautiously, ‘I make no formal promises. Who knows, this man may not even be Von Trellenberg.’

‘How many other eighty-two-year-old Europeans with a severed finger can there be living in obscurity in the West Indies?’

Mark shrugged, his face impassive. ‘You know me, Adam, ever sceptical, it goes with the job.’

‘Yeah, I appreciate that. I know you’ve had your fair share of false alarms.’

‘Who doesn’t …’ Mark looked resigned, then added on a brighter note, ‘I’ll keep you up to date with developments as and when they occur, and now you really will have to excuse me. I’ve got to fly down to Washington and be back in time for dinner with the family. That is if I still have a wife and kids, I’ve forgotten what Victoria looks like.’

Adam gripped his hand firmly in farewell. ‘I feel very confident, Mark. Good vibes, you know what I mean? I really think that this time we’ve got the son-of-a-bitch!’

Adam left Mark’s office five minutes later, stepping on to First Ave and into glorious June sunshine. The light, blindingly bright, danced across acres of Manhattan glass, soaring into the china blue sky. A light breeze ruffled his dark hair as he hailed a taxi, asking for 76th and Madison.

Upper eastside was gridlocked, so he got out at the corner of 74th, strolling the two blocks to his art gallery. ‘Morning, Lenny,’ he waved to the street vendor, on the corner of 76th.

Lenny waved back. ‘It’s going to be a hot one, Mr Krantz, they say in the high eighties.’

‘You’ll sell more Cokes then.’

‘I wish I was selling on the beach in Bermuda!’

‘And I wish I was there with you,’ Adam smiled before walking on.

He stopped outside his shop, admiring the recently completed sign above the door: ‘Krantz Fine Art’. The gilded calligraphy had taken over a week to paint by hand and in Adam’s opinion looked much better than the previous ‘Krantz Gallery’ sign his father had designed in the early fifties. Benjamin had stubbornly refused to change it – insisting that his clients came to him not because of a fancy shop-front, but because he had a fine reputation as a dealer of the utmost integrity.

The gallery was cool, and there was a sense of calm in the hushed surroundings. At the sound of the doorbell, Joanne, Adam’s PA, peered from behind a pile of canvases.

‘Morning, Mr Krantz,’ she greeted him with a warm smile.

‘Morning, Joanne,’ he returned, walking past her into a small office at the rear of the gallery. ‘Any mail?’

‘Tell me a time when there isn’t any mail!’ Joanne said, joining him. ‘The usual circulars, bills, invitations, etc. And this.’ She picked up a letter from the top of the pile and handed it to him.

Adam’s eyes flicked briefly over the correspondence; a small nerve at the corner of his mouth twitched as he protested, ‘Some people never give up! How many more times do I have to tell this schmuck that I do not want to sell the Renoir.’ He screwed the letter into a tight ball and dropped it into the bin. ‘Write to this creep, tell him if he doesn’t stop bothering me I intend to take legal action for harassment.’

Joanne fished the offending letter out of the bin, and began to unfold it. ‘We may need this as evidence,’ she said practically.

‘Did Lynda Hamilton get back to you on the Degas etchings?’ Adam asked.

Joanne nodded. ‘Yep, she promised to call with a decision before close of play today and, before I forget, she invited you to a party next weekend at her house in Southampton. Sounds like a very smart bash.’ The last sentence was accompanied by a high-pitched whistle.

Adam leaned against the side of a desk. The expression on his face said it all. ‘Make sure you tell her I’m busy next weekend.’

Joanne chuckled. ‘Ms Hamilton is going to be mighty pissed, I think she wants more than your etchings.’

‘That’s the trouble, so do I. Lynda’s too old for me.’

‘Come on, Adam, she’s only a couple of years older than me, and that ain’t too old.’ The retort was hotly defensive.

‘Lynda Hamilton is at least ten years older than you, Joanne; she’s in her mid-fifties. She’s been under the knife several times.’

‘You sure?’ Joanne looked surprised, then before waiting for a reply said, ‘Well, she looks great for over fifty. Listen, if that’s what cosmetic surgery does for you, I’m going to start saving right now for my first lift.’

‘Don’t ever do it! All you’ll look like is an older woman who’s had surgery; it’s grotesque. Besides all that, Lynda Hamilton isn’t my type.’

‘Too rich, or just too available? Which is it?’

Adam’s warm eyes twinkled with amusement. ‘You, Joanne, are just too nosey.’ He emphasized the ‘too’ while touching the end of her nose.

Joanne blushed, dropping her eyes, raising them a moment later to watch Adam walk to his own office. He left the interconnecting door ajar and she sat down behind her desk, thinking that if she had wanted to be really pushy, she would have asked him just who was his type. Jennifer, his estranged wife? Elegant, cold, and more interested in money, and acquisitions than him. Or a certain Miss Daryl Harper, with her baby-face? Shit-face more like, Joanne thought as she pictured the archetypal spoilt playgirl, hell-bent on spending Daddy’s hard-earned cash in as short a time as possible and who, in Joanne’s opinion, was far too young, and not good enough for her boss.

Joanne’s mind wandered back to 29th January 1985: her first day working for Adam Krantz. It had been bitterly cold, with temperatures way below zero. She would never forget the cute way he had helped her out of her coat, warming her frozen hands in his own. Nor would she, or could she, ever forget the day a year later when she had bought a valuable Cézanne that Adam had previously rejected as a fake. Wildly excited he had swept her out to the Four Seasons Restaurant, for a celebratory supper. That night outside her apartment, Adam had held her very tight and thanked her, then to her astonishment he had kissed her full on the mouth before saying goodnight. With her heart fluttering, she had stood very still watching him walk to the end of her street, where he hailed a cab. Her eyes did not move until the tail-lights were out of sight. Later with her heart still fluttering, she had fantasized about making love to Adam Krantz. And she still did, though not as often now, by shutting her eyes tightly, opening her legs, and allowing her husband to slip silently into her body.

Adam sat down behind his desk; his palms spread flat, he moved them slowly across the smooth maple wood surface, thinking how much he loved fine things. The early nineteenth-century English antique desk gave him great pleasure, as did the breakfront bookcase – English again, but slightly earlier than the desk – and a pair of eighteenth-century French chairs. A set of Lautrec etchings and a large Pissarro landscape filled one wall and the remaining space was painted with a blue wash. When he had decorated his office two years previously Joanne had described the colour as ‘Wedgwood’, but it looked paler to Adam, more like the colour of very faded denim. The large room, pristine and sparingly furnished, was a testament to his dislike of clutter.

Joanne jotted something down on her notepad and, without looking up, called through the open door. ‘Remember you’ve got to call Martin Beck at Sotheby’s, and Alain Turquin in Paris about the Manet.’

Adam picked up a pencil from a selection stacked in a Tiffany silver box, a gift from his mother for his fortieth birthday last year. He jotted both names on a pad, even as Joanne’s voice drifted through once more. ‘And don’t forget you’ve got to pick Calvin up today, and whilst I’m on the subject, it’s his seventeenth birthday in two weeks.’

Adam looked exasperated. ‘Give me a break, Joanne, I do know my only son’s birthday.’

‘OK, OK.’ She raised her hand as if to ward off a blow. She was tempted to remind him, that she had reminded him of all of his family occasions for the last ten years. ‘Keep your shirt on, Mr Krantz. You know me, just being efficient.’

His tone softened. ‘I’m picking him up at four this afternoon. I’ve decided to drive myself, so I plan on leaving here around two.’

Joanne appeared in the doorway. ‘No problem, it’s pretty quiet here on Friday afternoons usually; anyway, there isn’t much ever happens around this place that I can’t take care of.’

Adam raised both hands. ‘What on earth would I do without you?’

‘Well, don’t forget I told you I need a vacation. I haven’t been away for a couple of years, and these old bones could do with a dose of sun.’

Adam was dismissive. ‘Did nobody ever tell you too much sun is bad for the skin?’

‘It’s worse than not enough, and I haven’t had any.’ She planted both hands on her wide hips, and fixed what she hoped was an appealing smile on her mobile face. ‘A week in Maui, David got us a deal.’

Adam looked up and she sensed his irritation. Her instinct was confirmed by his next announcement.

‘Maui sucks, ask anyone. Unfriendly natives trying to rip off unsuspecting American tourists. Anyway, it’s the rainy season, there’s no sun, you and David are better off staying in New York.’

Joanne pulled a long face and in a plaintive voice said, ‘But I’ve always wanted to go to Maui. It’s a great deal, eighteen hundred dollars all inclusive.’

Adam leaned back in his chair. ‘David got it cheap ’cause it’s the wrong time of year. Like I said, go in the winter.’ His tone was dismissive.

Undeterred, Joanne persisted. ‘Come on, Adam, give me a break; hell, I’m whacked and I need a vacation. If I don’t get one, you’re not going to get the hundred and fifty per cent input I give to this business.’

‘When?’ Adam asked.

