A Ghost at the Door by Michael Dobbs Read Free Book Online Page B

side of the cushion.
    The photograph was unloved, its colours a little faded, and it had been bent in two in order to get it into the envelope. It was taken from the dockside, looking up at a large, white-hulled
luxury yacht of around forty metres, Harry reckoned, whose sleek lines disappeared into the distance. Standing in front of his yacht was the captain, in uniform with bare forearms and dark glasses.
Beside him, on the other side of the crease, dressed in a white blouse and bright cotton floral print, was a woman. She was thin-faced, greying, a little scrawny and defiantly old-fashioned to
Harry’s eye, distinctly pale in comparison with the captain, squinting awkwardly in the fierce light. Not the type to be slipping and sliding on his father’s sun deck. He flipped the
photograph and found scratchy writing on the back: ‘SS
Adriana
’. Beneath that, a name: ‘Capt. Kouropoulos’. And still another: ‘Sue Ranelagh’. At his
side Jemma was erupting with excitement and corporate highlights, but he was no longer listening.

    They sat side by side on the sofa, bent over their respective laptops.
    ‘Their website’s full of smiles and expensive orthodontics,’ Jemma said, with a hint of suspicion. ‘Its parent company’s based in Andorra.’
    ‘Tax haven.’
    ‘Not too much about it. No negative stuff. You’re right, it’s deep into military bits. Fancy end. Software rather than bayonets.’ She turned, her nose wrinkled in
concern. ‘Is that a problem for us, darling?’
    Without looking up he arched an eyebrow. His career in the British Army had included the Paras, the Pathfinders, the 22 Special Air Service Regiment and mortal combat on four different
continents. Occasional visits to an office in Mayfair was unlikely to cause him sleepless nights.
    ‘There are bits here about new ventures into what they call cleantech industries,’ she added, more enthusiastically.
    ‘Sounds almost charitable.’
    ‘Er . . .’ – she hammered away at the keyboard – ‘one of the big accountancy firms does their audits. That’s important, too, isn’t it?’
    ‘Enron thought so.’
    ‘Harry, what’s your problem?’ she snapped, slamming down the lid of her laptop. ‘They offer you a way out of jail and you don’t seem to give a damn!’
    ‘This is the problem,’ he said, holding up the creased photograph. ‘Sue Ranelagh. She was on the boat when my father died. But who the hell is she?’
    ‘You’ve Googled?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘I suppose there are hundreds on the Internet.’
    ‘Many thousands.’
    ‘So we know nothing about her.’
    ‘Well, we do. This photo was taken in 2001, so she’s – what – in her sixties by now?’
    ‘If she’s still alive.’
    ‘We know she’s rather conservative in her dress sense and probably her outlook. North European, at a guess. And probably had money.’
    ‘How do you know that?’
    ‘She wasn’t on board because she was all teeth and tits. She was a passenger, a guest. One who could mix with the likes of oligarchs and other wealthy arseholes. Like my
father.’
    ‘Still doesn’t help us very much.’
    ‘Oh, but I think it does. I couldn’t wade through the tide of Sue Ranelaghs that the computer threw up, or even those that call themselves Susan. But I thought: money, traditional,
bit posh. So for the hell of it I tried the name Susannah.’ He swivelled the laptop so it was facing her. ‘And there she is.’
    Jemma examined the page on the screen. Just one entry, but enough. A photograph of a Miss Susannah Ranelagh, President and Patron of the Bermuda Arts and Cultural Foundation, pictured making an
award to three black music students. A couple of years old. A short caption, no supporting text.
    ‘But you can’t be—’ She was about to suggest he couldn’t be certain, until he expanded the photograph. The same face, somewhat greyer hair, and identical dress
sense.
    ‘I need to go and see Miss Ranelagh,’ he said in a voice