The gatekeeper lingered, giving a yearning look at his TV, then back at the waiting car; it was big and expensive and looked important. He remembered the American security men who had come a while back and gone over every inch of the grounds with a toothcomb. They had hustled him, pushed him around, with an infuriating blank courtesy that these men had, too.
Gloomily he said, ‘Well, wait there. I’ll have to talk to Mrs Brougham before I let you in; hold on.’
He vanished into the cottage, they caught a glimpse of him through the open door, talking on a phone. After a minute he came back. ‘Mrs Brougham would rather you waited until her husband arrives,’ he yelled, and closed the front door on them with an open grin, delighted to have that message to pass on.
The engine idling, the men in the car sat staring at the locked gates, then the one in the back leaned forward and got a mobile phone out of a leather box on the floor between the front seats.
‘Better pass this news on to Beverley and get new instructions. He said we had to get in there before the police, that it was urgent to snatch the girl and get away. The local cop’s over there talking to the firemen, but he could go up to the house any minute.’
‘We should have shot our way in!’
‘Don’t be dumb. In front of a limey cop? Now that would really make Gowrie happy, having two of his men shoot up an English village.’
Cathy politely left the room while Sophie made her phone call, but her discretion was not needed, because when Sophie got through to the hotel in London she was told that Steve had left an hour earlier. The switchboard operator had no idea where he had gone, offered indifferently to take a message.
Sophie left her name. ‘I’m at Arbory House.’ She spelt the name. ‘Arbory. This is their number.’ She read it off the telephone. ‘Have you got that? Ask him to ring me. Please, make sure he gets it the minute he comes back to the hotel.’
She put the phone down and lay back against the couch cushions, biting her lip. Had Steve already gone to the Guildhall dinner? A big banquet with speeches would take hours, she knew those endless public functions – Steve might not get back to the hotel until very late at night. Hadn’t he got the message she left earlier? That would mean he didn’t know where she was, and yet had still gone off to his dinner. Maybe he had forgotten all about her, was far too busy to care what she was doing or what was happening to her?
‘What’s wrong? You look very unhappy,’ Cathy said, coming back into the room. ‘Didn’t you get through? Were you ringing your boyfriend?’
‘No, just a colleague.’ Sophie forced a smile she did not feel, but the truth was she was hurt because Steve had apparently got on with his life although she had disappeared. It was childish to be resentful; after all, what did she expect? They had only met a few days ago. They hardly knew each other. Why should he drop everything and run after her?
Watching her, Cathy said softly, ‘Is that all? Are you sure? You look as if you’ve lost a dollar and found a cent.’
Sophie half-laughed, very pink. ‘It’s just that I needed . . . wanted . . . to talk to him, badly. I left a message for him earlier, I thought he might come after me but he hasn’t, he has gone to this dinner at the Guildhall.’
‘The one my father’s speaking at?’ Cathy frowned. ‘Why is your colleague going to that? He isn’t in politics, is he?’
‘He’s a journalist.’
Cathy stiffened, her eyes chilling. ‘My God, is that what this is – a media conspiracy against my father?’
‘Of course not! I only met Steve a few days ago. He –’
‘Steve?’ Cathy broke in, her face running with hot colour and then as rapidly turning pale again. ‘Steve who? What’s his last name?’
‘Steve Colbourne,’ Sophie said, then suddenly remembered Steve telling her that he knew the Gowrie family well, and eagerly said, ‘You know him, don’t you? He told me he knew your family.’
Cathy walked across the room and back again, like an offended cat swishing its tail with resentment. Her body was stiff, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. She stopped beside the couch and looked angrily at Sophie.
‘I can’t believe he’d do anything so sneaky and vicious. OK, maybe I hurt him, but I didn’t think he was deep-down serious any more than I was, and I didn’t mean to hurt him, I couldn’t help falling in love with another man. For him to wait all these months and then attack my father with a campaign of wicked lies and –’
‘What are you talking about?’ Sophie felt cold and weary. ‘You and Steve . . . you were . . . lovers once?’
‘He didn’t tell you about us?’ Cathy stared into her eyes. ‘Why do you think he’s doing this? Just to hammer together a story for his programme? Or did you think his motives were purely political?’
Bleakly Sophie said, ‘Never mind Steve – he’s nothing to do with you and me. I’m telling you the honest truth; I came looking for your father in New York because of what my mother had told me. I didn’t even know Steve until I went to a press conference your father was giving in a hotel.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’ Cathy laughed cynically. ‘I’m not that stupid.’
‘It’s true. That was the first time I ever met Steve, or even heard his name. I asked a question, and as soon as I said my name I saw your father’s fa
ce, I looked into his eyes, and I knew my mother hadn’t lied. Your father looked as if he had had a huge shock. Steve noticed your father’s reaction, too, and he came over to talk to me, he asked me to have a drink with him, he was curious and asked a lot of questions.’
‘And you told him?’ Cathy’s voice rose, shaking. ‘You told him about me? You told Steve my father bought me from some Czech peasant? That I wasn’t a Ramsey at all? Oh, my God.’ She ran her hands through her hair. ‘He’ll put it on his programme. He’ll broadcast your lies coast to coast and destroy my father.’
‘No, I didn’t tell him! Steve knows nothing, Anya.’