Lilli vanished down the corridor, came back wearing a raincoat, carrying a purse into which she was pushing a blue plastic folder. ‘The hospital admin people want proof that Sophie has Medicare,’ she said. ‘Sorry, but I’ll have to rush.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ Steve said roughly. ‘We should pick up a cab easily enough at this hour.’
Lilli gave him a sharp but unsurprised look. ‘OK.’ She opened the front door, then stopped, groaning. ‘Oh, my stew, I nearly forgot, it would be ruined.’ She hurried into the kitchen to switch it off, and Steve waited impatiently, so tense he felt as if he might come apart at the seams if he didn’t get to Sop
hie soon. He had to know what had happened to her.
And why, he thought. Oh, yes, and why. The old joke came into his head . . . did she fall or was she pushed? Accident, suicide or . . . He shivered. My God, what was he thinking? That was crazy. Gowrie had been shaken to see her at the press conference, yes – but she couldn’t possibly be that much of a threat. Could she?
Don Gowrie was dressing for a very grand dinner which would be held downstairs in his hotel, in a private dining-room glittering with crystal and silver under enormous chandeliers. Among the guests would be his father-in-law, Eddie Ramsey, who had flown in by helicopter from his Easton estate and was now resting in another suite. There would also be a whole host of other East Coast politicians, good old boys from way back who as far as the general public were concerned had apparently retired from public life yet still managed to manipulate and grease the handles of power without ever being caught doing it. Don Gowrie needed their support, their money and their influence, if he was to get his campaign bandwagon rolling fast. He had other backers; industrialists with even more money, people who wanted to be on the inside track if he did manage to get the presidential nomination – but these old men tonight were still vital to him. He needed to balance the different forces backing him; he didn’t want to be in the power of any one lobby.
He stood back to look at himself in the dressing-table mirror, noting with satisfaction how good he still looked in evening dress. It suited him, the dark material, the smooth fit of that excellent tailoring. He really didn’t look his age, did he? He had to work at it, of course: diet and constant exercise kept his weight down and he had inherited a good constitution. Good genes, he thought, and his eyes darkened. A pity that . . .
No, he wouldn’t think about that. It was a talent he had worked on all his life – the ability to push aside what he did not find convenient to dwell upon. He shifted his feet, sighing. That tie simply didn’t look right. Why the hell did he find it so difficult to tie a bowtie after all these years of doing it so often? He pulled the tie loose again just as a phone began to ring in the room behind him.
His nerves jumped. At last! He had been waiting on tenterhooks for this call.
He let go of the ends of the tie, sprinted over to the bedside table and picked up the phone, the white tie hanging loose around his neck.
‘Yes?’
‘Dad?’ The voice was not the one he had been expecting to hear. For a second he was still, shaken, then his face lit with warmth.
‘Cathy. Hi, darling.’ Then anxiety came into his eyes, the old, familiar fear of one day losing her, the sense of a threat always hanging over this precious child. ‘Is anything wrong?’
She was quick to reassure him, Cathy had had years of hearing that note in his voice. ‘No, of course not, Dad – I’m fine. We’re both fine, and looking forward to seeing you soon. I just wanted to send my love to Grandee. You’re having dinner with him tonight, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Relaxing, he smiled. ‘I was just trying to tie my tie when you rang.’
‘Haven’t you learnt how to tie a bowtie yet, Dad?’
Her laughter sounded so clearly in his ear that it was like having her in the room. When she was a baby he had felt nothing much for her except relief that he had her, that the miracle had been pulled off, he and his wife had a child against all the odds, and if it was not a boy, as he had prayed, at least he had an heir to the Ramsey fortune.
What he had not expected was that she would turn into so beautiful a girl or that he would be so proud of her. She did everything so well, she had never put a foot wrong all her life: wore her clothes with classy style, rode horses as if she had been born in the saddle, was intelligent, could talk to people at all levels of society, like a true politician, and when she chose a man chose brilliantly, a man of his own kind, wealthy, powerful, obviously ambitious and meaning to climb to the very top in his own country.
He smiled, too. ‘Bowties have a life of their own! But I’ll do it, if it takes me all night,’ he assured her, the underlying obstinacy of his nature showing in his bony face for a second. He was a man who never gave up once he had set his mind on something.
‘Where’s Cope? Isn’t he with you?’
‘He had to have a tooth out yesterday so I sent him off to bed.’ His valet had been grey with pain. Cope was nearly sixty now. He had worked for Don Gowrie for ten years, doing all the little jobs a wife normally did, taking care that Don’s wardrobe was always in good shape, the suits and coats cleaned, the shirts immaculate, the shoes polished, ties pressed. He had made himself indispensable and Don had been shocked to see him look so old. If Cope retired it would disrupt his life, he would have to find someone to replace the man and he knew it would not be easy. Cope was one of a dying breed.
‘You old softie!’ Cathy’s voice was full of affection, and Don Gowrie smiled, his face smoothing out into boyish charm once more.
‘So, I’m to give your love to your grandfather? I will, but you could talk to him yourself, you know. He’s resting in his own suite.’
‘I don’t want to over-tire him. That trip out from Easton eats into his energy, and he has to sit through a long dinner tonight. Now, Dad, don’t let him drink too much or stay up too late. I know what you men are like when you get together and start talking politics. Has he got the Gorgon with him?’
‘Yes, Mrs Upcher flew here with him, and whisked him off to his suite as soon as they arrived.’
‘I don’t know how Grandee can stand her, she’s the ugliest woman I ever saw, but I have to say she does take care of him.’
‘She’s a good nurse,’ he chided. ‘And devoted to your grandfather. That he’s still alive is largely down to her.’
‘I know,’ Cathy said, and he knew she was serious now. ‘You know, I can’t imagine the world without him, Dad. Can you? He’s the totem pole we all live by, isn’t he?’
‘I’m sure he’d be thrilled to hear you say that.’ The dryness escaped before he could stop it, but Cathy didn’t seem to pick up on the ambivalence of his voice.
Laughing, she said, ‘He’s obsessed with native American culture, isn’t he? I remember when I was four and he drove me along the Mohawk Trail for hours, to see the colours of the woods in the fall. He recited Hiawatha to me, and bought me a pair of moccasins at a trail gift shop. I grew out of them before I had worn them out. I hung them on the wall in my room.’