‘Next week?’ Her eyebrows rose, accompanied by a pleading expression that filled Adam with guilt. He knew he was lucky to have Joanne. She had majored in Art History, and had worked as a restorer for six years. She had a catalogue in her head of every art collector and artist from Albani to Zoffany, and could spot a forgery a mile away, but more important she tolerated his unpredictable personality with consummate patience. In truth she was his right hand and he would be lost without her. He made a mental note to book a vacation in Maui for Joanne and her husband, just as soon as this thing in the West Indies was over.

Adam rubbed his hand across his face and sighed. ‘You’re right, Joanne, you do need a vacation. You and me both, but I think I’ve got to go away next week. On business,’ he added quickly. ‘I’m not sure yet, so can we talk about it later?’ He looked and sounded genuinely sorry.

The smile slipped from Joanne’s face, her tone changing to one of resignation. ‘OK, you’re the boss; but I’ve got to let David know before the end of the week, or he’ll divorce me.’

‘He’d be mad to do that.’ Adam was smiling warmly.

‘Yeah, right. But you know men, never appreciate what they got, till they don’t have it no more.’

‘Point taken, Jo. I promise to let you know just as soon as I know. Now can we get some work done around here. First and foremost, call Lynda Hamilton and get me out of that party. Tell her I’ve got to go to—’

‘Maui?’ Joanne offered. Then before he could reply, she added, ‘Don’t you think you should consider the sale of the Degas, Adam? One little-bitty party ain’t going to kill you, sometimes in life we all have to make a few small sacrifices.’

‘Sacrifices for what?’ Only half listening, he racked his fingers through his shoulder-length hair whilst thinking about that trim he kept promising himself.

‘Money, you know, like sixty-five thousand dollars’ worth of sacrifice, the profit from which pays my wages for—?’

‘A month,’ he finished for her.

‘I wish,’ she said, raising bushy black eyebrows that met at the ridge of her nose. Adam had often wondered why she didn’t pluck them but had always been too polite to ask.

‘Joanne, believe me when I say no amount of money would induce me.’ He sighed heavily, running the back of his hand across the dark stubble on his jaw, remembering that he had forgotten to shave that morning. ‘Come on, you know as well as I do that it’s not just the party. Lynda’s bony ass could be studded with twenty-carat diamonds and she could want to buy an entire collection of Impressionists … but I absolutely refuse to get laid by her.’

There had been a multiple pile-up on Route 87, and traffic was at a standstill. Adam, stuck on the George Washington Bridge, looked at his watch and cursed. The drive upstate to Albany took at least two hours on a clear road.

He arrived at his son’s school after five, over an hour late. Sprinting up the wide stone steps leading to the entrance to Highclare Academy, he could see the back of Calvin’s head framed in the open window, his dark crown shining like polished jet.

Calvin turned when his father entered the hall.

‘Sorry I’m late, Cal, but there was a hold-up on the New York Interstate. It was chaotic.’

There was no welcoming smile for Adam, nor did his son move towards him when he said, ‘It’s OK, Dad. I’m used to it, you’re always late.’

‘Always! Come on, that’s not fair.’

Calvin looped a lock of wayward hair behind his left ear. His sapphire blue eyes, almost exactly the same shade as his mother’s, challenged Adam, reminding him of Jennifer when she was angry. ‘OK, I’ll give you sometimes.’

Adam stepped forward to touch his son’s arm, changed his mind and cuffed him playfully around the chin instead. Pulling a ridiculously long face, he said, ‘No smile for your old pop?’

Calvin started to grin, his bad temper melting like butter in the sun. He could never stay annoyed with his father for long.

Gently Adam hugged Calvin towards him. ‘It’s great to see you, Cal; how have you been?’ He ruffled his son’s long hair.

‘It’s great to see you, Dad; I’ve missed you.’ It felt good to hold his father close. Calvin wanted to savour the moment, enjoying the slight prickle of Adam’s stubble and the faintly acid smell of lime, and something else he didn’t recognize.

After a few seconds Adam relaxed his embrace then, holding Calvin at arm’s length, he looked him up and down in appreciation. ‘Wow! You’ve grown in the last month, nearly as tall as me. And man, what a great tan! You look like you spent the last few weeks at the beach.’

‘I wish,’ Calvin grinned. ‘Misspent time playing ball.’

‘Oh, yeah, how’s it going? Sorry I missed the last match, I was in Europe. Your mom said you were great, and that you made captain.’ Adam patted his son on the back, he was beaming with pride. ‘Congratulations, Cal; you put your dad to shame, I can barely hit the ball.’

Warmed by his father’s approval, the sullen expression Calvin had worn earlier was replaced by a radiant smile.

Adam wrapped an arm around Calvin’s shoulder. ‘Come on then, son; let’s hit the road.’

Arm in arm they walked to the car. Calvin peered inside. ‘No driver today, Dad?’ he asked, opening the passenger door.

‘Nope, I felt like being alone, lots of stuff on my mind. It seemed like a good opportunity to sort it out.’

Cal searched his father’s face. ‘And have you?’

‘Sort of,’ Adam said, jumping into the driving seat. He turned on the ignition staring straight ahead. Calvin recognized that distant look and knew better than to pry. His mother had warned him that his father had a dark side that he revealed to no one. Calvin suspected that this had been part of the problem in their marriage. He had broached the subject with his mother once, but Jennifer had been subtly evasive.

‘Anyway, tell me about you, Calvin. How’s school? Your mother tells me you got great grades. She also told me you want to leave.’

From the corner of his eye, Calvin studied his father’s reaction as he repeated what he had been practising for days. ‘Highclare has been great for me; I’ve enjoyed it, well most of it. After you guys split, I felt a bit lost, and being away at school with lots of others in a similar position helped a lot.’ He was staring into the middle distance. ‘It was pretty hard at first, Dad, I just wanted it to be, well, how it was before; you know, happy families, and all that stuff.’ There was no bitterness in his voice, just regret.

Adam gave his son a long glance. Calvin’s angular jaw jutted forward in what Adam knew was a defiant gesture, his mouth was taut. But a few seconds later, his bottom lip had begun to quiver ever so slightly and he squinted as sunlight suddenly flooded his eyes. He shut them, but not before Adam had seen the thin film of unshed tears.

Adam felt the boy’s pain like never before, realizing for the first time that he’d been so selfishly obsessed with his own hurt, he’d failed to recognize his son’s. Reproaching himself, he was filled with a deep remorse, and the compulsion to make amends.

‘Believe me, Calvin, when I say that I know how hard it must have been for you; all kids want their parents to be together, whatever the cost. They don’t understand that it’s not always possible. I don’t need to tell you that your mother is a strong-willed lady, and once she gets her mind set on something there’s no turning her.’

‘Would you have her back now, Dad?’

The unexpected question caught Adam off guard. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Just something she said last time I was home.’

‘Yeah, go on.’ Adam was curious.

‘A song came on the radio and she got a kind of funny look on her face, you know, wistful, and her voice sounded different, kinda foggy. She said, “This was the first song I ever danced to, with your father.” When the record ended, she turned to face me. Her eyes were full of tears, and I thought she was going to cry. Then she said, “I loved him very much.”’

Adam knew the song. ‘“I’m not in Love” by 10CC?’

Calvin nodded, ‘That’s the one.’

‘Next time you see your mother, ask her what song reminds her of Jordan Tanner.’ Adam’s anger altered his handsome face and his son was sorry he had brought the subject up. They travelled in stony silence for the next few minutes, until Calvin broke it.

‘I think you should know that I don’t want to go to Harvard next year, Dad. I don’t want to be a smart-ass lawyer. I want to go to Art College.’

This revelation did not surprise Adam who asked, ‘Is your mother aware of this?’

‘Yep, but you know her as well as I do, she’s a snob and all she cares about is what her fancy friends think. Harvard Law School is the ultimate as far as she’s concerned. She has this vision of art students with long hair, hanging out and doing drugs. Not the clean-cut Wasp image she has in mind for me! But I don’t want to do that preppy scene, and I hate the thought of being part of a hot-shot law firm. Most of the lawyers I’ve met at Grandma’s are creeps.’ Calvin spoke with the angry conviction of a headstrong sixteen-year-old determined to have his own way.

Adam agreed wholeheartedly. ‘You’re right about lawyers; most of ’em are assholes, give or take a couple, one of whom is my best friend. I never thought for one second Law School was right for you, Cal. You’ve got talent, real talent, and I would love you to be an artist. My greatest regret in life is that I can’t paint. That’s why I hang out in an art gallery for a living, you know, getting it all secondhand.’ Adam slid his hand across the car seat, covering Calvin’s, he squeezed gently. ‘You’ve got my support, son. If Art College is what you really want, and it makes you happy, fine by me. Your Grandfather Krantz would have been proud, he would have encouraged you every inch of the way.’

Calvin breathed a huge sigh of relief. ‘You’ll back me then, Dad, when it comes to the showdown?’

