Sleeping With Ghosts. Lynne Pemberton

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.