A Ghost at the Door Read Online Free PDF

yesterday.’
    ‘I remember. I also remember telling you to go to hell.’ The man had opened the door but a fraction, using his body to hide the clutter that was spilling from inside. ‘How did
you find me?’
    ‘Does it matter?’
    ‘Yes, it bloody does,’ he snapped, staring defiantly though his one good eye; the other was clouded, full of cataract, and downcast, like the rest of him.
    ‘OK, you tell me how many other Euripides Smiths I’m likely to find on the electoral register.’
    Harry kept a straight face but he wasn’t being entirely honest. He’d also called the former honorary consul in Bari, a man with whom he’d got enjoyably hammered during an
official afternoon that drifted into an alcohol-fuelled evening until they’d found themselves watching the sun come up across the Adriatic.
    ‘Smithie? Our man in Patras?’ the former honorary consul had responded when Harry telephoned to enquire about his colleague. ‘Scarcely knew him. Ran across him on a training
course in Malta a while back, rather a waste of time – the course, not Smithie. Seem to remember he left not long after that under a bit of a cloud – well, plenty of us did back then.
Cuts, of course. But it was more than just a cloud: in his case he left with a distinct clap of thunder, too. Yes, the brain re-engages, it’s coming back to me . . . That’s right, some
whining backbencher had sailed into port and expected a ten-gun salute. Not old Smithie’s style. Gave him nothing but a ripe raspberry. Good for him, too. We were volunteers, not slave
labour. But I guess Smithie had been in post just a little too long, took things for granted, perhaps. Took an occasional liberty, too.’
    ‘What sort of liberty?’
    ‘Oh, of the alcoholic kind. Nothing many of us didn’t do occasionally.’
    ‘As I remember.’
    ‘Yes, that was a good evening, wasn’t it? But Smithie didn’t choose his timing well. The politician complained, made a hell of a fuss, so, when the great god Austerity struck,
Smithie had already laid himself out on the altar. Sacrificial lamb – or goat in his case. Made it easy for them. There was a wondrously rude valedictory e-mail to his bosses in which he kept
misspelling the word “cuts”, and off he went into the wide blue yonder.’
    ‘In which direction?’
    ‘God knows, it’s not like we were close. But, hang on, something stirs. There’s a weasel running round inside my head whispering – Lake District. Can’t be positive,
mind . . .’
    ‘Thanks, old friend.’
    And now, as Euripides Smith defended his doorstep, Harry reckoned that the suspicions about the man were right. He could see the wash of alcohol as well as anger in the other man’s
eyes.
    ‘Do I know you?’ Smith demanded.
    ‘In a way, yes. You once wrote to me. Look, er, can we discuss it?’
    ‘You can’t come in,’ Smith snapped, suddenly defensive. ‘I’m in the middle of clearing up.’
    That was the moment Jemma chose to step forward. She was wearing tight-waisted jeans and a thin cotton blouse that, in the cool drizzle, was leaving less than usual to a man’s imagination.
She allowed Smith’s good eye a second or so to grow distracted. ‘Over a drink, perhaps, Mr Smith? We passed a pub a mile or so back. I’ll drive while you two chat.’ She
guessed that was why the lane had so much grass on it: there was no sign of a car, Smith didn’t drive, had probably lost his licence to the local magistrate and got most of his exercise
walking to the nearest pub.
    Smith eyed Jemma for every second she allowed before making up his mind. ‘Well, I suppose, seeing as you’ve driven all this way . . .’ he muttered, closing his front door
behind him.
    Smith said almost nothing in the car, trying to smarten himself up, buttoning his shirt a little higher, rerolling his sleeves more neatly, scratching away at a glob of breakfast that had stuck
to the lap of his trousers. Harry reckoned he was late fifties but looked