An image of Jennifer’s enraged face drifted before Adam’s eyes. He blinked to clear it from his vision and said in a voice he hoped sounded reassuring and positive, ‘I’m absolutely certain that between us we can make your mother see sense.’ He increased the pressure on his son’s hand.

‘Gee thanks, Dad! I knew I could rely on you.’

That night Adam went with Calvin to Lusardi’s, an Italian restaurant he’d been taking him to since he was old enough to walk. Over linguine pesto they reminisced about Calvin’s thirteenth birthday party, spent in the same restaurant. The teenager had got very drunk on Chianti, it was a memorable first.

Afterwards, back at Adam’s apartment on Central Park West, on Calvin’s insistence they played a selection of his all-time favourite blues artists. The boy whistled and snapped his fingers in tune with the music, commenting that he been the only kid in the neighbourhood to be lulled to sleep by John Lee Hooker, Robert Cray and Wolf Man Jack, instead of the usual nursery rhymes. Adam chuckled to himself thinking how much he loved being like this, just the two of them together. Later they shared a couple of beers, whilst watching a late-night TV movie in the small den that had once been Calvin’s playroom.

Halfway through the movie Calvin fell asleep. Careful not to wake him Adam switched off the television, then bending down he extracted the half-empty beer can from his son’s grip. Straightening up, he stood very still for a long time, gazing with admiration at his son’s body sprawled across the sofa. Calvin was lean and tanned, and toned from hours on the playing field. And Adam was suddenly filled with an indescribable rush of pride and wonder at the fact that he had somehow created this undeniably handsome young man. All the hackneyed parent-and-child clichés sprang to mind. Adam plumped for ‘the best investment I’ve ever made’.

Briskly he walked down the hall, past the kitchen into the living room. It was a vast space with large floor-to-ceiling windows filling one wall, whilst pictures filled every other available square inch – including the bathrooms and the back of the kitchen door. Adam had never particularly liked the apartment, but now as he looked around he realized he hated it. It was more like a gallery than a home.

‘It’s got no soul,’ he muttered, pouring Scotch into a tumbler and lighting a Marlboro Red, thinking of the months Jennifer had spent decorating the interior with her camp interior designer friend, ‘Jovi’ or ‘Javi’, some stupid name he couldn’t remember. Rolling the whisky around the glass, he listened to the ice clinking while finally deciding that the apartment was a monument to his wife: monochromatic, ultra chic and seriously expensive.

Crossing the room he stood next to the window. It was an exceptionally clear night. The dark sky high above Central Park was wild with stars, gold and white lights twinkling like scattered jewels above and below his eyrie on the twenty-second floor. It reminded him of another night five years ago when he and Jennifer had moved in. Memories of the hours of frenzied unpacking flooded back; hanging pictures in great excitement, and eating Chinese take-aways sitting on packing boxes, drinking Cristal champagne out of hastily washed mugs. Yes, it had been a night similar to this one and they had made love on the floor in exactly the same spot where he now stood. Afterwards, he recalled his bare soles had pressed against the side of a suitcase as he had lain, still deeply embedded in her softness. Adam had been awed by the look of radiance on Jennifer’s face: the serene afterglow when desire has recently departed and love remains.

Turning abruptly away from the window, and the memory, Adam finished his drink, then poured himself another before leaving the room. Padding quietly down the hallway, he passed his favourite painting, a Renoir he had acquired at his first auction. He had been a year older than Calvin, almost eighteen at the time.

During his Spring break he had been invited to accompany Benjamin Krantz, his father, and a world-renowned art dealer to a sale of French Impressionist art at Sotheby’s in London. Encouraged by his father, Adam had entered the bidding, acquiring the painting for three thousand dollars below the estimate. Adam would never forget the thrill he’d experienced when the hammer had come down, with the auctioneer’s shout of ‘Sold’ ringing in his ears, or his excitement when the painting had arrived at the Krantz Gallery on Madison Ave along with several others his father had purchased. Benjamin had given him the picture and Adam’s life-long love of fine art had begun.

His stockinged feet made no sound on the thick pile carpet when he entered his study. Adam knew this room like the back of his hand and easily negotiated his way in the dark. Sitting down, he flicked a switch, illuminating the desk-top. Taking a key out of a drawer, he used it to open another drawer to his left. Lifting out a box file, he began to riffle through the assorted papers. It took him a few minutes to find what he wanted.

Holding the old newspaper cutting under the strong spotlight, he drank deeply of his whisky whilst staring into the arrogant face of Klaus Von Trellenberg standing next to Heinrich Himmler at a Nazi party rally in 1939. Adam narrowed his eyes in hatred, and allowed a cruel smile to distort his generous mouth.

‘I’m going to get you this time, you son-of-a-bitch.’

He was still smiling as he crushed the paper into a tiny ball in the palm of his hand.

Chapter Three

Kathryn was very cold. She could not feel her hands and feet, and when she opened her mouth to speak no words came, in fact she was unable to make any sound at all. She was completely naked, and her body looked different. Not quite like her own. It was very thin, and totally hairless. Slowly she parted her legs and to her horror saw that she was covered in open sores.

She was alone in a small room, it was about ten foot square, there were no windows or doors, and the walls were painted white, perfect new snow white. There were no lights, yet it was glaringly bright. It felt like being inside a large floodlit cardboard box. She looked up when she heard the voice, which seemed to be floating out of the ceiling. It was a soothing sound; like a caress it washed over her, and she wondered why she felt afraid.

‘Kathryn, Kathryn, it’s so good to meet you at long last.’

She pulled her legs into her body to cover her nakedness, dropping her head to her knees. She began to shake, her whole body jerking uncontrollably as the voice got louder.

‘Kathryn, it’s your Grandfather Klaus; look at me, Kathryn, please.’

She was afraid to look, but the voice kept insisting, and eventually she raised her head, opening her eyes wide. A disembodied head floated in front of her face. It was covered in a black mask, resembling the type worn by executioners in the Middle Ages. Her mouth opened to scream, but no sound came, and still the voice kept on.

‘I’ve come to save you, Kathryn. I love you, I want to take you home to Germany with me, where you belong.’

The hideous mask came closer. She tried to cover her face, but her limbs were paralysed. The head was an inch from her now. She wanted to close her eyes, but her eyelids refused to move. She could feel hot breath on her cheek; it smelt strangely sweet, like boiling sugar.

The death mask moved up and down, the voice repeating, ‘I love you, Kathryn, your grandfather loves you. I’m going to take you to Germany, you’ll be safe there.’

She could no longer feel her heart beating and thought that perhaps she was dead. Then, suddenly the mask was stuck to her face like glue, the lips fatty and very wet. They began to suck at her, first at her mouth, then at her nose – sucking harder and harder. She struggled to breathe as she felt her whole face being suctioned into the huge gaping gash until she was gasping for air.

Her heart was banging, when a minute later she woke up. The bedclothes were tangled around her head, and for a split second she wasn’t sure where she was. Pulling the sheets off, she sat bolt upright in bed. Her palms were clammy and her hair stuck to her head, soaking wet.

Kathryn took a few deep breaths, she stayed very still until her breathing returned to normal. This was the second time she’d had the dream since her Aunt Ingrid had told her about Klaus Von Trellenberg less than a week ago. She closed her eyes again, willing herself not to think of him. But she could feel her lids twitching as with nagging consistency the cold repetitive voice in her head kept banging on: Klaus Von Trellenberg, Klaus Von Trellenberg. Then her grandfather’s face, as it had appeared in the photograph, materialized in her head. But instead of wearing the arrogant half smile, he was laughing. She could hear him. The sound rose to a hysterical screech, pealing in her ears.

With the flat of her hand, Kathryn wiped small pearls of perspiration from her brow and the back of her neck. Sweat rolled down her temples and she experienced a return to the unreality of the day she had learnt about her unwanted SS connections.

The thought of her mother’s father as the archetypal Nazi, a cold-blooded psychopath on an indiscriminate killing spree, made her feel physically sick. Suddenly she began to cry. Kathryn realized it was the first time she had cried since Freda’s death. With a sense of shame she buried her face deep in the pillow, admitting to herself that she had never loved her. In fact she conceded there were many times when she had hated her. Hated her resentment, her hostility, and her lack of communication. Was it such a terrible crime to dislike your own mother? Until now she had thought so, and had berated herself for not trying harder. But after what Ingrid had revealed, it seemed easier to accept that her mother had been impossible to love.

Kathryn spent the remainder of the night wide awake. It seemed interminably long, and she was pleased when dawn broke with a roll of thunder, heralding the start of a storm that was to last all day. Unable to face food, she made herself a pot of strong coffee and was just pouring her third cup when the telephone rang. She glanced at the clock in the hall, wondering who could be calling her at seven-thirty a.m.

It was Emily de Moubray, her father’s second wife.

