A Ghost at the Door by Michael Dobbs Page B

canter around the course of his last few days, sparing her nothing: the fire, the fall, the cars that caused him to swerve, everything except for admitting to the
deliberate attempt to kill him. She didn’t deserve that. ‘So she’s in Britain,’ he concluded. ‘Susannah Ranelagh’s here. I’ve got to find her.’
    ‘No, you haven’t. This has got to stop, Harry.’
    ‘I can’t. Sorry, Jem, but . . . I can’t.’
    She’d always known there was a darker side to Harry, that his past had led him to alleyways down which no ordinary man would ever willingly wander. He had killed, in the Army and since,
and put his own life on the line. She’d heard him muttering through his dreams, sometimes crying out, calling names. He’d never be conventional or often even comfortable; that was part
of his appeal, the mystique of Harry Jones, and she was sensible enough to know she couldn’t change him. Yet she couldn’t deny her hope that she might help him move on, to a future they
both could share. But this wasn’t it. It was one thing for a woman to know that the man she loved had hidden depths, quite another to watch him drowning in them.
    ‘We’re supposed to be getting married, Harry. Stop this – please. For my sake.’
    ‘You must understand, I have to find this woman. To know what happened to my father.’
    ‘Forget your father. He’s dead.’
    ‘Jem . . .’ He was about to protest that she’d been the one who had set him on the trail but the pain in her eyes told him there was no point in trying to win the argument with
logic.
    ‘Harry, it’s you and me. The present. Our future. Damn the past.’
    ‘You don’t understand, Jem.’
    She stood up. ‘Correct. Full marks. Top of the class. I don’t. First fucking thing you’ve got right since you got back!’ She disappeared into the bathroom and made a
point of slamming the door behind her.

    There had been a further surprise for Susannah Ranelagh in addition to the arms full of roses.
    ‘You’re staying with me, Susannah,’ he had announced.
    ‘I’d thought . . . a hotel. As always.’
    ‘I wouldn’t hear of it,’ he said as he placed her bag in the back of his Mercedes. She’d arrived with her life teetering on the brink of damnation and yet within minutes
he had brushed the clouds away. As, somehow, he always had.
    She had tried to talk of Harry while he was driving the several hours to his home but his hand reached out for hers, squeezing it in comfort. ‘No, all that later,’ he instructed and,
as ever, she had done as he had asked. Instead, they caught up on old times – so many of them and too old, perhaps, but, with every mile along the motorway and through the winding hedgerows
of the country lanes, she felt the years slip away and she was young once more.
    As the Mercedes bit into the gravel of the long drive she gazed on the ancient house in awe. His home, set in the cupped hands of the hills behind. It was her first time. She wondered how long
it would take her to climb to the highest point, just as she had used to, at home in the hills of Kerry. He left her suitcase sitting on the tiles of his wonderful, echoing hallway.
‘I’ll take it to my room,’ she suggested but he shook his head. ‘No. Later. Eat. Relax.’
    She stretched up to kiss him, on the cheek, nervously, and his eyes filled with surprise, just as they had that first time in his rooms at Oxford after she had dropped her blouse and advanced
upon him.
    ‘A glass of champagne before we eat,’ he suggested. It had been sherry back then. But he clicked his fingers in correction. ‘No, of course. Forgive me, Susie. You prefer Pinot
Grigio.’ She always had. And the glass was there, with a simple meal not far behind. Smoked salmon. Salad. Prepared by his own hand. She felt sure that a man who lived on his own in a house
of this size would have a cook and a housekeeper but there was no sign of either. Of course, he’d sent them away, so she could be