Free A Ghost at the Door by Michael Dobbs Page A

tracksuit,’ she protested.
    ‘There’s also the dab of bright-green paint on the side of your cheek.’ Her fingers flew instinctively to her face and began rubbing. ‘And you said you were a teacher of
very young children.’
    Jemma laughed in congratulation. Far from being stuffy, he seemed charming.
    ‘Please don’t let me keep you from your lunch.’ He nodded towards the plastic bowl of homemade salad sitting on the bench beside her.
    ‘Oh, yes,’ she stumbled as yet again he caught her off guard. ‘I’d offer to share it but . . . somehow I just know you’ve got a far more splendid lunch waiting for
you.’
    ‘And you’ve only one fork.’
    She smiled. She was going to find it easy to talk to a man like this. ‘So,’ she began, chewing a mouthful of rocket as more pigeons hovered at her feet, ‘you knew Harry’s
father.’
    ‘Most certainly. At one time he was a man of some importance in my life.’
    ‘Harry wants to know a little more about him. I wonder whether you might help us.’
    An unmistakable shadow passed behind the old man’s eyes. ‘You must understand, Miss Laing—’
    ‘Please. Call me Jemma.’
    ‘Johnnie was a
turbulent
sort.’ He pursed his lips, choosing his words with care. ‘I don’t want to be unkind, but I have to warn you – Jemma –
you’re likely to discover things about Harry’s father you will both find uncomfortable. Distasteful, even.’
    ‘I understand. But Harry can be painfully persistent.’
    ‘Oh, as was his father.’ His silver head seemed to be weighed down with the memory.
    Suddenly the sun disappeared; the shadow of a man fell across their path. He was standing in front of them, dressed in a long overcoat despite the weather. He stank of sweet-stale urine and
cheap alcohol and held out a filthy hand. ‘Spare some change,’ he blurted through cracked lips. Jemma flustered, did nothing. ‘Change,’ the tramp demanded in a more
hectoring tone. He swayed, his hand moved from Jemma to McQuarrel, who said not a word, did nothing but stare, yet something was exchanged between the two men, something in the eyes that Jemma
couldn’t see but had the same effect on the tramp as a stick shoved up his backside.
    ‘Yeah, you, too!’ the tramp shouted as he leapt back, glaring. He wiped his mucus-crusted nose on the back of his coat sleeve and roared incoherently at them both before turning and
shuffling away, kicking out at the pigeons as he went.
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ McQuarrel said quietly.
    ‘It’s scarcely your fault.’
    He sighed. ‘When you get to my age somehow everything seems your fault.’ He seemed elsewhere for a moment before turning back to Jemma. ‘I was rather hoping Harry would be with
you.’
    ‘He’s abroad.’
    ‘Somewhere nice?’
    ‘Bermuda. But it’s no holiday. He’s gone there to talk to someone else about his father. A Miss Ranelagh. You don’t happen to know her, I suppose.’
    ‘It’s not a name that means anything to me. But, when he gets back, can I suggest we all meet up?’
    ‘That would be kind, Mr McQuarrel.’
    ‘Alexander, please. And I hope you’ll allow me to find somewhere a little more comfortable than a park bench. After all, I’m an old friend of the family – you’re
about to become a member of that family; we should celebrate. You know I haven’t seen Harry since he was . . . oh, no more than a boy. He wouldn’t remember me, I dare say, but
I’ve followed his career. You’re marrying an extraordinary man.’
    ‘I know.’
    He smiled and placed his hand on hers. ‘I’m afraid I must ask you to forgive me. You’ve almost finished your lunch and I must attend to mine. Will you give me a call as soon as
Harry gets back?’
    ‘Of course. You’ve been very kind, Alexander.’
    ‘I haven’t been the slightest bit of help.’
    ‘I know you will be.’
    Her hand was warm within his; he squeezed it, held it firmly. ‘Jemma, will you take a little advice from an old man? All