‘Good morning, Kathryn! I do hope I haven’t woken you, but I wanted to catch you before you left for the office. I can never get through to you there. You’re such a busy girl these days.’ Emily sounded infuriatingly breezy.

‘Hi, Emily. How are you?’

‘Since you only spoke to me yesterday, I doubt there’s much change,’ she giggled.

Kathryn bit her bottom lip, suppressing the rising irritation that Emily frequently engendered in her.

‘I’m calling because your father can’t make supper next week. Would it be possible for us to come up to town this Saturday? Sorry to mess you around like this, Kathryn, but he has to attend an important lecture on Friday the eighteenth. He only found out about it last night. Frank Kamer, the doctor he’s working with on the cancer vaccine, is over from America and has agreed to speak. The lecture will be followed by a dinner – you know, the same old boring surgeons’ do.’

Since she had never been invited to any of her father’s lectures or functions, Kathryn did not know, and was tempted to remind Emily that she had not shared her father’s life since she was nine. She bit back the recrimination, afraid to sound bitter or, worse, a martyr. She had no time for whining self-pity. Yet she had to resist the urge to ask why her father could not speak to her, himself. Anyway she knew the reply would be the same as usual, delivered in a brisk defensive manner. You are aware how busy your father is, Kathryn. I try not to bother him with mundane matters.

‘If you can’t make it, Kathryn, I’m sure your father will understand, but don’t forget we won’t be back in England for at least a year.’ Emily sounded rather pleased by this prospect.

‘Well, I was supposed to be going to a big society wedding, but I’ll have to cancel.’

‘Oh dear, never mind, I’m sure there’ll be others.’ Kathryn felt her hackles rise at Emily’s dismissive tone. ‘We’ll be in town at lunchtime. I have some shopping to do, so perhaps you could amuse your father for the afternoon.’ Not waiting for Kathryn to respond she said, ‘And please, Kathryn, something simple – you know how he loathes fancy food. The last time you made that rich creamy sauce he felt most unwell for days.’

Kathryn was seething. On the occasion referred to, she had spent hours shopping and preparing a meal she knew her father had loved. He had even called her the following day to compliment her on the best dinner he’d had in years. So she had to bite back an acerbic retort. Past experience had taught her that agreeing with Emily, or simply saying nothing, was infinitely easier than any other course. But it was at such times that she wondered anew what her father saw in this sanctimonious and frivolous woman, who was neither intelligent nor amusing.

Tony Mitchell, her former husband, had suggested once – after Kathryn had been complaining hotly about her stepmother – ‘She’s a lot younger than your father, good for the old man’s ego and his libido. The quiet ones, still waters and all that; she’s probably dynamite between the sheets.’

Kathryn had grimaced. The thought of Emily in the throes of passionate lovemaking with her father was so repulsive, she’d had to push it firmly out of her mind.

Now she could not suppress her irritation for a moment longer. ‘OK, Em, I get the message; I won’t cook at all. I’ll book a restaurant, then we can all have exactly what we want.’

‘No need to get tetchy with me, Kathryn, and don’t call me Em, you know how I detest it; anyway, don’t you think it much better that I say, rather than you spending a ridiculous amount of—’

Kathryn interrupted. ‘I’ve got to go, I’ve got a breakfast meeting. Like you said, I’m a busy girl! I’ll see you both on Saturday, my place at noon.’ She put the telephone down, without saying goodbye, then sipped her coffee whilst imagining Emily making a point of seeking her father out, wherever he was, to inform him in her high-pitched, sing-song voice that his daughter had slammed the phone down on her, and that the older Kathryn got the ruder she became. Kathryn had long ceased to care what Emily thought of her, but she accepted with a sharp pang, that she did care very much about her father’s approval. Climbing the stairs to her bedroom, she could not help wondering how he would react to Ingrid’s revelations. As she showered and dressed she decided to tell him everything on Saturday afternoon.

Half an hour later she left the house. With her mind in a fog, she climbed into her car, throwing her coat on to the back seat. It was raining hard when she pulled into the multi-storey car park in Brewer Street. She donned her mackintosh, realizing at the same time that she’d forgotten her umbrella. With the collar of her coat up tight to her ears, and using the Daily Telegraph to cover her head, she ran across Golden Square into number forty-six.

Kathryn shared the lift with Roger Thompson, a junior accountant. They chatted about the weather, before alighting on the fourth floor and walking together through the double glass doors that led to Trident Productions. Kathryn smiled at Helen the receptionist who was busy making coffee.

The girl held up a cup. ‘Want one?’

‘No thanks, I’ve had four already this morning. I’m all caffeined out.’

Kathryn walked down a long corridor interspersed with doors. She stopped at the last door but one, experiencing the familiar quick thrill, as she read the brass nameplate. ‘Kathryn de Moubray, Producer.’ It was only four months since her promotion, and she was still waiting for the euphoria to wear off. ‘You’ve worked bloody hard for it,’ her boss Rod Franks had said at the time. Rod was not generous with his praise, and she knew he was right: she had worked hard, damned hard, but it still felt good to be rewarded. The achievement made all the long hours, and the self-sacrifice, worthwhile.

Kathryn crossed the room, her feet making little sound on the thick carpet. She had chosen the office interiors herself and wished, now, that she had gone for the more traditional oak desk and bookcase that she had liked originally, instead of being talked into the smoke-grey and chrome furniture Rod had favoured. ‘Too macho,’ someone had said, adding that it was a dyke’s office. She hung her coat up and, running her fingers through her recently bobbed hair, sat down behind her desk and began to write a list of things she had to do. At the top of the list she put, ‘Fax Steve Fisher in Washington. Ask him to research Von Trellenberg in archives.’ Then she followed it with, ‘Call Bob Conran re pilot for Girls in the Red.’ When her direct line rang, she continued writing as she picked up the phone.

It was Jack McGowan. ‘Good morning, Kathryn, how are you on this hideous Monday morning?’ Without waiting for her reply, he went on, ‘Don’t you think we should be somewhere, anywhere else, than London in this bloody rain? It’s been pissing down for weeks! How about we slip down to my house in the South of France, it’s wonderful in June, we can sip chilled rosé on the terrace, and watch the sun set …’

‘I’m in the middle of a big job; you know that, Jack. I can’t just schlepp off to the Med at the drop of a hat.’ The word ‘hat’ jolted her into saying, ‘Speaking of which, I’m afraid I can’t make the wedding on Saturday. I’m really sorry, but my father wants to see me.’

‘Well, tell him you’ve got a prior engagement.’ His tone implied there was nothing more to say.

Kathryn drummed her short fingernails on top of her desk. ‘I am sorry, Jack. But he’s leaving for a lecture tour of the States soon. He’s only going to be in London for one day. I have to see him, we’ve got a lot of things to sort out. I need to discuss my mother’s estate, and all that stuff, you understand don’t you?’

Jack did not. ‘Can’t you see him on Friday? I could send a car for you first thing Saturday morning. You could still make the wedding, it doesn’t start until midday. Call your father now, tell him it’s a case of life and death; he’s a doctor, he’ll appreciate that. Tell him you’ve got to work on an important project all weekend, tell him anything!’

‘I’ll tell him the truth, Jack,’ she interrupted tersely. ‘That’s not difficult for me,’ she added, intimating that deceit came easily to Jack McGowan.

‘Business is about avoiding the truth, playing the game, Kathryn. Come on, you know that as well as I do.’

She chose to ignore this remark. ‘I’m not sure if he can make it on Friday, but I suppose I could ask.’ Kathryn was merely placating him; she was secretly pleased to get out of what she suspected would be a posh but boring wedding.

Encouraged by her hesitation, Jack said, ‘Now when are you going to get another opportunity to wear that fabulous hat?’

She was smiling. ‘Ascot?’ she ventured. ‘Ladies’ Day, perhaps?’

His voice dropped an octave. ‘I would prefer you to wear it this weekend. First for the wedding, then later for me, with nothing else but high heels, and that special smile. You know the one you wear when I—’

She interrupted with, ‘Shame on you, Mr McGowan!’

‘I’ll be totally inconsolable if I have to spend the weekend alone,’ he told her.

Kathryn also lowered her voice. ‘Since when have you ever done that, Jack? Oh and by the way, I’d love to wear the hat and heels, specially for you. If not this weekend then some time in the near future.’

His loud expulsion of breath was followed by, ‘This weekend, Kathryn.’

‘I’ll let you know by Thursday when we’re going to the Buchanans for drinks. That will give you twenty-four hours to find a replacement.’

The humour had left his voice when he said, ‘There is none.’

Reluctant to confront his disappointment any longer, she made an excuse to terminate the conversation. ‘My other line’s ringing, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.’

