Sleeping With Ghosts

‘Von Trellenberg,’ Kathryn muttered the name under her breath, then elaborated, ‘Klaus Von Trellenberg, aristocrat, Nazi SS officer. Shit,’ she swore, then again louder, ‘Shit! This is like something out of a bad movie.’ She swerved to overtake a lorry, slamming on her brakes to avoid colliding with an oncoming car. With the sound of its horn blaring in her ears, she slowed down, forcing herself to concentrate on her driving.

Over and over, Kathryn told herself that her grandfather was dead, or so Ingrid had said. It all happened long before she was born, she reminded herself, and there was no evidence that Klaus Von Trellenberg had committed any crime, well none that she knew of; yet the grim reality that he had been a high-ranking SS officer remained, and with it an isolated fragment of fear.

Why had Ingrid wanted to put her in the picture, Kathryn wondered. Was there some good reason apart from the fact that she was a bitter old woman with a twisted sense of duty, who simply thought her niece should know the truth? Or was it a final act of revenge on the sister Ingrid had always detested? Kathryn toyed with the hope that Ingrid had lost her mind and that the entire revelation suggested the ramblings of senility.

She clung so hard to this hope that she almost missed the turning to Fallowfields, the house where she had been born, and had lived for the first eighteen years of her life. Her thoughts drifted back down the winding pathway to her childhood, cosseted in rural English country life with Freda, the mother who had baked cakes for church fêtes, taken her to the pony club, and watched her compete in local gymkhanas. Freda, who had grown prize-winning flowers, and had been a pillar of Kent society. With a short laugh Kathryn imagined the face of Mrs June Burrows, her late mother’s closest friend and chairman of the local townswomen’s guild, if she told her at the next committee meeting that Freda de Moubray’s father had been an SS officer.

When Kathryn pulled up in front of the house, she saw a young man poised in the act of ringing the doorbell. Stepping out of her car, she walked towards him, fixing a bright, determined smile on her face, recalling something her ex-husband Tony had said to her the first night they’d met. ‘If you’re smiling, the whole world will think you’re winning.’ The thought made her smile widen, as she held out her hand in greeting.

‘You must be Mr Grant, the estate agent?’ Kathryn stood in front of him. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

The man nodded, coal-black eyes peering from behind the half-moon spectacles decorating his thin, white face.

It hadn’t been a particularly good morning for Oliver Grant. In fact it had not started well, and had got progressively worse. His car had broken down, the train had been late, he had lost an important sale an hour earlier, and now he had been standing in the hot sun for the last fifteen minutes positive the next client was not at home. His voice, when he eventually found it, was deliberately clipped.

‘Are you—’

‘Kathryn de Moubray,’ she supplied, walking smartly past him. ‘Please come in.’

Oliver rejoined her in the hall, where he held out a long thin hand, the parchment colour of its skin broken by a clump of densely black hair. ‘Oliver Grant of Brinkforth and Sons.’

Kathryn smiled politely again, her unusual dark, almost charcoal-grey, eyes shining.

Bloody attractive girl, Oliver thought, and about to come into some money. He decided to be nice, Turn on the charm, old boy, he told himself, you never know your luck. ‘OK, Miss de Moubray, to work. First I need the dimensions of all the rooms.’

‘Follow me,’ Kathryn invited, leading the way down the gloomy hall.

Their feet made little sound on the carpeted floor, dark brown and threadbare in several places. The walls were decorated in a sombre beige-and-tan striped wallpaper, with a faded floral border at the skirting and a dado. Grant scribbled notes, muttering encouraging comments under his breath, as they entered the dining room.

‘We always ate in here before my father left,’ Kathryn explained. ‘Of course after that, my mother ate less and less.’

She stopped speaking abruptly, her attention diverted to a watercolour on the wall behind the estate agent. It depicted a fishing village in Provence. Her father had bought it from a street vendor on their first family holiday in France.

‘I really have no idea why my mother kept that horrible painting.’ The comment held a hint of apology.

Glancing at the watercolour, the estate agent was forced to agree. It was dreadful, but he thought better than to pursue the subject so he changed it.

