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

sympathies. The passing of a father is a moment of huge significance in any
     man’s life, and my thoughts are with you.
    If I can be of assistance or support to you at any point, I hope you will feel free to get in touch. In the meantime, my renewed condolences.
    The letter was written in a bold if occasionally illegible hand wielding a thick, expensive nib. The name at the top of the letter was Alexander McQuarrel. It had no postal address or phone
number but at the bottom of the page, in small type, there was an e-mail address.
    Jemma reached for her computer and began typing.

    Harry woke early to the sound of birdsong being carried through the open window on a warm salt breeze. He lay for a while, struggling to disentangle his thoughts, before they
were disturbed by the gentle clattering of preparations in the kitchen, soon followed by the sweet rush of brewing coffee. He rolled out of bed to check his e-mails – nothing from Jemma, she
was still mad with him – then he stood with his back against the wall to begin his stretching exercises. The abuse he’d given his body over the years was beginning to take its toll
– ‘A little morning stiffness?’ Jemma had once joked as he’d woken with a back tied in knots. The seven-hour flight in economy hadn’t much helped. Neither did the
heavy pancakes and solid eggs that appeared for breakfast. He pushed them aside and got stuck into the fruit bowl.
    A little later he was waiting outside the tiny garage that offered moped rentals even before the owner opened the shutters. Car hire was forbidden to visitors in Bermuda, so they jumped onto
small Japanese bikes that buzzed like sewing machines and travelled around the island’s narrow roads at the top speed limit of 22 m.p.h. Even at a crawl and with nothing more to guide him
than a tourist map, it took Harry only twenty minutes until he found himself on the road that hugged the northern shoreline and turning along the inland bay of Harrington Sound at a place called
Flatt’s Village. As he slowed, knowing he must be somewhere near his goal, up ahead he spotted a group of black kids playing football in a wayside park. He switched off the engine and coasted
to a stop just as the ball attempted earth orbit and bounced into his arms.
    ‘Sorry, mister.’ A bright face smiled and two hands stretched out to reclaim the ball. The boy seemed no more than eight or nine and had jewels of sweat on his brow.
    ‘I could confiscate it,’ Harry said, returning the smile but holding onto the ball.
    ‘And your bike vanish while you wasn’t looking.’
    ‘What, you’d steal it?’
    ‘Steal? No, not me. But this here’s the Bermuda Triangle, right? You hear ’bout that thing? Everything disappears.’ The boy’s eyes grew huge with exaggeration.
    Harry burst into laughter. ‘What’s your name, kid?’
    ‘Kenny, maybe. Depends.’
    ‘Tell you what, Kenny. Maybe, I have to visit someone who lives somewhere around here. Why don’t I pay you a couple of dollars so you can look after my bike for a while. Make sure it
doesn’t disappear. Sound like a deal?’
    ‘Couple of dollars? But there is five of us, mister.’ Kenny waved in the direction of his friends.
    ‘OK, five dollars.’
    ‘How long?’
    ‘Well, I’m going to see Miss Ranelagh. You know where she lives?’
    ‘Sure do.’
    ‘You show me.’
    ‘Directions? Better make it ten.’
    ‘I ought to give you a bloody good hiding for extortion.’
    ‘But then you end up wandering around lost all day,’ Kenny chirruped.
    ‘Hah! Know something, young Kenny, you remind me of myself.’
    ‘What does that mean?’ the kid asked, his nose wrinkling in suspicion.
    ‘It means you win.’ Harry reached inside his wallet and pulled out two notes. ‘Here we are. Five now when you tell me her address. Five more when I pick up my bike.’
    ‘That’s fair,’ the boy declared, reaching for the note and inspecting it as though he might be dealing with a