She replaced the telephone thinking about Jack McGowan. He was either in love with her or, alternatively, deeply in lust. Not entirely sure of her own feelings, which fluctuated from heady infatuation to irritation at his possessive need to control, she was left uncertain and confused. When she punched out Bob Conran’s telephone number her thoughts were still with Jack. They had met at a cocktail party two years previously when she’d found him overpowering and far too egotistical for her taste. She had refused to have dinner with him, making the excuse that she never went out with married men. Then at a film premiere eighteen months later, she had bumped into him again. She had been with her boss Rod, head of Trident, an independent film company responsible for more than one hundred and sixty hours of television production each year. Rod had given her the low-down on Jack McGowan.

Born in Aberdeen to a Scottish father and English mother. Powerful industrialist. Oil-rig machinery. One of the top five hundred richest men in the country. A true-blue Thatcherite, heavily tipped for a knighthood in 1982 and 1983, when he was pouring money into the Tory party, and had billions of pounds’ worth of export contracts littering his desk. Notoriously ruthless, yet a great philanthropist, and patron of the arts. Several much publicized run-ins with the press, and one particular nasty libel case in the mid-seventies involving insider dealing on the stock market. A brief affair last year with the soprano Anna Cavelli had culminated in the break-up of his twenty-eight-year marriage; although he and his wife had no plans to divorce. He’d had a daughter who’d died of a drugs overdose at twenty-two, and there was an adopted son from his wife’s first marriage.

Jack had made a beeline for Kathryn at the post-screening party, persuading her to leave the teeming milieu, and join him for a quiet supper at Harry’s Bar. She had agreed reluctantly and, to her surprise, she’d had a wonderful evening. Subsequent outings had followed, and Kathryn had been forced to revise her first impressions of Jack McGowan. Though not entirely wrong, they were greatly diluted by her discovery of his ironic sense of humour, and irrepressible charm. She recalled in detail the first time they had made love, the encounter had left her overwhelmed. Formidable he might be to his business opponents, but in bed Jack had proved gentle, and sensitive to her every need.

Bob Conran’s deep voice broke into her thoughts as he answered her call, and instantly she forgot about Jack as she began to discuss the development of the Girls in the Red project. Bob was dashing out to a meeting and could only spare her a few minutes. He suggested lunch the following day. Kathryn consulted her diary, and they agreed to meet at Le Caprice at one. The light on her intercom was flashing as she replaced the telephone. It was her secretary, Sally. ‘Mr Franks wants to see you asap. A word of warning, he’s on the warpath about something.’

Kathryn had a good idea what it was. ‘Thanks for the tip, Sally; I’m on my way.’ She clicked the intercom switch off, and headed for Rod Franks’s office. Kathryn waited on the threshold for a few moments, thinking about her boss. She had known Rod for ten years, and worked for him for six. He was highly talented, hot-tempered, and great at what he did. He had started out at sixteen, as a runner for a small film company, and had come up through the ranks. Ten years before, at thirty-five, Rod and his life-long friend Neville Morgan had started Trident, but Neville had died of Aids two years ago. Rod was a tough bastard, there was no denying that, but Kathryn understood him, at least most of the time. She also respected his enormous talent, and shrewd intellect. He in turn admired her tenacity, her creative flair, and her ability to get things done; but more important, they shared a mutual passion for the business. Both were totally committed to producing good, aspiring constantly to ‘great’ television.

When she entered his spacious office, Rod was next to the window, his back to her. Rod had style, she had to give him that, his office reflected it. Very chic, very minimalist, very nineties. Blond wood-panelled floors, beneath blonder panelled walls. A David Hockney painting and a huge vivid splash of Miró the only colour in the room. Less is more, Rod was fond of saying; if you got it right, as he so often did, she was forced to agree.

On her third footstep he turned, he was dressed in a dark blue lightweight Paul Smith suit and a collarless white cotton shirt. His dark hair was slicked back with gel, it glistened in the overhead spotlight. Wasting no time on pleasantries he said, ‘Did you know that Sue Chandler was pitching our idea, about the black heiress, to Ryan Messum at Fox?’ And when Kathryn nodded, he added, ‘Well why the hell didn’t you tell me? I could have stopped her.’

‘If you recall, Rod, the story was my idea originally. I told her about it the night before she left Trident. I thought she needed a break, after the shabby way you got rid of her.’

‘Look, darling, I’m the one who needs a break around here. Sue screwed up on two major productions. Women.’ He slapped a hand to his forehead, and took a step towards Kathryn. ‘The next time you decide to give away great ideas that, I might add, are already in development, ask me. OK?’

‘OK, Rod, it wasn’t such a great idea anyway. Girls in the Red is far better.’

‘It was so lousy, I heard Messum almost kissed that fucking bitch’s ass when she pitched it to him.’

Kathryn couldn’t help grinning. ‘Can you imagine Ryan Messum kissing anyone’s ass?’

In spite of himself Rod began to smile. ‘No. The only thing Messum would be likely to kiss is his own reflection, or that yappy Jack Russell he takes everywhere with him.’

He sat down behind his desk and indicated a chair opposite. ‘You’re right, Kathy. Girls in the Red is a much better project.’ He was the only person apart from her father who ever called her ‘Kathy’. ‘How’s it coming?’

‘It’s coming; we’re on schedule. Tim got some great footage in Leningrad and Moscow. And I’m having lunch with Bob tomorrow to finalize the script.’

‘Good, tell Bob he owes me lunch, too. In fact he owes me several.’ Rod formed a fist. ‘He’s as tight as a fish’s backside.’

Kathryn winked. ‘Have you tried one lately?’

Rod grinned. ‘Leave my sex life out of this.’ His telephone rang, he picked it up, pressing the hold button, then pointing at her with the same finger. ‘I’m not finished with you yet. Can you dig out your high-heeled sneakers and red dress for a book launch tomorrow night at the Groucho? It’s the new Collins publication by that guy Stuart.’

She knew the book. ‘Beyond Madness, by Nick Stuart?’

‘That’s the one, I optioned it this morning.’

Kathryn stood up. ‘It’s a great book, but I’m not certain it will adapt well.’

Rod pressed the hold button again. ‘Nigel, great to hear from you. Listen, I’ve got an amazing, too-good-to-miss idea for a documentary about the culling of rhinos in Tanzania.’

Kathryn turned to leave.

‘Hold on, Nigel.’ Rod looked at her expectantly.

She nodded her acceptance to the Groucho do, already dreading the noisy, shoulder-to-shoulder, cocktail party in Soho. She was halfway across the office when she heard Rod fling a final remark at her.

‘I want you to meet the author, Kathy. Apparently he’s very tricky, so you need to use every ounce of your irresistible charm.’

Kathryn stopped at the door. ‘If the stories about Nick Stuart are true, I think your charm might work better.’

She could hear Rod chuckling as she left the room.

Kathryn arrived at her flat in Notting Hill at ten past six. She had exactly forty-five minutes, to shower, wash her hair, change and get to Jack McGowan’s house in Hampstead for seven. She decided it wasn’t possible; planning her apology, she listened to her messages on the answering machine.

Bleep: Hi, Kathryn. Steve Fisher here. Thanks for the fax. Rod Franks is obviously as truculent as ever. Good to see that things don’t change. I’ve got some hot-off-the-press gen on your Nazi. Give me a call on 202 657 8826. Ciao.

Bleep: Kathryn, Bob Conran. Sorry but I’ll have to change our lunch date. If you get in before seven call me, if not I’ll speak to you at the office tomorrow morning.

‘Damn you, Bob! You promised to deliver the script.’

Bleep: This is Oliver Grant from Brinkforth and Sons. It’s four-thirty on Thursday 10th June. We have a firm offer on the table for Fallowfields; I would like to discuss it with you, please call at your earliest convenience. There was a short pause then, By the way I have forwarded the mail from Fallowfields to your present address. Bleep.

There was no time to digest this news now and instead Kathryn punched out Steve Fisher’s number in Washington. She got a nasty nasal voice asking if she wanted to leave a message on his voice mail.

‘Steve, it’s Kathryn. It’s six-fifteen London time. I’m racing now, going to a drinks party. I’ll call you when I get home. If I miss you, fax the info to my office asap. Thanks for working on it so quickly. Hope you’re well, and still enjoying life on Capitol Hill.’

She was undressing as she ran upstairs, and within twenty minutes, she had showered and was wearing an ankle-length simple black sheath, with matching high heels; her unwashed hair gelled back from her face.

On the drive out to North London, she planned what she would say to her father on Saturday. The death of her mother, and the unwelcome knowledge about Freda’s past life would have to be addressed. She imagined his reaction: one of initial shock, then suppressed emotion, followed by a complete refusal to discuss it.

When she pulled up in front of Jack McGowan’s house in Hampstead, a quick glance at the car clock told her she was only ten minutes late. Not bad going, she congratulated herself, cutting the ignition and grabbing her jacket from the back seat.

Jack’s housekeeper, Mrs Peacock, opened the door. Kathryn heard a familiar deep voice as soon as she stepped into the hall.

‘I don’t care what Nadia Foreman says; she may be a brilliant lawyer but remember, Paul, she’s not God and we can’t afford any adverse publicity right now. The contract with the Saudis is almost in the bag.’