‘Fallowfields is typical of most houses built in this area during the twenties. Red brick, and timber façade, three to four beds, a couple of acres. Three reception rooms, substantial kitchen, inglenook fireplace. A good solid family house.’

This was delivered in estate-agent speak. If he had been completely honest, which he wasn’t because it didn’t come with the job, he would’ve said that he found the mock Tudor architecture extremely ugly, the rooms dark and pokey, and decorated with morgue-like taste. The owner had obviously hated colour; one shade of dull brown was mixed with another shade of duller brown.

As if reading his mind, Kathryn announced with emotion, ‘I hate this house.’

This statement appeared to surprise the estate agent. ‘I must admit it’s not exactly to my taste either; I’m more of a period sort of chap myself, if you know what I mean.’

Kathryn was scanning the room, gazing on the Spartan effects, and shabby decor, with obvious distaste. ‘I’ve taken a few personal items, the rest of the furniture you can sell.’

She saw that his eyes had followed hers and settled on a photograph of her mother taken when Freda had first come to England, a distinct look of uncertainty on her unsmiling face. ‘My mother was German you know,’ Kathryn provided.

‘Uh huh,’ Oliver nodded slowly, his face adopting a ‘Well, that answers everything’ sort of look. His glasses slipped an inch down his nose, he pushed them firmly back into place before saying, ‘I heard about your mother’s tragic car crash. Nasty business. I’m sorry.’

Her eyes did not waver from Freda’s photograph when she said, matter-of-fact, ‘My mother died a long time ago, so don’t be.’

A short nervous cough covered the estate agent’s embarrassment. He averted his gaze.

‘Come along, Mr Grant, we’re not finished yet,’ she said in a brighter voice.

Following her out of the living room, he trudged up a narrow staircase. He fixed his eyes on the smooth orb of her left buttock; it was the closest one to him, the panty line clearly visible beneath her tight denim jeans. He wondered if she wore lacy, see-through panties – the type he ogled in magazines. By the time they had reached the top of the stairs he was contemplating asking Kathryn if she was busy next Saturday. It was the annual dinner dance at his cricket club. Oliver was certain she would enjoy it, he always did.

Kathryn inclined her head towards an open door directly in front of them. ‘That’s the master bedroom, not very apt in this case, since there hasn’t been a master in there for a very long time.’ Having said this, she left him to measure up, before stepping alone into the room next door.

This bedroom looked exactly the same as the day she had left home. There was a crack in the face of the old Dohrmann alarm clock, one of the few remaining possessions her mother had brought with her from Germany. And the rosebud-pink patterned wallpaper which Kathryn had always hated had started to peel around a damp patch above the bed. But otherwise nothing had changed, and she was reminded of another time, long ago, but not forgotten.

Kathryn squeezed her eyes tightly shut as the demons, for ever hovering on the edge of her consciousness, began to invade. A shutter in her memory clicked, and Richard de Moubray’s face appeared. Not for the first time Kathryn thought how strange it was that every time she visualized her father, she saw only his face, never his body; he always looked sad, and the image was always in black and white. Even after almost twenty-five years, however much she tried to imagine him looking happy and at ease, he always wore the same expression he had worn the day he had left home.

‘I love you very much, Kathryn, but I won’t be living with you any longer. I’m leaving to live with someone else; you will be staying with Mummy, but we’ll see each other often, and I promise you will still be my little princess.’

It was the last time he ever called her his ‘little princess’, and after that day she had not seen him for exactly eight months, five days, six hours and twenty-four minutes. She knew; she had ticked the days off her calendar when she was nine years old.

Kathryn had lost count of the times she had stood in exactly the same spot, running and rerunning the little scene in her head, certain that it must have been something she had said, or done, that had made her daddy leave.

Slowly her eyes opened and she blinked to clear the thin film of moisture blurring her vision. Each season viewed from this bedroom window had brought with it vivid memories, painful in their clarity. With tinkling childish laughter pealing in her ears, she recalled her seventh birthday.

Her father walking towards her, carrying something … He is smiling, the special smile, the one he has for her, and her alone. She is running across the lawn, long blonde hair streaming from her upturned face, rapt in childish wonderment; her screams of delight mingle with the playful yelps of her birthday present – a golden Labrador puppy.

