A Ghost at the Door by Michael Dobbs

that seemed strange, as though it had been sieved through filters somewhere inside.
    ‘No rush,’ she said, opening up her laptop once more.
    ‘I think there is.’
    ‘You’ve waited this long, what difference—’
    ‘As you said, she’s old.’
    ‘But you can’t.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘You’ve got this to deal with.’ She waved the letter.
    ‘It can wait.’
    ‘No, he explicitly says this is a matter of urgency.’
    ‘If he wants me that much, he’ll wait. A few days.’
    ‘But bloody Bermuda? You can’t afford it. Why not call her?’
    ‘Because I need to see her. She was one of the last people to see my father alive.’
    ‘Harry!’ Jemma pounded the cushions in frustration. ‘This . . .’ She grabbed the letter once more, threw it angrily into his lap. It was growing into an argument, a big
one, their first. ‘Accept this and many more could follow. You become flavour of the month once again – Harry Jones, the man everyone admires and wants a piece of. Oh, perhaps you
don’t want to become a corporate creature, not for ever, but this is a chance for you to get back on your feet. For us to move forward, Harry. I love you, I’ve hated watching you
suffer. This could be our future. We don’t need the past.’
    ‘That’s not what you said before.’
    ‘Please?’
    She was pleading, but he wouldn’t respond. He stared, not just defiantly but in raw and rough-edged anger; it was a passion that bubbled up from somewhere so deep within and so up close
that it frightened her. Suddenly she was looking at a part of him she scarcely knew. This was a man who couldn’t be stopped, not just because he was simply determined but because the stupid
bastard didn’t know when to stop. That could be dangerous. And it terrified her.

    Robert Tallon’s golfing partner was lining up his second putt on the decisive seventeenth when the lawyer’s mobile began to vibrate. He glanced at the caller’s
number. ‘Sorry, it’s an emergency,’ he declared.
    ‘Christ, Robert, it had better be,’ his playing partner growled, waving his hand at the six and a half feet of manicured lawn that lay between him and bragging rights in the bar.
    Tallon wandered down from the tee to the shelter of a nearby rhododendron shrub, trying to find a little privacy and protection from the wind that had shanked his last drive thirty yards into
the sand trap. ‘Couldn’t it wait?’ he said, instinctively covering the mouthpiece with his free hand.
    ‘I’ve just spoken to Jones,’ the caller said.
    ‘Ah, good.’
    ‘Nothing good about it. He’s not biting.’
    ‘But he must!’
    ‘Says he’s got too much on his plate at the moment. Wondered if we could give him more time.’
    ‘You told him that wasn’t possible, of course?’
    ‘Of course. I was very clear.’
    ‘And you also made it clear that you were prepared to be generous?’
    ‘Exceptionally.’
    ‘Damn it! He can’t have more bloody time.’ Tallon glanced over his shoulder to where his partner was standing, leaning impatiently on his putter. ‘So go back and offer
him more money. Add something to the benefit package, more share options or something. I feel sure my client and your key investor will approve.’
    ‘And, since it’s his money, I shall do my best. I’ll let you know. But I’d better get my skates on.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘He said he had a plane to catch.’
    The phone went dead, leaving Tallon with the feeling that all was not well in his world. But he was a lawyer, an Edinburgh soul in exile who permitted his emotions to range freely only on rare
occasions, such as the run-up to the sale of Victorian watercolours at Christie’s or those wind-swept afternoons spent in his debenture seat at Hampden Park. Now he watched impassively as his
partner sank the winning putt and gave a little jig of jubilation.

CHAPTER FOUR
    ‘Don’t come looking for me, Harry. Not behind doors that I’ve closed.’
    He remembered his father’s words,