Kathryn handed her jacket to Mrs Peacock, thinking – as she always did – that anyone less like her name would be hard to find. Mrs Peacock was brown. Everything about her was expressed in varying degrees of the colour. From her mouse brown hair; to her ashen, liver-spotted skin; dull muddy eyes; and muted beige clothes. Kathryn accepted her offer of a drink, choosing a glass of mineral water, and popped her head around the open door to Jack’s study. He was standing next to his desk, one hand holding the telephone, the other writing something on a pad next to it. He had his back to her. She waited for a couple of minutes listening to his steady voice, the soft Scottish intonation still evident in certain words.

‘I don’t give a damn if she likes it or not, she’s got to do it or look for a job elsewhere. There are plenty more budding young lawyers where she came from, Paul, remind her of that. And while you’re at it, remind her of the spin-off and perks this contract will give her, not to mention the existing perks she is currently enjoying with the chief executive.’

Kathryn assumed Jack was talking to Paul Rowland. She had met Paul a couple of times and liked what she had seen. For a chief executive he had an awkward boyish sort of charm, with a shyness that she had found extremely appealing. Not that shy she conceded; he was obviously having an affair with Nadia Foreman. The sultry, aggressive lawyer Nadia, and Paul Rowland, seemed an incongruous couple to her. She hadn’t met Paul’s wife Christine, but Jack had mentioned that she was a bossy overpowering woman. If she found out, she would probably kill him.

Silently Kathryn backed out, almost bumping into the Peacock, who was carrying a tray bearing a Perrier water and a bowl of cashew nuts. With her broad back, the housekeeper held open the door to the drawing room, giving her usual disapproving glare. Kathryn took her drink, and looking directly at Mrs Peacock she began to smile. Why let the old dragon bother me? She was still smiling, when she stepped inside the room.

It was a big square, with high ceilings and huge picture windows front and back. It could have been beautiful, if it wasn’t so cluttered and dark. It had been built in the late eighteen-nineties, when Hampstead was a garden suburb. Jack had bought it in 1978. In her opinion it had been decorated with lots of new money, and bad taste. But then who determined ‘taste’? Kathryn mused. And who was she to be so critical? Rod had once said to her, There’s no such thing as good or bad taste, merely taste – after a particularly scathing comment she had passed on the decor in her father’s house.

Jack’s voice rose, but she could no longer make out what he was saying. A minute later she heard footsteps in the hall followed by, ‘Mrs Peacock, get me a gin and tonic.’

Paul Rowland is getting soft in his old age, Jack was thinking as he stood in front of the large mirror in the hall. If he screwed up on this one, he would have to seriously think about getting rid of him, get in some new blood. He brushed a few imaginary specks of dust from the collar of his dress suit, adjusted his bow tie with fastidious neatness, then cracking his knuckles one by one, in a stage whisper he spoke to his reflection. ‘Not bad for an old boy of almost fifty-eight.’

He thought about Paul again. Jack hoped Paul would pull this deal off and come out smelling of roses. He liked him, and he trusted him. Paul had been with KJM for twenty-four years. He could remember him as a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old, making the tea.

Mrs Peacock approached with a beaming smile, breaking his train of thought. He accepted his gin and afforded himself one last glance in the mirror before walking into the drawing room.

Kathryn was standing in front of the window at the south side of the house. From here, she had a view down the deep close-cut lawn. It was bordered by untidy flowerbeds, and ended in a high brick wall, clad with dying ivy. Jack hated gardening. Gardens are a bloody nuisance. They cost a fortune to plant and maintain, and we only get to appreciate them for a few days a year. She had heard his opinion several times. It was raining hard, small puddles were beginning to form on the uneven surface of the circular paved terrace. She watched the water bounce off the top of the white wrought-iron table they had eaten off in last week’s sunshine. It looked desolate now.

Hearing the chink of ice in Jack’s glass, she turned to greet him. ‘Hi, Jack, old Peacock let me in.’ She pulled a long face. ‘I’m convinced that old bitch hates me. I’m sure she’s in love with you, and after you and your wife split up she was convinced she’d get you.’

Jack looked genuinely surprised. ‘You’re not serious are you? Peacock in love, it’s ridiculous!’

Not wanting to discuss the widowed housekeeper any longer, Kathryn said, ‘Why not? You’re a very attractive man.’

Also eager to change the subject, he beamed, his cosmetically altered smile flashing white and even. Standing very close to her, he murmured, ‘You look beautiful, Kathryn.’

Aware of his alert, aquamarine eyes wandering admiringly over her statuesque body, warming to his admiration, she moved deliberately to expose one long leg from inside her dress. It was slit to mid-thigh.

He liked the way her dark honey hair, slicked back from her face, accentuated her strong jaw and high cheekbones. She was wearing a pair of diamond drop earrings he had bought her for her thirty-fourth birthday the previous month. Bending forward to plant a kiss, he felt her perfume fill his nostrils. It was a new fragrance, sweeter than the musk-based one she usually wore. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

‘New perfume?’

‘Mm, you like?’ She held out a bare arm.

‘Not sure yet.’ He kissed the inside of her wrist. ‘It might grow on me.’ He straightened up then looking at her closely said, ‘You’re a little pale tonight, Kathryn, are you all right?’

Unable to tell him the real reason, she used an excuse. ‘I’m fine, just working too hard I suppose.’ In fact she had spent the entire day debating with herself whether or not to tell Jack about Klaus Von Trellenberg. This evening on her way to his house she had finally decided not to. The more she talked about it, the more real it would become; far better to pretend it had never happened. No one else could connect her to Trellenberg. Yet in her own mind she could not erase the reoccurring image of her grandfather dressed in SS uniform. She wondered with dread if it would always be there.

‘You could do with a holiday,’ Jack was saying, but Kathryn was staring into space, a faraway expression on her face. ‘Kathryn, did you hear me?’ He clicked his fingers in front of her glazed eyes.

She shook her head. ‘Sorry, Jack, did you say something?’

‘I said you need a rest, a holiday.’

‘Try telling Rod Franks that!’

Jack made no comment, and went on as if she hadn’t spoken. It was a habit she was positive he was unaware of, but that did not stop her irritation.

‘I’ve got to go to Singapore in a few weeks’ time … Why don’t I extend my stay and we’ll do a bit of island-hopping: Phuket, Ko Samui, Bali. Only yesterday I heard about a wonderful tented hotel, somewhere in Indonesia. How about it?’ Jack urged, taking a sip of gin and tonic.

‘I’m not sure if I can get the time off work. We’re just about to start a new series for Channel Four, and you know what a stickler Rod is …’

‘Tell Rod you need a break. I’ll buy you your own bloody production company if he sacks you.’

There was no doubt in Kathryn’s mind that Jack meant what he said. If she didn’t stop him, he would be buying her expensive gifts constantly. Gently she said, ‘That’s not the answer, Jack; you can’t go through life buying everything and everybody.’

‘Why not? It’s worked so far!’ He lifted his glass. His pupils were like tiny black icebergs, gleaming over the rim. He winked and grinned.

She inclined her head a little, a soft blush colouring her skin. Under the sophisticated façade Kathryn wore so easily, there was a fragile vulnerability. Jack found it highly provocative, and would have liked to make love to her there and then. His mind ran riot with erotic imaginings in which her long dress bunched up around her waist, and one full breast lay exposed – his tongue tracing the nipple, erect and puckered; her naked backside, rounded and hard, pressed against the rain-spattered window. He felt an erection stirring, and marvelled afresh at how Kathryn had managed to revitalize his flagging libido. Nothing like a surge of testosterone to make a man feel good, he thought with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

‘What are you thinking, Jack? All of a sudden you look very pleased with yourself.’

‘I was thinking how lucky I am to have a woman like you, and how easy it would be for that same woman to make an old man very happy. Two weeks in the Far East, not too much to ask is it?’

‘No, Jack, it’s not too much to ask, and it’s a lovely thought. I know I would have a wonderful time, and you would spoil me rotten, but not right now. I’ve got a lot on at the moment. Later in the year perhaps.’

Shrewdly Jack detected that her voice held no promise, yet it did not deter him from saying, ‘I could never spoil you enough, Kathryn, well certainly not sufficiently to make you rotten. The offer is open, think about it; I won’t be asking anyone else.’

‘OK, Jack, thanks.’

‘Talking about asking someone else, have you spoken to your father about this weekend?’

Reluctantly she lied. ‘Yes I have, he can’t get down to London until Saturday. He’s been working with a doctor from America who’s developed a cancer vaccine. The doctor is over here from California and my father has to entertain him.’ With pangs of regret and resentment, Kathryn thought back to all the times she had needed her father and he had been too busy working to be there for her. ‘His work is very important, all consuming you might say.’