Shaking her head to disperse the memory, Kathryn stepped back from the window to sit on the edge of her old bed. With the flat of her hand, she stroked the quilted counterpane, her fingers lovingly resting on a small scatter cushion propped up against the pine headboard. She traced the border of an embroidered primrose; it was lopsided and the bright yellow petals had faded to a dull cream. A hint of a smile flickered across her face as she cast her mind back to the kindly Mrs Crowther, her needlework teacher, who had helped her with the embroidery. A painstaking task for a twelve-year-old who was neither patient nor a natural needlewoman.

Brimming with pride, she had brought the finished article home from school to sit on her bed next to Rumple, the one-eyed teddy she’d had for as long as she could remember. The smile slipped from her face as, with a pang, Kathryn recalled her shock on finding Rumple gone, and her stinging indignation towards her mother for having thrown her beloved companion away. It was as if her childhood had departed with Rumple, he who had shared her dreams, been party to her innermost secrets, and comforted her when her heart ached.

Oliver Grant’s voice cut sharply through her reverie.

‘I’ll send a photographer over tomorrow, so by early next week, we’ll have all the details ready to send out.’

Standing up, Kathryn said, ‘The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.’ She was suddenly seized with the familiar urge to get out of Fallowfields. The house had always been oppressive, but for some reason without her mother it was worse.

Following Kathryn downstairs, after taking the dimensions of her old bedroom, Oliver’s gaze roamed up and down the back of her legs, coming to rest once more on her backside. He fantasized about her bending over his bed wearing nothing but a black G-string. He blushed a little as he felt his erection rise and with his briefcase in front of his groin, he stopped at the front door.

‘Well, I think that just about wraps it up for now,’ he said. ‘I have a meeting with the surveyor tomorrow, and I also intend to do a full inventory of the contents. It’s amazing what turns up hidden away in attics and cellars; sometimes old people die and leave a fortune in antiques – actually only a couple of weeks ago …’

The estate agent looked animated for the first time, and Kathryn suspected he was about to embark on a long boring monologue of his occupational experiences. She interrupted his flow.

‘I’m sure you’ve got lots of fascinating anecdotes to relate, Mr Grant, but I’ve got to get back to London for an important meeting, and to be honest I’m late now.’

Her clipped tone, followed by a curt glance at her watch, were not lost on the estate agent, who, looking a little miffed, clamped his mouth shut and hovered on the doorstep.

Kathryn held out her hand. ‘I want a quick sale, Mr Grant, and I don’t mind dropping the price, if that’s what it takes.’

Taking her hand, he responded, ‘You can rest assured, Miss de Moubray, I’m sure I’ll get you the asking price and a quick sale. Trust me.’

There wasn’t an estate agent on the face of the earth she would have trusted, but her face softened and she could not resist a wry smile as Oliver Grant accelerated into his full sales pitch.

‘You are in good hands with Brinkforth and Sons; we have a few potential clients who spring immediately to mind for this highly desirable residence. I know that houses like Fallowfields do not stay on the market long.’

Kathryn nodded, and watched him walk to his car. She then stepped back into the house, closing the door quietly behind her. She leaned against it, letting out a long sigh, thinking how relieved she would be when Fallowfields was sold. She gazed around the dreary hall, and as usual she was conscious of the all-prevailing sadness that seemed to seep out of the very walls. Whispering echoes caressed her ears: her mother’s heels clicking on the wooden floor, as they had done at exactly the same time every weekday morning; her voice urging Kathryn to hurry or she would be late. Yes, she would be very happy to be done with Fallowfields.

Kathryn picked up the mail from the hall table. She stuffed it into her shoulder bag before running up the stairs two at a time to close an open window which she had spotted on her arrival. She was panting as she reached the landing. Hesitating on the threshold of her mother’s bedroom she tried to recall the last time she had been in there. Five, six years, maybe longer, she couldn’t remember exactly, all she did know was that she dreaded going inside, and had to force herself to open the door. She spotted the open window, and kept her eyes fixed on it as she crossed the room. She willed herself not to think of the night she had run in here as a terrified five-year-old in need of a cuddle and soothing voice after a disturbing nightmare. Instead she had been greeted by her father, naked and gleaming with sweat, frantically moving up and down and grunting like some crazed animal. It was only after she moved to the side of the bed that she realized her mother was under him, her face buried deep in the pillow.

