two of them, with their memories of the dead, of Papa and Anya, a gentle grief which was part of everyday life somehow and did not make her sad so much as tie her to that place, that time, woven into her heart’s fibres. Then her mother married Franz and everything altered. After him came the boys, her half-brothers, who took all her mother’s attention. Sophie could no longer go out and play – she was needed at home, expected to help with the housework, help look after the babies; she was no longer a child herself. Oh, she loved them. How could she help it when she had nursed them, fed them, changed them, cared for them? She was their second mother and she missed them – but their arrival had shut her off from her childhood, all the same.
Lost in her memories of home, she jumped in shock as the door of her room opened and Steve Colbourne walked in.
Sophie was staggered to see him. What was he doing here? Had he been to her apartment? Why? What was he up to? Questions buzzed in her head like bluebottles shut up in a room, driving her crazy. Why had he made a dead set at her in the conference? Why had he come rushing over after she asked her question? Why had he been so insistent about taking her for a drink, why had he been so curious about her, asked her all those questions?
A nerve jumped in her cheek. What if . . . what if he . . . he seemed to know so much about Don Gowrie, he admitted to having known him for years – could he have been the man behind her in the subway? Had he been the one who pushed her?
Oh, for heaven’s sake, she told herself – are you going crazy now? Of course it wasn’t him – does he look like the sort of guy who kills people?
He had a tough face, but there was an honesty there too, and a very human warmth when his eyes smiled or glinted with amusement. She couldn’t help liking him, and she couldn’t believe you wouldn’t know, by pure instinct, if someone was murderous. She couldn’t believe, either, that a man who had already tried to kill you wouldn’t betray it, somehow. The knowledge would show in his eyes, surely? Or maybe she was very naive? Maybe it didn’t show in the face, the killer instinct? Maybe men who could coldbloodedly kill could also hide their thoughts, deceive even the most watchful eye.
She wished, wished desperately that she could penetrate his skull and read his mind, pierce his breast and read his heart.
Then Steve said, ‘You know who wants you dead and I think I know too,’ and Sophie drew breath harshly, staring, her face so tight she felt as if the bones were pushing through her skin.
‘For your own safety, I think you should tell me everything,’ he said then. ‘Once you’ve talked, there’ll be no more attempts on your life.’
Sophie saw Lilli’s eyes fill with tears. ‘Somebody tried to kill you? Oh, Sophie . . .’ she whispered. ‘How terrifying.’ And their shared blood spoke between them, Sophie’s eyes filling with tears, too.
But Lilli was American-born as well as having Czech blood. Her first instinctive helpless fear, the inbred terror of a people who had had to live in a world where a knock on the door at night could lead to someone vanishing forever, without explanation, was swamped in a rush of defiance and rage. She bristled, her face filling with furious blood.
‘Have you told the police?’
‘No!’ Sophie and Steve both spoke at the same time, then looked at each other, knowledge leaping between them.
What does he know or guess? Sophie wondered. Don Gowrie wouldn’t have talked to him – she was sure of that, certain that nobody else in this whole world knew, except maybe Mrs Gowrie, and Sophie was not sure even she knew the truth.
‘Nobody would believe me,’ she said to Lilli.
‘They’d write her down as a crazy foreigner,’ Steve agreed. ‘There’s no evidence.’
‘I didn’t see who did it,’ Sophie admitted wearily. ‘I just felt a hand in the small of my back, he pushed me.’
Sharply, Steve asked, ‘He? You did see it was a man, then?’
‘I didn’t look round, there wasn’t time, but it must be, a woman wouldn’t have done that.’ She drew a shaken breath. ‘A woman . . . I grabbed at a woman . . .’ Her eyes were suddenly huge, dilated, glistening with tears as she began reliving those moments again. ‘Oh, God, that poor woman . . . I heard her screaming, she fell under the train, didn’t she?’ She swallowed visibly. ‘Is she . . .? Was she killed?’
‘No,’ Steve said quickly. ‘And she isn’t going to die, either. She was injured, but it isn’t fatal.’
Sophie closed her eyes, sighing deeply. ‘Thank God.’
Steve moved a chair out for Lilli to sit down and sat down himself next to her. ‘Now tell us about Don Gowrie.’
Her lids flew up like blinds on a wet window.
‘And don’t lie,’ Steve said flatly. ‘I know this is all about him. You’ve got something on him and he’s scared you may go to the press with it – right?’
‘Please go away,’ she said, her voice rising shrilly. ‘Go away, go away.’
The door opened and a nurse looked in, saw Sophie’s agitation and came into the room. Her large hand clamped on the girl’s wrist; she picked up the rapid pulse and frowned.
‘You shouldn’t be having visitors. You’re supposed to be resting.’ Her eyes accused Steve, instinctively fastening on him as the culprit. ‘You’d better leave now.’
‘Just another five minutes, it’s important,’ he protested, but the nurse shook her head.
‘It isn’t good for her to get upset. You must go now, both of you.’
Lilli bent to kiss Sophie, hugged her warmly. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow morning to take you home in a taxi. Try to sleep, and don’t worry, you can go and stay with my cousin in Connecticut for a few weeks. You’ll be safe there.’