Jack detected the bitterness in this last sentence, and felt a surge of sympathy. He had enjoyed a rare closeness with his own father, and had looked forward to a loving intimate relationship with his only daughter. It still hurt like hell to think about Laraine. Jack stared hard at Kathryn but it was his daughter’s face he saw. She was laughing, she had laughed a lot as a child and he missed that more than anything else. She had worn her hair swept back in a long ponytail from her petite pretty face. Yes, she had been pretty and he wanted to remember her like that; not the way she’d looked at the end. Had she lived she would have been two years younger than Kathryn was now. How could Richard de Moubray neglect his beautiful daughter? Jack surmised that the man was not only a fool, but also a bloody selfish one.

‘I’m sorry about the wedding, Jack.’

His face fell. ‘I’m sorry too.’

Feeling guilty, and slightly rattled, she gave his arm a pinch. ‘Come on, cheer up, there’ll be other weekends.’

Jack did not reply but she noticed a subtle change in his body language; he stiffened and his free hand clenched tight.

Kathryn felt bad about lying to him, and even more so about not wanting to spend the weekend with him. Jack was so good to her, too good; his doting indulgence she sometimes found claustrophobic.

‘Listen, Jack, I’ve said I’m sorry. Let’s not make a big deal of this. I’m sure you’ll have a better time than me anyway. I’ve got to listen to that dreadful Emily all evening. Believe me it’s a fate worse than death.’ She decided to make amends by saying, ‘How about you come over to my place for brunch on Sunday? Scrambled eggs and salmon; you can bring the champagne?’

This suggestion seemed to cheer him up, it produced a smile at least. ‘I’d love to. I’ll need cheering up after the Foster-Ward wedding. I’ll drive back to London first thing Sunday morning.’

She stepped up to him, playfully pinching his arm. ‘That’s settled then, and now don’t you think we should go … The Buchanans’ party’s going to be over before we get there.’

The envelope from Brinkforths was the first thing Kathryn saw when she padded downstairs the following morning. It contained four letters, and a compliment slip. There was a reply to an application her mother had made about an advanced floristry course, plus an electricity bill, and a telephone bill. She scanned the list of charges, astonished by three overseas calls amounting to over three hundred and fifty pounds. Kathryn was certain British Telecom must have made a mistake: Freda had hardly ever used the phone, she’d had very few people to call. She made a mental note to call BT when she got to the office.

The last letter was addressed to ‘FREDA’ in capital letters with no surname. The big looped scrawl almost filled the entire front of the small blue envelope, and part of the address had been spelt incorrectly. Tearing it open, Kathryn felt her heart miss a beat when she saw that it was written in German. Struggling with her schoolgirl grasp of the language, she began to read.

My dearest child,

I cannot begin to express how much your letter has meant to me. After all these years, to know you are alive has brought great joy and a sense of purpose that I believed was lost from my life. I can’t tell you how many hours I have spent looking at your photographs. It fills me with … Kathryn could not read the next few words and made a mental note to buy a German dictionary, but she surprised herself by translating the next paragraph easily … How I wish things could have been different, Freda, but we are all mere victims of fate. Mine dictated by circumstances and history, as you know only too well. I lost faith with that madman who wasted so many lives and brought our beloved country to her knees.

The memory of your face I will take with me to my death, which I know will not be long; months, weeks, who can be sure with cancer. I have … she had to skip the next word … my welcome on this earth and await my end with no fear, only a mixture of profound relief and anticipation. I will be with your mother once more. If I don’t write again, you will know why. Don’t forget what I told you, and your promise to me, Freda. It is all up to you now. I love you, have always loved you, and always will.

Kathryn shuddered, recalling the voice in her nightmares. The letter was not signed, and she couldn’t make out the postmark. Riffling through her kitchen drawers, she eventually found a tiny magnifying glass that had come out of a Christmas cracker the previous year. Using one eye, she read the postmark again: 2nd June, St Lucia, West Indies.

Chapter Four

‘I’m absolutely adamant: Calvin is not going to Art School. Have you seen some of the students? I doubt they can string an articulate sentence together. Probably too high on dope.’

It crossed Adam’s mind that the students were there to paint and not to be articulate, but he kept quiet. When Jennifer was in a determined mood, she became totally unreasonable. Past experience had taught him that arguing back invariably made her much worse.

She uncrossed her long, willowy legs and Adam was afforded a brief glimpse of stocking top and a millimetre of black lace. They were sitting in his apartment, facing each other on opposite sofas, like military opponents. Jennifer tossed her head defiantly, a gesture he knew well. It was one of the things he had noticed the first time he had met her. Her dark auburn hair had been longer then, swinging across her shoulders like a slick of russet gloss paint. Two weeks after they had split up, she had cut it and he had to admit she suited it short. The style gave her face a boyish quality, and today, wearing very little make-up and with her creamy skin tanned from twelve days’ vacation in Hawaii, Jennifer looked much younger than thirty-eight. She reminded Adam of a wary colt; fresh, bold and very beautiful.

‘Not all art students are as you describe. In fact, I can name two kids who’ve just graduated and who look more like budding stockbrokers than aspiring Andy Warhols. And I don’t need to remind you about Luke, Matt and Kelly Bronson’s son, who got expelled from Yale last year for taking drugs.’ He spread his hands wide. ‘So it doesn’t necessarily follow …’

‘OK, OK, Adam. I’m sure there are exceptions; we can all pull examples out of the bag if we choose, but that’s not the point.’

‘Well, what is? Correct me if I’m wrong, Jennifer, but didn’t you kick up a storm at a very similar age? Your father told me that he almost went berserk when you took up modelling instead of a business course at Vassar. He still thinks to this day that you would have made a brilliant lawyer.’

‘He’s a stubborn old fool!’

‘Stubborn, I’ll give you, Jennifer. Old, yes; if you call seventy-four “old”. But a fool? Come on, Richard Carmichael is nobody’s fool.’

With a wave of her hand, she snarled through clenched teeth. ‘I didn’t come here to discuss my father, you always were good at changing the subject when it suits you.’ She began twisting the diamond ring she was wearing on her wedding finger.

Adam raised his eyebrows. ‘New ring?’

‘Yes, I’m engaged.’ He felt his stomach contract into a tight knot, followed by a searing pain, as if someone had just injected boiling water into his gut. The reaction made him want to throttle Jennifer, this woman whom he had loved with a passion. Sitting now on his sofa, in an apartment they had shared, she looked so poised and in control. And she was armed with the ability to wound him, so painfully, with a few simple words.

He could hear the contempt creeping into his voice, but was unable to contain it. ‘How can you be engaged to marry when you’re still married to me?’ Not waiting for her reply, he went on, ‘So Jordan Tanner has bought you a ring, big deal. I wouldn’t get carried away if I were you, Jennifer. If his past record is anything to go by, he seems to get through women like most men get through—’

‘Shut up, Adam, or try and say something original. We are engaged to be married when my divorce comes through; anyway, I came here to talk about our son’s future, not to hear you run Jordan down.’

‘Yeah, yeah, you’re right; sorry. Old wounds, you know how it is.’

Jennifer lowered her eyes, concealing the flash of guilt his words had produced. She did know how it was for him.

‘Does Cal know you’re engaged?’

When she looked up to speak, some of the cool edge had left her voice. ‘No, not yet, we’re going to tell him next leave-out weekend. Jordan’s planning a trip to his place upstate.’ She paused, ‘You know, to help find the right moment. I shouldn’t worry, he’s very fond of Calvin.’

Adam doubted there was a ‘right moment’ and he knew, without a shadow of doubt, Calvin did not reciprocate Jordan Tanner’s affection. ‘Cal still harbours hopes of you and me getting back together, so I really don’t know how he’s going to take the happy news.’

Adam shifted in his seat, pulling a cushion out from behind his back. Jennifer stood up to her full five foot eight, stretched, and with both hands on her narrow hips walked across the room, not stopping until she came to the bookcase on the far wall. Picking up an ashtray, she walked back towards him. Adam watched her slow feline movements, they had always aroused him. She lit a cigarette, the smoke rising in front of her face, and she looked at him through slanted eyes.

His hair, normally flowing on to his shoulders, was caught in an untidy ponytail – several strands had strayed and were curling into his neck. The top three buttons of his shirt were open and his initials could be seen, hand embroidered in pale blue, on the inside collar. Jennifer recalled the first time she had kissed that neck; she had noticed the monogram and thought it very chic.

Adam stretched his left leg, worn denim pulling taut across his upper thigh. His jeans rode up to reveal an inch of calf, thick black hair curling over the rim of his tan cowboy boot.

God, you’re an attractive son-of-a-bitch, his wife thought to herself, fighting an overwhelming urge to touch him. She had never stopped wanting him. No man had ever physically satisfied her like Adam Krantz. There was a warmth between her legs as her mind ran rampant with thoughts of him inside her, his mouth on her body, hot and hungry, like a starving animal on a feeding frenzy. Inhaling smoke deeply, she was scrutinizing his face.