As Kathryn had watched in silence, hardly daring to breathe, Freda had lifted her head slightly, turning to face her daughter. Their eyes had met, and in that split second Kathryn thought her mother was going to die.

Now, standing very still in the middle of the room, she was transported back to that time; she could still feel the rising panic, and the fur tickling the roof of her mouth as she had bitten down hard on top of her teddy’s head, before screaming at her father to stop hurting Mummy.

Kathryn stretched forward to close the window. Having done so, she turned to leave, swearing as she stubbed her big toe on the bedside chair. She stooped to rub it, her eyes drawn to a loose floorboard under the bed. It was sticking up at an angle, a couple of inches from where she knelt. The wood was rotting, pitted with tiny holes. Fixed with a single nail, it moved easily and her heart missed a beat when she saw something glinting in the small cavity below. When she slid her hand down to pull out a box, she thought of all the stories she’d heard about hiding money under the bed. The box was about ten inches in length, and six inches high; it was made of silver and tortoiseshell, and very beautiful.

Kathryn stood the fine object on the dressing table, thinking how incongruous it looked amidst the functional hairbrush, comb, and assorted plain wooden boxes her mother had used. She dusted the lid with the flat of her hand, her index finger tracing the intricately carved flowers and leaves decorating the lid. It was locked, but she was gripped by the most weird sensation. It was as if the inanimate object was speaking to her. Open me, please, the box seemed to beg. Kathryn looked around the room for something to break the lock.

In the dressing-table drawer she found a pair of nail scissors. After several attempts the tiny silver lock opened with a sharp crack. Panting slightly from a mixture of exertion and anticipation, she lifted the lid at last. It was, as she expected, a jewel case, and in perfect condition. There were three different-sized compartments, all intact, and the dark purple lining looked as good as new. It contained no jewellery apart from a silver crucifix Kathryn had worn for her confirmation. The chain was tied around a bundle of photographs and letters, and the cross, blackened with age, hung from a ragged blue ribbon. Carefully she untied the bundle, and sorting through the photographs found to her surprise that most were of herself, in different stages of development from birth up to university graduation. There were a few of her parents; one on their wedding day, and another taken on a holiday in Wales a few years later. Her father looked detached, in stark contrast to his wife’s serene expression. There was a sealed brown envelope, the padded sort used for sending fragile mail. It contained a wad of money. Kathryn quickly counted three thousand pounds in used fifty- and twenty-pound notes.

She was about to replace the memorabilia, when she noticed another tiny hinge on the inside of the lid. Running her index finger around the edge, she could feel a thin ridge and a moment later her finger encountered a spring catch. She pressed it, jumping as a panel dropped open and a photograph frame fell out, landing face down with a dull clang.

Squinting to read the faded writing scrawled across the back, she lifted the frame closer to her eyes. It read, ‘Von Trellenberg family, Schloss Bischofstell Mühlhausen, 30th July 1936.’

It was a group shot, the family bunched together in a wide doorway under a coat of arms set in stone. Her eyes rested on the face of a little girl, about nine years old; her heart missing a beat at the angelic features framed by a mass of platinum curls. Kathryn was certain that if the photograph was in colour, the child’s eyes would be a bright periwinkle blue. She knew because they were her mother’s eyes. There was another younger child in the photograph, smaller and very plain. Kathryn assumed by the shape of the high domed forehead and long nose that it was Ingrid. This child was squirming shyly behind the left leg of her mother, who appeared to be trying in vain to push her daughter forward and smile herself at the same time. A young boy of about ten Kathryn guessed to be her Uncle Joachim. He was standing tall and very upright, sunlight glinting off the top of his golden crown. His small upturned face was radiant in admiration as he looked at his father dressed in the uniform of a German SS officer.