‘And how do you feel about the idea of us getting back together, Adam?’ There was something in the way she narrowed her eyes to slits that gave her the distinct look of a cat. An alley cat, Adam thought, realizing with a surge of anger that it was exactly the way she had looked on that afternoon, eighteen months ago, when he had arrived back from London two days earlier than anticipated.

He hadn’t called home but had called Joanne to make a reservation for dinner at the Manhattan Ocean Club, one of Jennifer’s favourite restaurants. The scene remained like a stage set in his head: always in vivid colour – every word, movement, nuance, in excruciating detail. Jennifer was bent over his desk, her blue skirt hiked up around her waist, both legs were spread wide apart, a pair of white lace panties hung from one ankle. Her left breast was exposed; the nipple, puckered and dark, seemed unusually large. There was one gold button missing from her white Chanel blouse – the one he had bought her in Paris on vacation the previous year. As she strained forward, holding the edge of the desk, her abundant hair fanned across his open diary.

Jordan Tanner, his trousers gathered around his ankles, was gripping her hips and there were pink marks on her smooth skin where his fingers had been. His open shirt flapped against his naked thighs as he moved rhythmically in and out of her body.

Stunned into silence, Adam had watched them from the open door of his study – the Hermès carrier bag containing a scarf and belt for Jennifer dangling from his grip. He had felt strangely detached, like watching a film, and at one point even wanted to laugh. Hardly daring to breathe, he had listened to Jennifer’s moans, and Jordan’s increasing grunts as his thrusting approached ejaculation. Adam would never forget their faces which had turned towards him in shock when he had spoken very quietly, in a voice that he didn’t recognize as his own. ‘I do hope Jordan is wearing a condom, Jennifer; you really don’t know where he’s been.’

‘I asked you a question, Adam.’

A thin spiral of smoke curled into the air between them.

‘Us? I don’t think it would ever work.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Too much water under the bridge. You must understand I can’t get this vision of you shacked up with that senseless creep Jordan Tanner out of my mind. I mean if a beautiful woman like you has to get laid behind her husband’s back, I really think there are—’

‘Stop it, stop it, please!’ Jennifer was shaking, and it pleased him to see her robbed of her cool composure. ‘We’ve been through this before, it’s all totally negative stuff.’

‘Oh negative, is it? I don’t think saying what one really thinks can ever be negative, Jennifer.’

Ignoring this reasoning, she ground her cigarette out viciously into the bottom of the ashtray, the calm voice of her therapist whispering in her ears, ‘Guilt is negative. You must be positive. Do not under any circumstances take on your husband’s guilt. He will, if you allow him, try to make you feel responsible for everything that’s gone wrong in your relationship; most men do.’

Composing her features into a smile that, to Adam, resembled a sneer, she said, ‘I really would like Cal to go to Harvard, Adam. He’s very bright, it’s a great university and can offer him everything. Think of the people he’ll meet, the cream of society, how can you deny him that opportunity? I would really appreciate it if you didn’t fight me on this one.’

‘I think Calvin has a mind of his own, Jennifer. You know as well as I do that he’s headstrong, and if he wants to go to Art School – he will. I don’t think I’ll have to fight, this is something he wants real bad. The kid’s got a gift, real talent; think about him for once, and not yourself.’

Jennifer stood up, her expression unreadable. ‘You’re right, Calvin is strong-willed. He takes after you in that respect, you always were a stubborn bastard, and so secretive. I really don’t know what I hoped to achieve by coming here. Jordan warned me that you would deliberately try to oppose me.’

‘Did he now? I suggest you tell Jordan Tanner to come over here and say that to me personally if he dares. The little asshole may be brave enough to make a pass at my wife, then get laid, but he’s scared shitless to face me.’

Jennifer glared like a wild predatory cat. ‘Damn you, Adam Krantz! You know why I had to seek the comforts of another man, you were never around.’ She strode towards the door, grabbing her jacket from the back of a nearby chair. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out. And mark my words, I’m determined no son of mine is going to Art School, to end up like you, trying to sell a few meagre paintings and struggling to survive. I’m certain that if your father hadn’t died and left you everything, you’d still be struggling.’

‘Thanks, Jennifer, you always did have a special knack of making me feel great.’

‘It’s the truth, and you know it.’

Adam sprang to his feet, blocking her way to the door. ‘Money isn’t the be-all and end-all of everyone’s existence. Need I remind you of our early years together, how we laughed and loved in my basement in Greenwich. At that time we had very little, so how come we were so happy?’

They both fell silent, remembrance of pleasures past evident on their faces.

‘That was a long time ago, Adam, I don’t even want to think that far back. Like you said earlier, too much water … I need to think about what’s happening right now, and I want the best for my son.’

‘Our son, Jennifer, or were there other dalliances I know nothing about?’

Her right hand rose, poised in midair as if to strike him, but something held her back. She dropped it down by her side. ‘Please step aside. I’ve nothing more to say to you; except, believe me, you’ve both got a fight on your hands.’

Hopelessly he stepped to one side, but warned, ‘Be careful, Jennifer, you’ll lose him.’

His words fell on deaf ears, Jennifer was already out of the door, slamming it so hard it rattled the hinges.

Five minutes after his wife had left, Adam put on some old jazz records and started to drink. He usually restricted himself to a couple of Scotch and sodas, but tonight he felt like getting thoroughly smashed. Had he neglected Jennifer? The question nagged at him: was he to blame for her blatant love affair with Tanner? Dropping two ice cubes into a large tumbler, he filled it to the top with whisky and drained the glass. Staring into the bottom, he concluded that Jennifer was probably right. He refilled, thinking back over his eighteen-year marriage.

He’d always tried to divide his time equally between his family, his work, and his search for the man responsible for the murder of his late father’s family. But now he knew he had failed to balance all three. The promise he had made to his father twelve years ago had become an obsession. Jennifer understood that; he had not.

Adam sat down on the sofa still warm from Jennifer, the words she had uttered so passionately after his father’s funeral, resounding loud in his head. ‘Your father is dead, Adam; for all you know this German guy is dead also. And even if he is still alive, when you eventually get to him, he’ll be too old and senile to stand trial. For God’s sake forget it. Let them all go, they’re your father’s ghosts not yours. Your life is here and now, with Calvin and me. We need you.’

Images of his wife flooded into his mind. He tried to banish them, but they refused to be exiled: Jennifer on their wedding day, a vision in white lace and tulle; then on honeymoon, alighting from a vaporetto at San Marco in Venice, laughing at his stumbling Italian. A smile creased his face as a picture of Jennifer in the last stages of pregnancy entered his mind, her huge belly suspended above long skinny legs had put him in mind of a red-headed stork, albeit a beautiful one.

You’re a glutton for punishment he told himself as he visualized her the day they had met in his father’s gallery. She had accompanied her father, a collector of Dutch art. Whilst old Benjamin and Richard Carmichael had discussed a Rembrandt, Adam had observed Jennifer, tall and slim, dressed in a simple silk shift. It had been obvious to him she was not wearing a bra. As she leaned forward to study the paintings, he had been unable to keep his eyes off her small, perfectly formed breasts, straining against the sensuous fabric.

Aware of his scrutiny and enjoying the effect she was creating, she had played the coquette. They had both giggled afterwards, when he had admitted that for him it was lust at first sight.

The first time they had made love would stay with him for ever. Her skin was the colour and texture of alabaster, her pubis a slightly darker shade of auburn than her hair. She had recently returned from a vacation in the South of France, and he recalled admiring her all-over tan, and listening to her stories of nudist beaches and discotheques under the stars.

Adam had thought Jennifer very sophisticated and worldly, even though she was three years younger than him. He could hear her voice as clearly as if it were yesterday, telling him he was her drug – she was addicted to him, and she wanted him to go on making love to her for the rest of her life …

‘Goddamn it, Jenny baby; what happened?’ he whispered into his glass. She was an affliction that was going to take a long time, and a lot of treatment before remission, and at this moment Adam wasn’t sure if it was a complete cure he really wanted.

He tried to think back over the years. Deep down, Adam knew that it wasn’t only his promise to his father that had rankled with his wife. It was something more subtle. His ambition had never matched hers. Whatever she got or however much he gave her, it was never enough: Jennifer always had to have more. ‘You should have licked more ass, that’s where you’ve gone wrong all your life,’ he muttered into his half-empty glass, as he crossed the room to get the bottle of Johnnie Walker. ‘You could never get up those tight rich butts.’

With the bottle swinging in his right hand, he sat down again in the same position. The voice of Ella Fitzgerald singing ‘Long Ago and Far Away’ seemed poignantly apt as the alcohol slipped down his throat, and oblivion rose like an old friend to enfold him in a warm, protective glow. Dropping his head against the back of the sofa, Adam closed his eyes. The bottle slipped from his relaxed fingers, whisky soaking the Indian rug. He didn’t even notice, his mind had strayed to the last weekend he had spent with his father in his home in Connecticut ten days before his death.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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