Kathryn shivered in spite of the heat, there was something obscene in the young boy’s look. She felt a sudden tightness in her chest, and drawing in a shaky breath, her hands tightened their grip on the photograph. She would have dropped it if the urge to keep staring were not so great. Klaus Von Trellenberg’s face was almost a mirror image of her own. Beads of cold sweat popped out across her brow, and the back of her neck felt suddenly very icy. She threw the frame down, breaking the glass, breathing deeply, willing herself to stay calm. For God’s sake, why did she have to look like him? Was it not bad enough that she had a Nazi for a grandfather? But to be the spitting image! Then out loud she yelled, ‘Why, Mother, why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to find out now, when you’re not around to explain it? There’s so much I need to know.’

Fighting back angry tears, Kathryn stuffed everything back into the box, and carrying it close to her chest she strode out of the room and downstairs, not stopping until she reached the front door. Stepping outside, she slammed the door shut for what she hoped would be the last time. As she turned the key in the lock, she glanced up at the wooden sign hanging above her head. It had a crack running through the centre and age had worn away some of the gold lettering. It now read,’ al ow i lds’.

With slow precise movements Kathryn walked back towards her car, past a scarlet blanket of poppies, and herbaceous borders thickly stocked with a glorious summer display. Stooping to pick a stephanotis, she held the flower close to her nose, inhaling the fragrant scent. A picture of her mother in vivid Technicolor popped into her mind. Freda in a battered straw hat, bent double, her gloved hand working furiously in the soil; then a fond memory of her mother’s excitement after winning her first prize at a local flower show.

A cloud covered the sun, and with it the image darkened. Freda’s expression had changed, devoid of emotion, clearly indifferent to the news of Kathryn’s First in English from Edinburgh University. Blinking back tears of profound regret, Kathryn wished, as she had so many times in the past, that she had been able to reach her mother. They had been like strangers, uncomfortable in each other’s company. Freda had never been able to acknowledge her daughter’s considerable achievements. Resentment had taken the place of pride and Kathryn knew her own successes had burnt inside Freda like a white hot coal. For a long time she had searched for something, anything, to bind them as mother and daughter; but she was sure, with the certainty of feminine intuition, that her mother had firmly locked the door to her soul the day her father had left, if not before.

Had Klaus Von Trellenberg been guilty of hideous crimes during the war, perhaps genocide? Kathryn wondered if that was why her mother had been so distant; had she been burdened with a terrible secret? They were both dead now, and Kathryn doubted she would ever know the truth, yet she found it impossible not to care.

The flower slipped from her hand, she watched it flutter gently to the ground before slipping inside her car. Putting her foot down hard on the accelerator, she roared forward, tyres churning up the gravel drive.

Before turning out on to the road, Kathryn allowed herself one last fleeting glance in her rear-view mirror, but the house was obscured in a cloud of dust.

Chapter Two

‘This time I really believe we’ve got him.’

Mark Grossman studied the sensitive face of the man seated on the opposite side of his desk. The deep-set eyes lit with an expectant gleam had taken on a golden hue and looked lighter than their usual amber. His mouth opened as if to speak, but closed as Mark continued.

‘Our sources tell us that he’s been spotted in the West Indies. An eye-witness account which, as you know, can be totally unreliable, but we’ve checked this one out thoroughly. It seems, if you’ll excuse the expression, kosher.’

Mark blinked several times, his head ached, and there was a gritty sensation behind his eyes.

‘You look tired, Mark,’ Adam commented

‘Yeah, I feel lousy. I’m wrecked. My schedule has been, to put it mildly, a little tight. Argentina two days ago, back in Manhattan for a meeting, then five hours later, I jumped on a flight to Israel. I arrived in town at six a.m. this morning on the red eye from Tel Aviv. I don’t know if I need a crap or a haircut.’

Adam grinned, ‘Both probably.’ Then lowering his voice said, ‘So our little Nazi friend is holed up in the West Indies. It’s a hell of a long way from his last known address.’

‘Not as far as you might think. Boats ply from South America through the Indies constantly, there are lots of small craft skippered by dubious captains who would not be adverse to taking on an unusual fare. Come on, Adam, think about it. Who would question a retired European living in the West Indies when there are literally thousands of them? The ex-pat brigade: the English with their gin and tonics, and the Yanks with their ridiculous cocktails.’